Parking woes in Tel Aviv

Here is something that I wrote when we were in Israel earlier this summer. For some reason, this was languishing in the drafts section and I have decided it is time to inflict this upon my unsuspecting reader(s).

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Parking in Tel Aviv is a nightmare. And from talking to the locals, it doesn’t appear to be a recent problem either. In the book of the Carinthians (12:8, isn’t it simpler to write 3:2? I once scored a ‘centum’ in maths in a class test in class VII. I think.), it is said, I shall lead my children to the land of overflowing honey and milk but you’re on your own for parking your camels. Thy shath be screweth mwa hahaha. *To be verified.*

The place where we stay is near a popular beach along the beautiful Med coast.  And on Fridays, the place is swarming with people heading into the warm waters for fun and frolic in beach wear that leave nothing to imagination. The streets look like there is a giant Pothy’s around the corner holding a grand aadi thallupadi sale on itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikinis and nearly everyone from as far away as Beirut, just bought themselves one. Net result: The best ever traffic jam I’ve ever been in. I’m stuck in a car looking for a spot that doesn’t exist while one half of Israel wants to show off perfect beach bodies and the other half wants to look at it.

In less touristy suburbs (like Syria), the streets are lined with cars of residents on both sides all the time. Rumor is that if you find a great spot, very close to your apartment, you work from home for the rest of your career. At a conservative estimate, there are at least 3 parked cars (and nine cats) per person in Tel Aviv. The ones driving about the roads are just clueless tourists looking for a spot which explains the traffic jams. So on any day, you are more likely to run over a few cats than find a spot.

Much like a degree in philosophy, finding street parking in Tel Aviv is time consuming, pointless and there are no clear rights or wrongs. Only wrongs. And there are more people doing it than you think.

To add a further layer of confusion to the already difficult process, there are, at last count, 23,619 different shades of curbside paint codes with varying implications. There is the ubiquitous yellow and red which means that Rafael Nadal will one more French Open title if you park your car there, they will tow your car, punch you in the face and steal both of your kidneys while simultaneously sullying your otherwise spotless lineage. Very different from the red and white curb where the same rules apply but they steal only one kidney. Then there is the more common blue and white about which no one is quite sure. Then there is a grey with dog poop stains not to be mistaken for the grey with urine stains. And so on. 

But there are always accompanying rules for each color code for the harried user. Stated very clearly. In Hebrew. Or perhaps ancient Aramaic. But some of them are so complex that it makes no difference in which language they are posted. Here is a smattering of the more straight forward ones that I have decoded:

•        You can park only on the right side of this street unless you own an apartment on this street. (English: At Tel Aviv real estate prices, LOL)
•        You can park only on the left side of this street unless you are a tenant and if your landlord was born on a full moon Thursday while a partial solar eclipse was happening over Easter Islands. (English: Keep driving, ROFLMAO)
•        You can park here if your idea of fun on a Thursday night is to retrieve your impounded car from the city office after paying a $100 fine to a lady with an attitude and an unlit cigarette hanging from her mouth sitting inside a blue, dimly lit, rusting cage. (English: OK to Park)

Add to this the complex one way system in which all streets slowly lead you away from Tel Aviv. In anticlockwise circles. On many nights, I have parked in Damascus and hitched a ride home from some sympathetic ISIS fighters. They even confided that they don’t mess with the Israelis because they know they can never park their tanks in Tel Aviv without getting a ticket.

But the situation isn’t all that bad, really. There are many parking lots available that charge a ransom but compensate by having interesting lot attendants. One of them in the lot close to our apartment offered a good rate but his only condition was, and I wish I was making this up, that I talk to him every night after I parked my car. There was one who kept asking me for lens cleaning solution every time I walked past the booth. And I don’t even wear glasses. Then there was the other guy who insisted that he had to physically sign the ticket but then had no pen on him. And asking me to sit in his booth, went in search of a pen at ten in the night. Good times. And every morning there would be the cone-of-shame sitting on my car. The cone of shame is a big, black, worn out traffic cone which cries out to all and sundry that the owner of the car it was occupying had cheated on parking fees and may be morally bankrupt. They may as well have tattooed “parking fee cheat” on my forearm like they did in the eighties movies. But you can’t expect class or subtlety from parking attendants can you?

