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.

The commute - The Rickshaw Riders

I'm now stuck with a very long commute. 42 miles one way. Don't ask me how I ended up here but this is my situation till I figure out a convenient car pool or move.

KQED notwithstanding, it is a punishing drive what with the traffic, boredom and the thought that much of my time is spent behind wheels and not at work/home instead. This got me thinking of the various commutes that I have had over the years. The combination of the various homes and the various educational institutions and work places have called for interesting commutes.

So with nothing worthwhile to offer for your reading pleasure here, I'm kick starting a series on the various commutes that I have done. Anything to keep this blog running and cough up a few words every now and then.

Now this could be a bit interesting if blogger has an app that can take dictation (I'm patenting this idea now!) while I drive and publish a post by the time I reach my destination. But till that time, I regurgitate the thoughts while I drive and put them down after I get off.

Without further adieu, here is part 1.

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My earliest memories of commuting are of my father driving me to school on our trusted white and blue Lamby. Of holding my father’s hands and being firmly but gently shepherded from the school gate towards my LKG class room, to a waiting Mrs. Mallika Ramnath. The commute was a grand distance of about 4 kilometers that would take us from our home on South Usman Road through Burkit Road, taking a left on South Dhandapani street and onwards to Venkatanarayana Road. We would pass Panagal Park on the east side on to the green cover of G N Chetty Road. Appa would then turn left at Jeeva Park (Jeeva poonga) and drive straight down Arulambal street to our school. It was a journey of a few minutes that has stayed in my memory – my father reciting Adithya Hrudhayam and me standing the front and later hugging him from the rear seat when I was tall enough. I also remember transferring briefly to Sahadevan’s rickshaw at some point in time, perhaps coinciding with my brother’s arrival. For I remember Sahadevan pulling up in front of the nursing home, not too far from his rickshaw “stand”,  in the afternoon where our mother was in and me jumping off the rickshaw and racing to the upstairs room to meet my mother and my newly minted brother. Sahadevan, a gentle soul (compared to Muthu rickshaw-kaarar who will soon make an appearance) with a greying beard and a ready toothy grin, calling out from behind to not forget my bag. It was back to the father-son-Lamby-Adithya Hrudhayam routine in the years leading up to my brother joining me at the same school.

Having a working mother required a different style of functioning. She had to be at her work place much earlier than my father. Luckily, her office was midway between home and school. So the four of us would pile up on to the Lamby every morning. Once Appa dropped her off in front of her office, we would drive out to Jeeva poonga where Appa would give us our breakfast on a concrete park bench. A picnic style breakfast almost every weekday morning in a park in the heart of the city. To my father’s credit, he had to wrap up the picnic, drop us off at school and then head out to work across town, if he was in a hurry, which I’m sure he was on many days, he never showed it. While this continued for some length of time, given the logistic challenges that this routine posed, we migrated back to the classic middle-class mode of commuting to school: the rickshaw.

I’m not sure why Sahadevan was not hired when the two of us were rickshaw-ready. Perhaps he had retired or had an incompatible school route/schedule but Muthu rickshaw-kaarar was chosen as the charioteer. Mr. Muthu’s stand was just a few blocks down the road from our home which is where my father would have known him from, I’m guessing. He was already taking a few kids from our locality to our school which acted both as a reference and a convenience in choosing him. Muthu rickshawkaar was a character in every sense of the word. He always sported a week’s stubble: I don’t ever remember having seen him clean shaven. He had his towel tied around his head which offered some protection against the heat. His first few buttons were always undone and was always wearing a lungi that was in need of a wash. He was a rugged guy and somehow reminded me of Rajinikanth in the vasanta kaala nadigalile song from the movie moondru mudichu. He was a raging alcoholic and that is only putting it mildly. But considering that there were only very, very few days that he didn’t show up in the morning and thus putting us in a fix, he somehow managed his drinking and hangovers rather admirably. Till it killed him a few years later.

