Dedication

"A very good morning to my fellow students and esteemed members of the staff. My topic for today is dedication. The dictionary says dedication is..."

Thus would begin nine out of ten speeches in our school assembly. But y'all know that we do things differently around here. And also, dedication is not the topic of this post either. Well, not that dedication, at least. I need to get something off my chest and here is where I usually do it. Specifically, I'm here to rant against a clear and present danger. A growing menace that is happening somewhere even as I write this.

Picture this:

A terrible compere, complete with a pasted plastic smile, hands repeating artificial gestures and slurred Tamil pronunciation. Someone who has possibly gotten this assignment based solely on her relationship with the programming head or someone important in the channel. I mean, this is non-primetime TV compering that we're discussing here and it is not an acquirable skill and definitely not an art. Her ability(?) is to engage in phone conversations with complete strangers who are on the line because, um, they don't have a life? (The ones that go 'naan aaru varushama try pannren, innikki dhaan madam kedachudhu' and rush to introduce to the world their extended family.) And play songs that they request. Not a bad way to make money, mind you. After all there are all these morons out there, trying earnestly to get their time under the sun and an appropriate number of such plasticomperes out there, trying to cash in, thanks to Pepsi Uma.

My issue is not so much with trying to resuscitate an outdated idea of calling in for a song to die a respectable death. neyar viruppam (Listeners choice) on Vividhbharathi, a program wherein Arakkonam Prabha, Jyothi, Suresh and Kaveripakkam Raja and Gopi (made up or real) sent in their respective requests for a particular song that was played, had some relevance given the times. The call-in programs on TV in the day and age of internet, ipod and youtube are as appropriate as this:

(Image courtesy: www.wired.com)

But the marketing gurus today see some more juice to be squeezed out of this and so be it. My real problem is with this thing that is called dedication of the song. After the customary gushing, pointless banter and the song selection between Ms. Plasticompere and Mr. I've-time-to-kill comes the killer question:

"Sooberana song choose pannirukkeenga. sollunga Sekar, indha song-a yarukku dedicate panna aasa padreenga?" ("Who do you like to dedicate this song to?") I cringe.

"En friend Babu-kku indha saanga dedicate pannren madam." Sekar, without skipping a beat, announces to the rest of the world that his friendship with Babu is somehow captured in its entirety by a romantic number.

Ilayaraja, Vali and ManiRathnam combine their intellect to come up with a song that Mr. Sekar feels is a right choice to dedicate to Mr. Babu. Is there a more ideal example for the "kadai thengaya eduthu vazhi pillayar-ku odaikkardhu" proverb? Or, more appropriately, as Goundamani would put it, "Dei naaye nee enna da panna?" (English: Never mind, it ain't gonna sound half as funny.)

Song dedication is the TV equivalent of a hallmark card and should be stopped. At once. Sekar might as well say "I'm capable of nothing myself. And that is perhaps why I have the time to dial a number a million times to request for this song and dedicate it to you." Even an off-key rendition of the same song for a friend (in private space) amounts to some sort of dedication. But this? No.

Are my nerves, frayed by Sekar and plastic queen, allowed to rest when the song finally comes on? No. That is when the SMS messages start getting displayed at the bottom of the screen in a marquee. TV's answer to twitter. It is 2300 hrs and the messages are coming in thick and fast:

Sai, overhwhelmed by love, declares "Hai Kavi, i luv u da"

Naser, ever alert to the time of the night goes, "Farhana, gud nite"

"Hema, how r u?" asks Suresh, in need of urgent information regarding the well being of his sweetheart.

M/s. Sai, Naser and Suresh, I speak on behalf of most of TamilNadu when I say, "Shut the beep up! And good night!"