After dealing with these people for a week, my colleagues recommended that I pay a monthly rate and get it over with. Although they did warn me that I had to drive a bargain myself. And then burst into uncontrolled laughter. Thus on a Friday afternoon, I was negotiating with a lot attendant that looked like a young Moammar Gaddafi having a bad hair day. I would type in my offer ($20, a bottle of lens cleaning solution and 30 minutes of quality talk time with the attendant between 8:30 and 9:00pm on weeknights) on his sticky cellphone. He would snigger, shake his head and type in his counter offer ($36,899.99, my left kidney and unlimited talk time plus free sms). After a few iterations, we settled on an amount that I’m too ashamed to type here. I’m not saying that I overpaid but I’m confident that with the amount I paid, cancer could have been cured and world poverty erased with the leftover change. Or the equivalent of a 2BHK apartment in Puzhuthivakkam with world class amenities (English: about 18 hours of power supply, twice a week).

But on the positive side, I tactfully negotiated to not have to talk to the attendants. Only sing and dance with them. For right after I ‘clinched’ the parking deal, the lot attendants have all turned very professional and friendly. One of them that looks like a middle-aged Jesus with a fanny pack around his waist even dances with my son every night singing an allegedly Bollywood song that goes like “Jimmy jimmy…aah aaja aaja”. And then asks me to talk to him.  

Its official: I'm old

Last night, I received the latest yet strongest signal that I'm officially old. O.L.D. Yes, I've been trying to snip the odd grey hair or three. And I'm guilty of listening to (nothing but) Ilayaraja and I have just got a handle on what Whatsapp really is. But if they were all warning bells, including being referred to as "Uncle" by kids, as opposed to the much preferred "anna", I received the clarion confirmation last night.

Armed with a cold, beer, I felt compelled to watch, on youtube, the highlights of the memorable India-Australia test at Kolkata from 2001 March. Or as most Indian cricket fans would call it, the test.

14 years and change. One of those test matches that can still make you travel back in time and relive the past. The one from which you remember every minor detail. Where were you when the last wicket fell on day 5, what were you doing that very moment, who were you watching it with, the weather, the menu that day. Just typing this gives me goosebumps. 

My son was watching it along with me this time and asked a few questions about the game in general (ippo four-a?, idhu outa? why? out-na time out maadhiriya? kadhava saathiduvala illa opena irukkuma?), about that particular test (Appa, nee chinna paiyana irukkarchappo paathiya indha match-a? *sniff*) and the principal actors (ivan peru enna? avan yen gudhikkaran?). 

After the about 45 minute clip ended (the beer had ended a bit earlier), he brought out an empty 1.5L water bottle (that is nearly half as tall as he is) for a bat and fished out his blue ball and asked me to bowl to him. In the living room. And I obliged. I mean, I had to. Even though it is well documented that my post-alcohol bowling skills are reduced to the same level as a sober Venkatapathy Raju's. Seriously, what was he doing in that XI? Anyways, the kid had a few knocks till my wife spoiled the party reminded that it was past his bed time. 

Note to self: Buy a small cricket bat on the next trip to India. And coach the kid to hit it in the "V" along the ground rather than hoick it over midwicket. Screw T20! IPL be damned! Put a price on your wicket, see off the goddamned new ball...

As I said, this uncle is old. 

The first (class) Semi Final

Sport is one part beauty and one part cruelty. One part joy and one part despair. One part pleasure and one part pain. On the night of March 24th, 2015, two teams colluded in a far away stadium to show us mere mortals that sporting highs cannot be enjoyed without experiencing the accompanying tragic lows.