There were seven kids in the rickshaw: the two of us - yours truly and my brother, Rishi, Vijay, Manav, Kumar and Vasu. There was for some time Ashwin and his cousin Vishnu thrown in to the mix as well. Rishi was the only kid that came from the other side of the tracks from West Mambalam. He was a few years elder than us and was a real fast runner. I later learned that he had joined the Indian Army, was posted in Kashmir during the Kargil conflict in the late nineties and had lost a leg in action. Vijay, my class mate, was the charmer of the group with his good looks and the ability, even as a kid, to engage adults in adult-like conversations. I remember once when Muthu was smoking a rolled cigarette without a filter instead of his usual beedi, Vijay queried “Enna rickshaw-kaar, cigarette ellam pidikkareenga? Neraya panam vechirukkeengala?” (How come you have moved on to cigarettes? Have you become rich now?) He was from a musical family and roped me into learning the mridangam at his place and also Hindi classes later. He used to live somewhere off Madley street behind the R1 Mambalam police station before moving to a house on Burkit road and then later to Mangesh street. Don’t ask me how but he took the commerce stream in class XI, completed his B Com and ended up in Accenture doing project management. I’m still in touch with him and he is now in Chennai after a stint in Bangalore. Manav, in the same class as Rishi, was the Settu – a Marwari kid that had a home on Ranganathan street. Yes, people used to live on that street! He was a hothead and would always pick up fights with other kids and sometimes with Muthu himself. During one such fight he yelled that he would ask his father to not pay Muthu, jumped off the moving rickshaw and ran back the few blocks to his home. Muthu waited to see that he reached home, let lose a few choice expletives and carried on. Kumar and Vasu, the other set of brothers. Vasu was my classmate and Kumar was Rishi’s. They used to live on Govindan street, before moving to a house on G N Chetty Road and later to Tilak street. Vasu, whose father I met many many years later, had failed to clear the class XII exams and Kumar had developed some mental problems. Ashwin and Vishnu were cousins and were Kannadigas. Ashwin, the quiet spoken kid was my brother’s classmate and Vishnu was fresh from Karnataka and had a strong accent. But that is not why he was everybody’s whipping boy on the rickshaw with Rishi leading the roast every evening. When things got out of hand, which was more often than not, Muthu would turn around and land a blow on whoever’s leg, thigh was within his reach.

Muthu rickshaw-kaarar was loud, smoked beedis non-stop, drank every night, took salary advances from nearly everyone’s parents. But he was also responsible enough to not lose a kid, not molest anyone, drive the rickshaw without any accidents and kept it running till he died.

I must take a moment to talk about the simple times. When a parent could hire a rickshaw guy without elaborate background checks, trust him with their kids to be dropped off at school and brought back home every single day. And the bloody system worked. Neither the non-alcoholic Sahadevan or the raging alcoholic Muthu ever misbehaved with any one of us. We were safe in their hands. And I don’t remember there being any untoward incident reported from our school that involved an erring rickshaw man during our years there. 

Reminiscences of an India trip Part II

And the reminiscences continue...

The RX135 experience

Although our first love was the Yamaha breed of machines, after much deliberation, we settled for a rather conservatively styled, easy on the gas, 4-stroke Bajaj Caliber when we (finally) bought a bike in the year 2000. Life usually has a twisted sense of making your wishes come true though. Fifteen years later, when the college going me has been put to pasture somewhere in the deeper recesses of the mind, I got to ride an RX135 across the city to my heart's content. This bike, borrowed from my cousin,  has clearly seen better days, has logged over 40,000 kms and could do with a wash and a real lock instead of the chain and lock arrangement. But it is a Yamaha RX135, remember? And that makes up for all the shortcomings. It is a fast bike and can still turn heads with its mating call engine roar. Or as I call it, 15 years too late. If my wife is reading this, I really love you honey! Within an hour of driving it, two people came up to us at a red light and offered to buy it. True story.

A man, a bike and his 4-year old son: it is a beautiful thing. My son would perch himself on top of the petrol tank in the front and demand to be driven around the block every time I came back from somewhere. At the end of that ride (at perhaps 20-25kmph), he would make an appreciative comment or two about my speeding skills. I need a tissue please. *sniff*

A test victory and the day-after Hindu write up

Savoring an Indian cricket win abroad live on TV, then wading into the sports page the day after and later analyzing the game threadbare with friends at college was a religious experience. A Sachin special followed by an R. Mohan or a Nirmal Shekar special in print (on a plain vanilla, black and white The Hindu) the morning after was like having good, cold beer with fresh, crisp onion pakkoda on the side. So while I was in Chennai, India won a test in Colombo and later the series. And our copy of The Hindu was at the doorstep even before I was up. Now, the series itself was good from an Indian fan stand point and the cricket was intense given the circumstances. The come from behind win in spite of missing both the openers mid way was heartening. As was the performance of the spinners, the openers and the fielders. The tail even wagged when it mattered. My only wish: drop Rohit Sharma and go with Che Pu instead. And I get this feeling that this team would be better served if they are aggressive in intent rather than behavior. But the magic was somehow...missing. Can't really pin point why. Oh and The Hindu? I continue to start reading the paper from the sports section even today although for an entirely different reason: to avoid actor Prabhu with his 3 chins jumping out from page 0 peddling jewelry.

The Avani Avittam reduction

As mentioned here, the fervor that once surrounded avani avittam in our house has all but evaporated. From a full blown man-festival replete with silk veshtis, ezhai kolams and meals with payasam in the nineties, avani avittam around the house has now become a mere ritual devoid of any fan fare. In 2008, in the wake of our mother's passing away, the three of us had donned our respective new poonals at different cities in India. In 2009, it was just me and appa going about the routine at home that day, while I doubled up as the cook too. Well, tripled up as the makeshift vadhyar too. If those were bad years, I think we hit rock bottom this year. Appa, unable to sit on the floor on account of a recent surgery, changed his poonal seated on a chair. In fact, he was wearing it after having been without one on medical advice! And this time, I didn't even try to put on my cook's hat. And so the post-poonal meal? Curd rice at Saravana Bhavan. Changed times, new reality.