Somebody had to say it out aloud

Let's face it. Bangladesh is an ordinary team. Everybody knows that. From Shakib Al Hasan to Jamie Siddons to the most offended Bong cricket fan and journalist. Enough of the politically correct answers that get bandied about like "We respect the opponents" or "They can be a strong team at home" etc. that not only sound hollow but also make for bland reading. Much like the standard issue "...cordially solicit your august presence to grace the occasion of..." on wedding invitations that no one cares to read while all that is meant is "Wedding. Please come, bless and dine." May be not that nice looking, but that is what is truly meant.

The Bangladeshis have been (knocked) around long enough and if their results are anything to go by, what Sehwag told was the truth, as it were. Even if we lose this test, and as an Indian fan, I really hope we don't, what Sehwag has just said will remain true at least for the foreseeable future.

His press conferences, just like his innings, makes one look forward to something worthwhile.

Vignettes from a Chennai holiday

Mylai Karpagambal mess

There are somethings in life that should not change. One among them was the ambience, or character, of the Mylapore Karpagambal mess. The place, in its previous avatar, could be aptly described as a hole in the wall. Quite literally. Combined with its great food and a start studded customer list, the place was etched into Chennai-ites hearts. Complete with its unclean interiors and non-functional wash basins. On my regulation visit there this time, I walked right past a brightly lit facade where once stood the dour entrance. My brain simply refused to map this bright thing to the MKM image in store. In fact I crossed the road and scanned the row of buildings and not until I saw the nameboard did I completely believe that it was indeed MKM. Wearing bad make up. Thankfully, the food is still good, although I felt their avial could do with a lot more of vegetables. Service remains old world style too with unlimited access to the sambhar bucket and chutney containers. Yet, somehow it didn't feel right. But there is hope. The interiors, in spite of the face lift, are 'getting there' and it is only a matter of time before the wash basins get assistance from buckets of water and floating steel tumblers. I want my old MKM back, dammit!

Grand Master

While I was tucking into my 3rd keeravadai, doused with ample quantities of chutney and sambhar, Mr. and Mrs. Vishwanathan Anand and a few others parked themselves at the next table. Which explained why the MKM folks were guarding that table (in the A/C section, of course) like a fortress when we had entered. The greatest move that night was when we, as in self and Anand, got served our respective onion ravas by the same bare hand off the same plate. Shortly followed by our respective adais. But for his excellence in a certain board game, there was little that separated me and the master that night.(He he.) But the grandest master that night was inside the kitchen, making all the right moves!

Fast and curious

A long standing wish that got fulfilled - my maiden Shatabdi trip. Saved myself a lot of time, but the hype surrounding the quantity and quality of on-board food was completely deconstructed by Messrs. Southern Railways themselves. Maybe it was a one off day, but food quality was worse than the average pantry car stuff. I won't say that the portions were small but I could tuck into a full size home cooked lunch right after I got off the train. I'll take the never ending procession of snacks on the Brindavan/Lal Bagh anyday. Whatever the shortcomings on the culinary front, they were offset by the thrills provided by the lady seated across. Apparently, she was returning to Bangalore after attending a funeral in Chennai, the details of which she was passing on to various people by phone whenever she got enough signal strength. The exciting part was this: "I was told that it was the nurse that pulled the oxygen supply.... Hello? Hello? Hmmm" and hung up. Damn the network!

The great Indian (Railways) berth trick

Stranded in Mysore on the eve of 2010's first working day. Like the thousands around, absolutely need to be in Chennai the next morning. Except, our tickets are waitlisted - 179 and 180. In other words, not a chance. A few discrete phone calls are placed to 'someone with pull' and in an hour, we are informed that our seats will be confirmed and are asked to board coach S6. Fast and easy, maybe a tad too easy. Train pulls into the Bangalore station and we get ousted by unruly people only because they actually hold tickets for the seats that we were "assigned"! Just as we prepare to spend the night crouched by the wash basin (and the toilet), the TT provides us a berth in exchange for a smiling Gandhi. San'TT'a is late by a good week and is in black. But he did bear us gifts.