After witnessing what is easily one of the best matches in World Cup knockout history, I was left emotionally drained and confused that I wasn't quite sure how to react. There was the first wave of unalloyed elation at a team that deserved to be in the final achieving it in the most emphatic way possible. Then the joy of watching the emotions of a nation that has been in waiting for years channeled through a pulsating crowd. 40,000 of them that cheered as one and then enjoyed as one. Then there was a surge of pure grief. A team denied one more time. Weather. Fate. Destiny. Or the plain old choke. Call it whatever, it was nothing but heart break for this South African team and their nation. Yet another generation of players and fans subjected to yet another loss to grieve about for four more years. That now familiar emotion of having come so tantalizingly close. And as the curtains come down, one team gets to take a shot at more glory; the other left to come to terms with reality.

Did what transpire on the Eden Park turf was actually a choke? In the past, there had always been a single moment in the key games that they had lost around which the game swung away from them. When they chose to snatch defeat when victory was likely theirs. That single point where one could put a finger and proclaim (with the luxury of hindsight) "aha, here is where they lost it". But I would say this was simply a closely fought game between two equals that brought out the best from the 22 men involved. A game where the difference between victory and loss was merely statistical. There was neither a victor nor vanquished. Instead there was raw emotion. Plenty of it. And all kinds of it. Pride. Triumph. Elation. Grief. Anguish. Agony. In the end, some hearts were warmed; some broken.
  

What makes this especially draining is that these are the two teams that are the most likable. Easily two of teams with more "second favorite team" status among cricket fans than the others. How do you pick between two groups of true sportsmen. True ambassadors of the game that chose not to tarnish the sanctity of the occasion with anything cheap. No dirty tactics of mind games, pre-match banter or juvenile on-field behavior that could take away from the beauty of the contest. Aggression was gilded with dignity. And the fight was fought with honor. The celebrations were loud but gracious and the sorrow was raw yet dignified. And the speeches afterwards bore testimony to the true nature of the men involved. Class is what separates the men from the boys. It will be difficult to surpass the bar that they have jointly set so high. 

It seems almost silly to poke through the still warm embers and analyze the what ifs. There was the rain that changed the tempo. There were off-key performances. Then there were the errors on the field. And there were enough of them committed by both sides. But as Sambit Bal has so beautifully put it, "sport and history are generous to the follies of the winner". 

What lies ahead for South Africa may be familiar but not pleasant. Coming to terms with this (I so hate to use this word) loss will not be easy. This team had the opportunity to heal the wounds of the past. But they have fresh ones to heal instead. They will also have to deal with the fact that this group of super talented individuals will be walking away from the game without that one coveted piece of silver. Not to mention the task of rebuilding a team that will have this cloud hanging over them for some time to come. 

Thank you New Zealand. Thank you South Africa. Thank you for giving us a contest that we can cherish nor matter our sporting affiliations. An operatic performance truly worthy of a semi final. A game played with such rare class that I wished I was either a Kiwi or a Protea that night. 

The World Cup thus far

As we approach the sharp end of the tournament, the usual suspects have been identified. Well more or less as the result of the ongoing NZ vs. WI QF game is near certain with the kiwis all but set to join the last four. Not much surprises. Australia in the Semis is a given. The contest is always for the other three spots. South Africa have overcome themselves to take a well deserved spot. No one can grudge the kiwis in the final four. Not even when they were considered to be fighting above their weight. But this time around with their collective form, they take the spot by right. I'm still pleasantly surprised by the great Indian turn around trick though. I was expecting either Sri Lanka or England to be the fourth team but lo behold! It is the men in blue that have made it yet again.

Some teams bring their A game for all matches. Australia and South Africa. Some simply melt down under the weight of the occasion - England, Sri Lanka. There are the perennial under achievers - West Indies. And then there are the unpredictable dark horses: Pakistan. India, much like a typical student cramming on the last night before the finals, always scrapes through. We reserve our A game for the special games. But New Zealand have, in the recent past have slowly managed to shake away the underdog tag and have become genuine contenders. The

Looking at their performances, there is a quiet resolve about this bunch. Something that sets them apart from their predecessors. They are friendly, as they have always been. They play the game in the right spirit, again, as they have always done. Much like the Caribbean teams of the 80s, there is a certain joy in watching the Kiwis compete: clean, spirited and sporting. And this team retains that in full and have managed to reach the semi finals once more. But there is something indefinable about this team and this year could well be the one where they are most likely to go the full distance.

England deserved to go home. West Indies simply lack the quality to compete fiercely at the top level and aren't quite a cohesive unit. Sri Lanka tried one change too many and denied their stars one more shot at the title. And Pakistan? This is not the same sport as in the 80s and 90s to be able to pull off their magic with sporadic spurts.

This World Cup, as a tournament, has been too long. Allowing the fan to switch off between key games. I'm all for an inclusive approach about spreading the game and involving the associate nations. But the World Cup should be a tight fight for the top honor and it should be for the top 10 teams only. There are certainly ways to widen the reach of the sport and empower smaller nations.

Sangakkara, Mahela, Misbah, Dilshan and Afridi. Cricketers that we shall see no more of as of yesterday. But you never know with Afridi. Teenagers aren't the best decision makers anyways. The first three are certainly among the best to ply their trade and among the finest ambassadors of the game. Afridi will be remembered as the one that did injustice to the talent that was his and the opportunities that came his way.

One more week. Three more games. Will the cup travel to the Southern hemisphere? Will it stay in India? I would personally like a closely fought final between India and New Zealand ending in favor of India. Time to buckle up! 

Bay Area 1170AM Tamil darbar

We were returning from somewhere last Sunday evening. Usually we play the mp3 collection to keep things quiet and friendly during a drive. Side story: although it is filled to the gills with Ilayaraja songs, the first file on this pen drive, for some reason, is the Macarena. And every time we start the engine, the audio system resets to the first song. And since we’ve had this same collection for a very long time now, that song is now firmly tattooed on my kid’s brain. He was singing it aloud when we were at the Niagara Falls last year. Over the din of the falls, a Hispanic family voiced their approval. Oye! Back to the story. I had removed the stick for some reason and had not plugged it back in. So we had to resort to the airwaves for music. My default station is NPR but my son hates it from the bottom of his heart (appa, vera paattu podu, iva pesindey irukka Eng: Dad, play some other song, these people are just talking) So we tuned into 1170AM the desi station in the Bay Area.

Now, as I mentioned earlier, I default to NPR for my short commute and on those rare occasions when I tune into 1170AM, I almost always catch some talk show in Hindi. Given my proficiency in that language, I make a quick exit. But when I travel with the missus, she prefers this station. Talk about timing but we have listened to some Kannada programs and even Telugu programs but nary a bit of Tamil. Last Sunday was one such day where we caught the tail end of a Hindi program followed by a Women’s day Telugu program. Side story: I was surprised at how much Telugu I was actually able to follow. Side story: Four years in a private engineering college have given me only a smattering of engineering concepts but more than a working knowledge of conversational Telugu. Thank you Reddys, Raos, Vamsis, Yelamarthis. Back to the story. There are two things that I have observed in the multiple Telugu and Kannada programs that I have had the opportunity to listen to. The program hosts always speak good quality Telugu and Kannada. Granted there is the English phrase or three thrown in. But for the most part, it is in their language. Second, the hosts have always been coherent and were not hemming and hawing or were lost for words.

Surprisingly, the program that followed the Telugu one last Sunday was Tamil darbar. Yaay, Tamil on radio finally!! It was hosted by a certain Ms. Minmini (Chinna chinna aasai singer?) and a Mr. Baba. The show was about Women in Tamil Cinema. That took some wind out of my sail but I was still pumped. Side story: All Tamil entertainment across all media formats shall feed off Tamil cinema. Talk shows, debates, culture, sports, politics, technology, business, music, dance, TV, radio, the internet and anything else under the sun will be based on Tamil cinema. Computational lithography for EUV illumination systems as observed in modern Tamil Cinema. Barathi Raja on the effects of El Nino on the kuruvai crops in the Cauvery river delta. Back to the story. The two hosts spent some time flitting from one lady veteran to another. There was the regulation hat tip to Manorama, followed by obeisance to Suhasini Mani Ratnam, interspersed by songs featuring them. Honorary mentions were made about SriVidya, Revathi and a couple of others. By which time I had arrived home and turned it off.