3 idiots

After getting the "You haven't watched 3 idiots?" with an exaggerated roll of eyes from everyone a hundred times, we bit the bait. Sathyam was sold out for Monday night 10:30. Chennai has changed! Nearby Devi had a few for 10:30 and the theater was nearly full. With the "family" crowd, mind you. There was even a mami in madisaar in attendance. I tell you, Chennai has changed! Verdict: A well marketed, over-hyped, ordinary Hindi movie. By the way, is it just me or is Kareena Kapoor really a man? Oh well. All in all, I must admit that it was good time pass, I mean the whole movie, theatre, night show package. P.S: I've now picked up Five point someone.

The Corporation

I had lost my birth certificate and needed one re-issued. After collecting the pre-requisite letter from the hospital, I proceeded to try my luck at the local corporation office around noon. Three people, a lady and two men, manned the counters, devoid of any indications of what was being dispensed there by way of services. Gingerly approaching the first guy, I asked if it was the right place for my requirements. No response. Absolutely none. He had the air of someone busy splitting atoms and I left him continue his task. The girl voluntarily pointed me to the third guy who bore an uncanny resemblance to a seal. He was visibly uncomfortable in his shirt, the middle button of which was threatening to strike work any minute. He entered my details into the system with pudgy fingers and began swivelling in his chair, staring intently at the monitor. Roughly three minutes had passed in this manner when I asked him if he could see my records. Without batting an eyelid, he goes, "I haven't told you anything yet." Quite a stunner of a reply, I'm sure you'll agree. After another minute elapsed, he broke his silence saying that my records weren't in the system. Solution: "Wait until 4 pm when either Panneer or Selvam will be here to let you know what needs to be done." At which point I turned around, drove home and boarded my flight back that night. I tell you, Chennai hasn't changed one bit!

My Korean Guru

My interactions with Korean taxi drivers are very minimal. The doormen at the hotel give the driver the destination. Most of them know where my office is and once we leave the hotel, the 40 minute drive is spent in near silence. And since I have resolutely refused to pick up any Korean, the only exchanges are the mutual Thank you-s and nice day-s said while alighting. This isn't the usual case however elsewhere. I really respect that profession where timings are so critical - be it a call taxi driver in Chennai or someone piloting A380s. Also, numerous drivers have made sure that I was at the station or airport on time more times than I can count now. I also feel bad for the tribe of drivers in general (Thank you Mr. Arvind Adiga!) what with all that waiting, negotiating through bad traffic and putting up with someone else's schedules. I have single handedly led to abnormal blood pressure conditions in many drivers across many lands. And hence, fuelled partly by guilt, even if I'm not in the mood for a conversation, which is when I get the most loquacious drivers, I tend to be polite and try to hold up my end of the conversation to the extent possible. But with my seriously limited Korean vovabulary (I still haven't picked up the word for "vegetarian", usually my first word in any language) I am saved even that trouble. Moreover, in Korea, as I'm always catching up on lost sleep, I'm not quite risen on the morning taxi ride and remain only clinically alive, sprawled out on the rear seat.

All that changed with my recent trip to Korea. On the first morning, a frail old man with his greying hair neatly parted and combed back, pulled up to the portico of the hotel in his beat up Hyundai. The doorman poked his head through the window and informed my destination. Which is when I heard a raspy, "Oph kors oph kors! I know." from within the cab. Instinctively I knew this could mean prtotracted conversations. Sure enough, as he was slipping into the traffic and I was slipping in to my "clinically alive" state, Mr. Lee, as I learned from the id card, looked into the mirror at me and asked, "Are you high crass gentreman?" As far as ice breakers go, this one worked like a power hammer on an ice cube. I quickly checked if someone else was riding in the cab. No, it was a question for me and a tricky one at that. Apparently what was quite obvious to me, wasn't quite so to Mr. Lee and I replied in the negative with what I thougt was a pleasant smile at that hour in the morning. Mind you, I had just gotten off a red eye flight.