What really bothered me was that the entire show was in English. In case you had missed it, the program was titled Tamil Darbar. The hosts were hardly able to string together an English-free sentence. Coming off programs in good Hindi and Telugu, this struck a very discordant note. Also, they were not comfortable chatting about movies either. Mr. Baba, hosting a show about women in Tamil cinema through the ages, announced (in English) that he started watching Tamil movies from 2000 AD, thus leaving Ms. Minmini to carry on by herself in English.

Minmini: Suhasini is a wonderful actor, illiya?

Baba: Grmpfh…Yeah

M: She has portrayed a wide range of roles, illiya?

B: Hrrmph….Sure. Wide range.

I felt outraged. Not as a Tamilian but as a radio listener. This program reminded me of the interview scene in thillu mullu. And I don’t mean it as a compliment. The content was questionable; the presentation bad and the attitude, worse. Why is the average Bay Area Tamil listener getting short changed by 1170AM?

Those that tune in to a desi station do so mostly for nostalgia. To get a quick fix of the language and culture of the old country. Not for spoken English lessons. If I need movie trivia in bad Tamil, I’ll watch Sun TV. The primary objective of 1170AM, and I’m out on a limb here, should be to recreate the magic of AIR and vividhbharathi in a distant land. Bring back the ads for Archana Sweets (Radha, late-a vandhennu kovama? naangu naangu naangu onbadhu ettu naangu) and Saravana Stores (Ranganathan theru, mambalam rayil nilayam arugil.) for God's sake! Imagine driving down Highway 1 on a beautiful spring afternoon after a hearty lunch. In a moment of weakness, I tune in to 1170AM to complete the picture of heaven. The last thing I want to hear is broken Tamil from someone with a mouthful of marbles. (Short name Supi sir! Suppi-yaavdhu guppy-yaavdhu. Get out!) Even if it is an ad for a tax consultant, let it be in good Tamil. Please?

On my missus’ suggestion, I now plan to try out for a radio host at 1170AM. My voice does not have a rich captivating baritone nor do I possess the wit and humor of a Thenkachi Swaminathan. But I have a feel for what is missing from 1170AM and believe that I can provide that. In reasonably good Tamil. Or at least make an earnest attempt. Who knows, maybe on my way out of the interview, I might find myself saying to the next candidate: Candidate-a already mudivu pannittaangappa. Interview ellam eye waas!

The World Cup thus far

Cometh the hour, cometh the performance. Based on the evidence of the Indian team's performance in their first two fixtures, one can reasonably conclude that they were saving themselves for the World Cup. There's something about colored clothes and the white ball that seems to bring out the top game out of this team. The same unit that was definitely tepid in the recently concluded Tri Series where they didn't make the finals. Was it all according to plan? To not be fully invested in a side show and save themselves physically and emotionally for the big occasion?

It is pleasing to watch the transformation of the bowling performance. Umesh is still wayward but at least he has the pace. But the difference in Shami's performance is nothing less than magical. Where was this control hiding these past months? He had an air of resignation about him in the tests, often seeming listless against confident batters. Same question to Shikar Dhawan who seems to be middling nearly everything thrown at him. And Mohit "last-minute" Sharma has turned out to be a revelation based on the evidence available.

Concerns still linger about Rohit's form and lack of runs from Dhoni. Can Virat please overcome this new found weakness in the pull shot that I first observed in the Adelaide test? The inability to push the scoring in the death overs in both the matches seems to not make full use of the good platform put up the top order. This batting unit hasn't been tested while chasing a stiff total. Both the wins have come defending good totals - which is saying a lot given what was expected of the bowlers - after winning both tosses and batting first. But with the two main games in the pocket, India can now play the theoretically weaker team from the other group in the quarters. But sterner tests lay beyond.

Unless cricket is played in the Easter Islands or some such corner, one can count on Indian fans in strong numbers to throw their voice behind the team. MCG bathed in a loud, throbbing sea of blue was truly a spectacle to see.
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England, part of the Big "axis-of-evil" Three, has been run ragged in the tournament that they want shortened in 2019. Sweet irony. They have been mauled on either side of the Tasman sea by the co hosts and have managed a win against Scotland. But a lackluster performance by the English team in a world cup seems to be  given. But the talk still reeks of the sun not setting on the empire.

An ideal format could be 10 teams in two groups of 5. The top 6 ranks qualify automatically, the remaining 4 are selected by pre-WC qualifiers (other test playing nations + associates). Top 6 make it to an all play all Super 6 round. Decide semi finalists and a best of three final. Any takers?
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As powerful batters help themselves to easy runs against hapless teams (Chris "school-bully|" Gayle and Tillakaratne "I'm-still-playing" Dilshan), I'm really looking forward to what should be an evenly matched contest: the Aus - NZ game. Go black caps!

Israel trip diary

This is my second trip to the country. I wish I had been in writing mode for my first trip last year to capture the first impressions, but better late than never.A tightly scheduled, in and out trip means that I cannot visit Jerusalem and the Dead sea this time either.

Day 1: Friday

A much needed storm in the Bay Area. Watching news for delays/cancellations at SFO: but nary a drop of water to accompany the howling winds till I reach the airport. Starts to rain but the trip is on. Flying United has to be the single most depressing thing. Outside of flying the erstwhile NorthWest. Crappy aircraft, flight attendants from hell and the food. The food. If you can't provide edible Indian veggie fare on a flight out of New Jersey, you should not be flying planes. After the meal service - the meal was bad and the service worse, the guy in the next seat opens up his whiskey bottle bought at the duty free shop and offers me a drink. Thank him and partake the perfect antidote for United airlines: Johnny Walker Red Label.

Day 2: Saturday

Arrive in Tel Aviv. A pleasant evening. Quick ride to the hotel. Nice and easy. Shower to get rid of the uneasiness from a 15.5 hour cabin class flight. A 10th-floor, sea-ish facing room with a decent view - can't really complain. However, last time was much nicer: 25th floor overlooking the Med coast. So, yes, I'm a greedy pig. A pre-dinner beer with some finger (smacking) food. Then dinner at a nice restaurant. More food, this time with German beer. The hotel rations free water to one 500-ml bottler per night: so wrong. Walk to buy more water but the store is closed. Shabbat evening.

Day 3: Sunday

Set the alarm for 6:30am. Wake up at 2:30. Must take melatonin. The breakfast spread is easily the most sumptuous one ever I've had on the road from a vegetarian's perspective. Sundays are working days in the holy land. And it is indeed a long day ahead with late afternoon meetings. Meetings that don't start on time turn into meetings that don't end on time. It is a way of life here, so I was told and so I realize. But it will be a challenge to stay awake and alert. Fabulous dinner at an Israeli restaurant. And I choose to fight jet lag with the aid of copious quantities of alcohol.

Day 4: Monday

Attend a 3-hour long all hands meeting. In Hebrew. But the slides are in English and my manager gives me real time English translations. Get a falafel sandwich lunch with a side of really crisp fries. The friendly old man running the falafel stand plies us with some more falafels on the house. Colleagues are caught up with other meetings and I'm on my own for dinner. I walk to old town Jaffa, just a mile down the beach from the hotel and get myself a signature Abouelafia sandwich and a side of their falafels. I've already had my share of falafels for the day but the chefs of A'lafia simply make the best ones. Yum!

Day 5: Tuesday

The cab driver reeks of tobacco and demands to know my room number so that he can pick me up tomorrow. Yeah, right. Seven meetings planned for the day. And they get pushed around, chopped and juggled. But they all still happen. First proper sand storm. Freshly imported from North Africa. Fine dust in the eyes, throat and on the cars. Evokes memories of that knock at Sharjah. Just walking around is trouble, imagine playing cricket and taking good bowlers to the cleaners! #Respect. Dinner at a fancy Japanese restaurant. Ouch! Japanese over so many other local and Italian places in Tel Aviv. Imagine Scarlett Johansson and her friends asking you out for a date (I said imagine!) and you choose to go out with Kamala Kamesh instead. Kamala Kamesh in a kimono. Ugh! Sashimi, teppanyaki and sushi can mean only one thing: a beer and edamame dinner for me.