I'm not sure if it was my smile or the answer that encouraged his second question, "You speekku Korea langvechi?" Relieved at a more straightforward question and the prospect that the gaping canyon that stood between us on the language front could quell further exchanges and actually let me go back to sleep, I again replied in the negative. As a subtle message, I even halved the previous smile, and adjusted myself to a more sleep-conducive position.

By this time, we were firmly stuck in the middle of the usual Seoul traffic snarl and barely moving. Good, more sleep! Right? Wrong.

"Okkkay! From hoteru to ophhice - 40 minute. I am Korea langvechi teacher, you student." I opened one eye, only half believing what I had just heard. Mr. Lee was looking right at me with a "You heard me kid" kind of look. Unsure of how to handle this situation, I propped myself up against the seat. I could have played asleep, but I was far too awake to pull that off.

A la Jerry Seinfeld, I was still quickly thumbing through my rolodex of excuses for something convincing to go back to sleep when I heard him go "'Ann yang ha se yo' in Korea langvechi. Engrishu meaning 'How are you?'" And he started repeating that a few times and urged me to do the same after him. After about 5 repeats, when I had lost all hopes of getting some shut eye, he stopped. Instead, he held out his right hand. Making chopping motions, he started counting with his fingers, making me repeat that phrase 10 times, extending a digit everytime. I tamely repeated, enrolling myself for Korean 101.

Apparently not inclined towards a gentle introduction, he followed that up with "Hwa jang shil aidi it su yo? Engrishu meaning 'Where is the rest room?'" and started making his chopping right hand movements. There I was, in a car, speeding down Highway 1, asking out aloud to no one in particular, the directions for a restroom in Korean. Ten times. Looking at my bloodshot eyes, people that heard me would have thought that I was having a particularly bad hangover and seeking a place to throw up.

'Take me to a place' (driver instructions), 'How much is this?' and 'Can you give me a discount?' rounded off the first session. I was clearly out of breath from all the vocal exertions. Just as I sunk back into the seat, he announced that it was time for a test. What?! Less than 15 minutes into the impromptu class and I was already up against the first pop quiz?! The only time a language teacher tormented me this way was when I was trying to learn Hindi as a kid in Chennai. And that was atleast a good 20 years back.

He was rigorous in his methods. I tried my best to answer his various questions and just as I was starting to mix up the phrases, we arrived at the office. As I was getting off, he asked me whether he could pick me up that evening - a usual request from drivers. Again, instead of mumbling myself out of the situation, I heard myself say "7 pm". I had bitten into the Korean language bait. The evening's lessons, held under the dim cabin light was decidedly more romantic with phrases for'You are pretty' and 'You are cute'. At which point, I, ever so subtly, asked him for the phrase for 'I'm married' (Keron het su mida), which triggered a surprised glance in my direction. By the end of day one, I was ready to have this conversation with anyone: "How are you? Pleased to meet you. You look pretty. Oh, and which way to the rest room?" Although I wonder what kind of an impression I would leave on that person.

Anyways, my progress was not bad at all given my Korean vocabulary was only two words strong before - kim chi and bibim bap - two atrocities that I routinely subjected my digestive system to. The routine continued over the next 4 days. The second morning, I had transferred my knowledge from day one onto a sheet of paper. Encouraged by this, he had 2 sheets of notes for me that evening with even more phrases. The third morning was spent on numbers and that evening on the Korean alphabet for which he had prepared extensive notes. He even became considerate enough to give me advance notice on the big test for the fourth morning. It was a massive revision of all the phrases. He then made me read out aloud the alpha-numeric license plate off every single vehicle that we crossed. I barely managed not throwing up all over the back seat from motion sickness. (For the record, I don't try to work in a moving vehicle even if I'm hard pressed for time.)

I wasn't quite sure what kind of a gurudakshina I could give him on the day that I was leaving. He had mentioned that he couldn't take me to the airport that evening. So I had one of my colleagues, who was taking an earlier flight, cancel the taxi ride that he had booked to the airport, and go with my guru instead. At $120 it wasn't all that bad a deal, I'm sure you'd agree. I then took the bus to the airport, practising my fledgling Korean on unsuspecting airport staff en route to the boarding gate.