Day 6: Wednesday

I manage 6 hours of reasonably restful sleep. But I wake up really hungry. The storm, not a common occurrence I'm told, is here to stay. The sea is rough, the air is murky and the sky is grey. The sun is blanked out behind clouds and the dust. This storm is keeping the rains from the north come in and clean up the air a bit. The rains finally arrive in the evening. Head to the bar for drinks and finger food. And then back to the hotel for some food and some more drinks. Gold star, the Israeli beer, is crispy and good.  And although I don't have a developed taste for wines, the few red wines that I've sampled are pretty good too. I'm now nearly adjusted to the Israeli clock. And I'm leaving tomorrow. Sweet.

Day 7: Thursday/Friday

There is an intense security screening on the way out at the airport. A standard clearance letter from the company helps ease things. And I forgot to collect one. If you think I'm an irresponsible traveler, you should read this and this. Although my good heart and a clean conscience helped me clear the procedures without any hiccups, I'll collect one the next time. A rabbi, an American and a United flight attendant walk into a Boeing 777. This pretty much sums up the return flight. Sitting somewhere in the deeper rows, I try to get some sleep so that I can be a bit refreshed for the morning arrival. No luck. Instead end up watching Craig Ferguson do stand up (enjoyable), catch up on some episodes of Curb your Enthusiasm (good) and the movie A Good Lie with Reese Witherspoon (underwhelming: good subject badly handled). I know this is getting repetitive but the grumpy crew on this flight made the one on the onward journey look like a real friendly bunch. But if that is my only complaint for Friday the 13th, I'm OK. 

ICC World Cup 2015 wishes and predictions

Wish: India lift the cup. But twice on the trot? And in Australia where we have spent the better part of the past 3 months searching for an elusive victory? Any victory? Yeah, right.

Now, with that out of the way, on to the predictions.

1. An all Southern hemisphere final: I predict an Aus vs. SA showdown and the Springboks are my favorites.
2. Asia-free semi-finals or at the most one Asian semifinalist and I tip Sri Lanka to be that team
3. Indian bowlers and other pretenders will get completely creamed - new field restrictions and two new balls
4. Explosive/violent batting and brilliant run chases- Read above item. And with ABD, Warner and Gayle, no total can be termed safe.
5. Spin may not be rendered entirely irrelevant but part timers beware.

Happy watching y'all!

Thoughts on India's 66th Republic Day

I watched the 66^th Indian Republic Day parade. Live. On good ol’ DD via internet. We haven’t done this in all these years and somehow decided to watch it yesterday as a family activity. More for Modi than for the Obamas. And more for our kid than for ourselves. (We’re awesome parents.) I tried to explain what DD was in response to my son’s query. How doordarshan was our one (and only) window for everything that was happening around the country and beyond. Sports, drama, news, agriculture, cartoons and national integration. If regional kendras delinking for national programming at the stroke of 9:00pm doesn’t promote unity across the land, I don’t know what will.

In the spirit of full disclosure, Republic and Independence days have meant very little to me besides the holiday as a student and a young adult in India. A cool day off with nothing expected of me. More joy if they fell either on a Monday or a Friday. But this time it felt different. Is it age? The distance/separation? Nostalgia? Or explaining things to my kid who would be further removed from the significance of these ceremonies as he grows older?

There was a lump in my throat when the two-minute silence was observed. The helmet hung over the gun against the burning fire. The significance of the lives lost in remote outposts so that I may, without fear, freely continue to lead my life of indifference, cocooned in the safety so taken for granted. It struck me this time. So many faces without a name. And so many names without a face. Coffins draped in the national colors. And the futility of it all. When the wife of Major Mukund Varadarajan collected the Ashoka Chakra from President Pranab M, it made me uneasy. I could hardly follow the valor of Mukund that was being described in Hindi. But I know there was a man – a son, a husband, a father, a brother - that had performed acts of extreme bravery in the face of danger to his life. His wife picking up a medal for his valor under grey skies on a cold morning with a light drizzle made me positively uneasy. I’m sure she would have happily traded the medal for her husband to be back with her. With the kind of neighbors around us, there will be no dearth for such acts of valor (and unnecessary fatalities) year after year. Borders like the ones in Europe shall remain a pipe dream in Asia.