One way to look at this is that Mr. Lee had used this as an opportunity to get more business. While that is a valid argument, I would anyways have stuck with the first morning's driver through the 4 days. It just happened to be him that morning. Also, he wasn't trying to rip me off or anything. He was just being enterprising. A man trying to make more money, employing entirely clean methods. And in that process, I have stood to benefit immensely. A great win-win, if you ask me. The next time I go there, I'm so buying him a gift and calling him up for level II Korean langvechi!

Religion and food often cross paths with my life. And they have a rather complicated cause and effect relationship that I have stood to benefit from as observed here. Over the many run ins, like the one that I'm about to chronicle now, I have been made to realize that there are no free lunches, or dinners for that matter, and that every morsel is earned either by dint of hard and honest work or at least a close enough impression.

Sunday mornings. That time of the week set aside by most of humanity as the chosen one for rejuvenation. The Sunday morning is the poultice for a battered soul and a bruised body that have borne the brunt of the week past. The getting up late and then the lounging in bed long enough to skip breakfast and slide straight to a lunch, though routine, are tasks that are performed reverentially every week. Tasks that ensure that Messrs. Soul and Body are prepared to take on the might of the next week that looms larger with every passing hour. There are very few priorities that can break this sacred routine. One among them is a pursuit of bhakti. And a second is the lure of great food. Not listed in any order.

As a graduate student, I lived in a household of 3 guy (myself included) whose enthusiasm towards cooking varied from I-can't to I-won't. Since the dawn of history, mankind has chosen, for reasons not clear to me, a 7 day work week. And precisely for that reason, dividing 7 cooking turns between 3 reluctant people continues to be a mathematician's nightmare. Thus it came to pass, since it was nobody's turn to cook, every Sunday was a gamble in terms of being able to get a square meal. The law of the jungle kicked in and I had to outrun the slowest gazelle for satiating man's most primal of instincts - hunger.

The food Gods must have smiled on me for one fine morning in 2002, I got invited by a very orthodox friend of mine (an Iyengar fundamentalist, to be specific) to take part in the parayanam (chanting) of Sri Vishnu Sahasranamam (Lord Vishnu's 1000 different names). The deal was this: Get up at the ungodly (no pun) hour of 7-ish on Sundays and get a ride to the venue where it was being held that day. This would invariably involve bumming a ride by cramming into a recent graduate's Camry or a Corolla and ride to the hub. Even if one didn't have the address, all that was required was to park behind the last Camry or Corolla and follow the trail of parked Toyotas and Hondas to the house - the only place teeming with human activity at that time of the day. The place would be bursting with TamBrams of all sizes and colors, many of them in veshtis and jibbas to affirm their identity. The routine was fixed: 55 minutes of chanting followed by a 10-minute discourse on the burden of a verse from VSN itself. But the main draw, as with any Hindu ritual, was the mahaprasad (blessed food) that was available afterwards. The menu would be simple, nothing fancy. But some households took it very seriously and would prepare a sumptuous spread. Either ways, I wasn't complaining.

A word here on my religious inclinations wouldn't be out of place. I must have been 7 or 8 years old when my mother thought that it was not a bad idea to get me enrolled in a shloka class. While I don't question the intention, the only problem was that the class met every Sunday morning at 7-ish. Needless to say, after a few weeks, I dropped out. I was intimidated not by the complex shlokas themselves but by the well dressed girls and boys, who had obviously showered, that would turn up with a spring in their step while I, in stark contrast, dragged my feet to Ayodhya mandapam in West Mambalam, barely awake and trying in vain to look as showered as possible. Ever since, I have been careful to avoid religious exercises that started too early in the mornings or ones that didn't culminate in a hearty meal.

Nothing over the years had made me change my attitude and thus when my friend offered the invitation in 2002 I was initially cautious. They say that there aren't free lunches. And as much as I hate it, I accept that paradigm. Getting my Sunday lunch meant that I had to get up very early. But the effort was adequately rewarded. It didn't take me too long to weigh the getting up early part against chowing down food and decide in favor of the latter. Mind you, I would have already foregone my Saturday morning's sleep on account of cricket (somehow that never seemed to be a tough task). Thus began my Sunday routine which remained unchanged for the rest of my time in the US.

People attended the parayanam sessions with multiple motives. Yes, bhakti, good karma and the resultant warm fuzziness and a sense of fulfilment were all there in plain sight. But also around, barely camouflaged, were the furtive looks of eligible bachelors, recently armed with a MS Degree and a job, scanning the crowd for prospective partners and looking to move on to the next stage. Equally keen were the parents/uncles and aunts of eligible bachelorettes, scouting the guys and checking items off a mental list that would qualify them as "eligible" material. Also in attendance were people that had a solution to every known problem afflicting mankind at large, ranging from US foreign policy through the US housing market to the inevitable malaises troubling India and what exactly they would do to address them. And they would loudly make their point to one and all within earshot. Some would bring along their retired parents visiting them, who would in turn take back tales of the religious aspirations of the Indian diaspora in a distant, clean land. Students, in general, participated for food and networking - seeking that little push, and that good word while forwarding their resume to companies. Against this backdrop, I was clearly a misfit and stood out like a sore thumb. My primary motivation to attend, as pronounced earlier, was food. I could not recite VSN by heart. I relied on the printed version and yet ad libbed through the bulk of the text. Being still in school (a good 3 years shy of breaking into the eligible bachelor circuit), I never registered on the radars of the various mamis and mamas around. And yet there I would be, er, religiously, every Sunday morning, nursing sore muscles and joints from the exertions on a cricket field the previous day and playing catch up with the recitation.

My role in the proceedings would take on significance only after the recitation was over. In essence, I was like the first change bowler who comes on after the shine of the new ball has been taken away. I would be fully risen once the smell of food wafted in from the kitchen in preparation for the nivedhanam. Once the go ahead was given by the chief, signalling the end of the religious aspects of the day, I would come into my own. I will skim across to the food area, opening the closed dishes and working up my appetite while surveying the goodies that awaited us. I would appoint myself as the prasadam Nazi, trying to bring a semblance of order to the ensuing chaos. People, who have seen me in action on earlier occasions wouldn't question my authority. I would choose buddies as volunteers to man the various dishes, and I would myself oversee the distribution of a couple of dishes or play the role of a cop, coordinating the sea of people lunging towards the dishes. After doing this long enough to quell any sense of guilt or till the main dishes reached critically low levels (whichever happened earlier), I would then casually pick up a plate and join the lines that I had just been manning to fulfill the overarching goal of participation.

Looking back, I'm not ashamed about setting gastronomical goals in a spiritual event or the level of my participation itself. That was who I was and, truth be told, I haven't changed all that much from those days. And honestly, I did do something before I partook of the meal. One thing that used to baffle me was how hard worked professionals by the week could get themselves to prepare good food enough for about 50 people on their hard earned weekend. And I had an opportunity to get the answer myself when we were asked to host the parayanam in our apartment. And that is material for a separate post sometime.

Dumped at Copenhagen, winner at Oslo

A Nobel peace prize awarded on the evidence of dreams, promises and intent. On top of a couple of inherited wars, a bad economy and multiple national issues comes this awkward moment under a global limelight that could leave even his most ardent fans feeling a bit uneasy. Many recipients, when they receive that big call from the committee will go on record about experiencing various human emotions including surprise, happiness and thrill. But I'm sure that awkwardness won't be one among them. To this man must go yet another first - feeling squirmy upon receiving the Nobel.

This whole peace prize is a dicey one with the metrics significantly influenced by the prevailing politics and hence is often prone to polarize the world. Agreed that even the decision to pick the winners in science, economy and literature is subjective. But at least, they have to pick one from among various actual accomplishments and tangible results and not mere potential. And I think the Nobel is a tad too big a recognition for, well, being not-Bush. Reminds me of a Will and Grace quote, reproduced to the best of my ability here:

Karen: Remember how I once saved Rosario's life?