After having watched the 2+ hour program, I would propose to do away with the whole Republic Day parade such as it is. It has its moments but on the whole, it seems a massive waste of people’s time and efforts. Recognizing military valor and awarding bravery, are required, I understand. But the whole show - parade, rumbling tanks, garish floats – just seems long, meandering and more symbolic and less meaningful.  And there is a strong colonial flavor over much of the proceedings: slow moving motorcades, grand uniforms and soldiers on horses – a hat doff to the erstwhile Raj. What do we want to convey? And to who? I get the feeling that we may still be trying to prove something to our erstwhile rulers and our neighbors. And my point being, we don’t have to.

Instilling a sense of national pride in the average citizen is a noble idea. If not for anything else, at least to stop thirty-somethings from making blog posts like this one. But I’m sure we can find better ways to utilize the money, resources and time that should go into making this event happen year after year. Personal wish: that Modi is the last Indian Prime Minister that prefers the close coat over a suit.

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Rest in peace R K Laxman. On his passing away, I have read a few articles throwing light on the artist behind the iconic common man. A true legend.

The right to die

Anaayesaena maraNam

Vinaa dhainyaena jeevanam
daehi mae kripayaa shambho
tyavi bhaktim achanchalam

A pain free death
A life devoid of misery
Grant me out of compassion, Lord Shambho (Shiva)
Unwavering devotion to you

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California lawmakers are planning to introduce a bill to legalize the right to end one's life. The idea of mercy killing – the right (and means) for someone to choose to end their life in the face of terminal illness – can be a polarizing one, whipping up fervor on both sides of the debate. Personally, I was earlier firmly rooted with those arguing against mercy killing. How can someone have the right to end their own life? The finality of death, to me, seemed to entirely snuff out the “what if” scenario. To a late teen/early twenties guy, the cure for cancer or any incurable condition for that matter seemed more a question of mere time than anything else. You’d open the paper one day to read “Cancer cured!” If you’re not an optimist in your twenties, you don’t have a heart.

And then it happened. My mother was diagnosed with cancer. And after waging a valiant battle against the disease for six years, she succumbed. In that time, I had a ring side seat to witness how this illness can steadily rob someone of everything that defines them as an individual. Their physical strength, the courage to fight the disease (and in this case, the therapy itself) and ultimately their will to live. The last few months of her life were nothing but hell for both her and for us. I was now clearly convinced of the need to be able to end one’s life. Before the prospect of losing the quality of life as it can often happen in such cases.  Advances in medical research may definitely hold many promises but they are just that: promises. And miracles are not a commodity and counting on them may not be a viable strategy. 

The right to end an individual’s life with dignity in the face of terminal illness should be enshrined as part of fundamental human rights. The arguments against this are often tinged with a religious flavor. He who giveth shall taketh. We are just humans, mere mortals. We are not empowered to reject life, given by a superior power. Life is sacred, to be preserved and celebrated. Arguments that I had once subscribed to with conviction. 

I believe there should be a distinction between life and existence. It is not beyond science today to postpone death and keep someone alive. Even if only in a vegetative state. Which raises the logical question: what next? Leaving an individual suspended between life and death till the latter descends “naturally” may be thwarting death in medical terms. But is that really life?  On the same note, people should also distinguish between suicide and the right to die: two very different things. Opposition to the former should not overshadow opposition to the latter. 

To state the blazingly obvious, life is a blessing to be lived, savored and enjoyed. And it is for that very reason the right to die should be legalized. Life is beautiful. Too beautiful and valuable to be allowed to languish devoid of, well, life. 

The argument for the right to die poses its own set of challenges: misuse, impeding development of palliative care (which was grossly inadequate in India when we needed it the most) and mercy killing becoming the default recommendation from doctors. But no idea has ever had a smooth passage through the ages. Better the idea, tougher the acceptance.

Peaceful death. The ancients really knew what to seek from superior powers.