Will: Not dropping the toaster into her bathtub does not amount to saving her life!

The living up to this tag of a peace dove part is going to be tough with all future decisions and actions to be viewed against this backdrop. And what else is going to be tough? All those "promising" Ph.D students with a lot of "potential" working on their Nobel acceptance speeches instead of on their thesis and projects.

இன்று ஒரு (தாமதமான) தகவல்

(Pic. courtesy: Asian Tribune)

I've been meaning to post this for the past few days and couldn't get around to doing it in decent time, if there is one. Thenkachi Ko. Swaminathan, the man that made the weekday morning grind bearable to thousands across Tamil Nadu, has passed away on Sep 17th, 2009.

To the internet/video game/twitter generation, he is a nobody. But to those who have had the pleasure of tuning in to A.I.R around 7:xx in the mornings, he was a colossus. His daily program, indru oru thagaval (Daily piece of information), all of 5 minutes long carried a message and a humorous piece at the end. It was a menu that was unchanged for the entire time that he did the show. The topics that he touched upon was wide and varied and his specialty was his use of simple language that could resonate with just about anybody. The humor was subtle and didn't so much hammer the funny bone as it tickled it, leaving behind an amused smile rather than a loud guffaw.

Some faces are just designed to be funny. Jay Leno, for example. If a person, with absolutely no knowledge about who Jay Leno is, were to take a guess about his profession, I'm sure comedian will be among the first three guesses. It isn't as clear cut in the case of a few others and Swaminathan's was one such. But behind that sombre and morose facade was a voice with a nasal ring to it that was cut out just for humor. His voice brings back a flood of old memories. Memories of getting ready to school. Of my mother cutting vegetables for the day's cooking while listening to him. Of those mornings when I caught the show at Capital Hair Dressers (and later at Penguin Saloon) while getting a long over due haircut. Of a simple and less hurried life. A reassuring voice that could coax people into facing the day that lay ahead with vigor. A voice that conveyed that all is well with the world as we know it.

For someone that was very popular and well known, he was quite simple and down to earth in his appearance and demeanor. I still remember his appearance in one of the short lived talk shows on Vijay TV where it was mentioned that he took the bus to work everyday. And, not surprisingly, the news of his passing away has been under the radar and hasn't found more than the casual mention in the media with no politician paying a visit. Not that it signifies anything. Even The Hindu has a rather poor and pixelated picture accompanying the news item.

May his soul rest in peace!

Two good interviews

I enjoyed these two interviews on cricinfo recently. The interviewer, in both instances, was Nagraj Gollapudi. Sensible questions that led to a smooth and coherent exchange, making it a pleasure for the readers.

Allan Donald

This wonderful interview brought out the wealth of knowledge that Allan has in the art of fast bowling . A must read for aspiring pacers. And for others too.

Virender Sehwag

It is common knowledge that Sehwag has a simple and no-nonsense approach to the game. This response goes to reconfirm it:

"There is this story about you declining a nightwatchman, where you said you were not an able batsman if you couldn't last 25 balls at the end of the day. Is that true?

It is true. What is the difference between batting at the end of the day or at the start? If you make a mistake you'll get out. So I don't think a batsman really needs a nightwatchman, but it is totally an individual decision. Whenever a captain or coach asked me for a nightwatchman I would say, "No, why? If I can't survive 10 or 20 balls now, then I don't think I'll survive tomorrow morning." I believe that's the best time when you have the opportunity to score runs, when everybody on the field is tired and you can score 20 runs off those 20 balls."

While it is debatable, to the followers of the game, if his appetite for risk could jeopardize the chance of winning/saving a game, it speaks volumes of his philosophy of keeping it simple: if it is there to be hit, it will be hit.

The Fox speaks out

It was an evening in December 2001 that we first met. It was at a showroom in Chennai. I was there with others. It wasn't quite the love-at-first-sight thingy. He first spent some time with me, doing the getting-to-know routine. His touch was nice and yet I instinctively knew that I wasn't his first and definitely not his last either. But something told me that he wasn't looking for a casual fling. Although he did flirt that night with others, it was only a matter of time before I became his. He was very quick to introduce me to his family. His father initially had some concerns about my qualities and even made discrete enquiries. But Slowelectron had an understanding of who I was. He did well to assure them that I was his type and that we would be fine. But his father cautioned him: "Not unless you find a job!"

He was 30 something at that time and I was 32. Yet, the two of us had many things in common. Both of us believed in a long term relationship. He was a traditionalist and I was conservative and believed in formality. In spite of all the similarities, initially there was clearly a gap between us. I wasn't custom made to meet all his requirements. Moreover, those were early days and it is not a perfect world. But over time, he filled that gap and we became closer and enjoyed each other's company. We used to go out atleast once a week - to the movies, restaurants, parties. Although I wasn't a head turner, people did pay him the occasional compliment on his taste. I've heard people go "A nice pair!".

We soon settled into a routine that was predictable yet fun. I became an integral part of his life, taking part in all his daily life activities. He had a traveling job and took me on many of his trips. Life was good. I attended his family weddings, anniversaries and get togethers. I could hold him in his moments of happiness and grief.

He was caring and took all efforts to keep me comfortable. Although I wasn't exactly needy, I clung on to him whenever we hung out. There was his space, my space and then our space. All three were well defined leaving no room for doubt. He gave me enough time and made sure there was very little between the two of us. We complemented each other.

Alas all good things can't last forever. There comes a stage in a relationship where one outgrows the other leading to compatibility issues. He was a grad. student when we first met and he had grown up since. He found a job that provided him with growth opportunities. And he made use of them. One thing led to another and before long, it was no longer fun.

I had my short comings too. I couldn't change myself to suit his changing needs. Try what I might, I couldn't budge an inch from who I was when we first met. Was I adamant? May be. But somethings just don't change no matter what. I could have cut him some slack, but that just didn't happen. In fact, I tried to be the same through all the tumbles of my life and succeeded.

The sad part was the blame game that ensued. Who was the cause? What led to the situation? Whose fault was it? His family did not like the way he was turning out to be. Yet, they could only do so much. He had clearly changed and the strain was beginning to show. And unfortunately, changes aren't always for the better.

Things got to a point where he started feeling a bit uneasy with me around him. And sadly, there was no room for adjustment. Time was marching and was taking a toll on my appearance as well. At this rate, it was evident that there could be no happy ending to this. It became increasingly clear that we weren't cut from the same cloth.

Finally last week, after 8 years, the curtains came down. We decided to part. It was not a sentimental parting. As I said before, I knew I was not his last. So it was a practical and simple one. Like a change of guard ceremony. He brought in my replacement indicating that it was time for both of us to move on. But even in separation, there was respect and gratitude for each other, for the great times we've had together and for the highs and lows that we had witnessed while together. He said that it was him and not me and I'm sure he meant it.

The confessions of a pair of well loved khaki trousers.

P.S: Fox was inducted into the Hall of Fame and was given an honorary discharge. Fox now leads a leisurely retired life in the wardrobe. The two of them still have a good time together every once in a while. For old times' sake.

The Kasab quandary

I had vented my feelings on the Kasab-P. Chidambaram issue here. Further developments since:

Kasab's growing list of demands has this new item on it: Basmati rice. The man has taste, agreed. And the home minister has been sufficiently stirred to come out with a statement of the blazingly obvious on Pakistan's role in the the proceedings of the investigation.

And the next episode of this intriguing soap opera will be staged in the US. P.C flies there to plead the case. The US will, no doubt, lend a patient ear while signing some more financial aid to their trusted ally in their war againt terror. The wheels on the bus go round and round.

For crying out loud, hang the rascal and get it over with!