The one bucket bath

Super: It's the super. We're installing new low-flow showerheads in all the bathrooms.

Morty: Low flow? I don't like the sound of that.

We are true T Nagar old timers what with our family calling the very heart of T Nagar, or Mambalam as it was known then, home since the early 1930s. In other words, we know water shortage. Ever since I was a kid, a half bucket of water was all that was allotted for the daily bath. Even was we moved to relatively water-rich locations across the city, water frugality as a habit has stayed with us. Things have changed with moving abroad and all. But this time, I went back to the bucket. No surprise that it is the most sensible thing to do anywhere in the world. Made me re-realize how much cleaning can be accomplished with under a bucket full of this precious commodity. 

Reminiscences of an India trip

The boxes have been unpacked and set aside. Jet lag is definitely on its way out. The snacks are half depleted and homesickness doesn't singe like it did a few days back. As the curtains come down on yet another holiday trip to the old country, there are myriad thoughts that come to mind. Here are a few of them in no particular order.

Three functions in the home and as many hospital visits. Two cities and two trips between them. Two lost cellphones. Plenty of housekeeping and walking the family politics tight rope. And a half a dozen temple visits woven into the already hectic schedule. If our vacations were movies, they would carry statutory warnings urging the general public from undertaking such activities.

Vacation - the misconception

Most people that I know take a vacation with the aim of relaxing. Taking a break from the daily grind. It needn't necessarily be a picturesque place with stunning scenery and a resort to kick your feet up. One could vacation in a godforsaken place like Ambur or Guntakkal, no personal animosity towards either of these two towns, and still emerge fully rejuvenated. The idea, I would imagine, is to not prepare a running list of action items and get into a race against the clock. But that is the routine for normal people. We do vacations slightly differently in our family - with a strong sadomasochist flavor. Imagine trying to run a marathon in 9.79 seconds. On barefoot. Even before the dates are finalized, there are at least two sets of diverging tasks with shuffling priorities. Once we arrive in India, a third and a fourth list with a dozen different items each, get added on. Long story short, by the time the day of the return flight dawns, there are compromises, unfinished tasks, missed chances and plenty of guilt to carry back home. 

Chennai - the city that was

A city that threatens to cut all remaining connections with its roots at breakneck speed. What are those roots? The answer depends on the individual. My attempt to define Chennai's roots would be a shamelessly nostalgic exercise by yet another caught-in-a-timewrap-NRI and so I won't do it here. But there seems to be a certain desperation to affix on its lapel the cosmopolitan city tag and lose its cultural/traditional identity in a hurry. If it pained me to see McDonald's, KFC and Subway outlets in Bangalore in 2013, I'm pissed beyond words to see KFC, Domino's and Papa John's at every street corner in Chennai. When there is absolutely nothing wrong with the idlies, vadais and pongals available at the bhavans and cafes.

Earlier (as in, when I was a kid, which was, sadly, many years ago), restaurants that served meat had special, unmistakable names: Colombia, Runs, Coronet, to name a few. The aroma (foul smell) from within the confines would be strong and just scanning the handwritten "Today's special" board at the entrance would give me shivers. The clientele would be mostly men. And those places invariably had a cigarette stall at the entrance that also sold beedas to the well fed patrons stepping out. Cut to 2015. Going by their sheer numbers now, I realize that meat consumption at restaurants must have risen exponentially and that such establishments have gained acceptance as family sppropriate places.

Busy, crowded malls, SUVs hogging available road space, late night shows running to packed houses at multiplexes, organic grocery stores and The Hindu that sells its front page to the highest bidder: this is a Chennai with a strange flavor to it that old timers may find hard getting used to.

Kalam - El Presidente par excellence

An ex-president whose passing away brought together people in a way not seen in recent history, transcending regional and religious identities. Flex boards bearing his face, a quote and a few words from the local folks popped up at every street corner in Chennai. It is difficult to imagine such a genuine show of love and respect for an individual without caste, cash or Dravidian party affiliations in Tamil Nadu. An inspiring story of a truly simple man that stood really tall among the politicians. It was also sad to see that it quickly went from a natural outpouring of respect to the "right" thing to do. Many commercial establishments jumped on to the Kalam-grief bandwagon and started placing the token Kalam picture by the entrance only to not be left out.

MTC - Pallavan in a new garb

Forget the brand new Chennai Metro. I took a ride in an MTC (the erstwhile Pallavan) bus. From Vadapalani to Adayar. In a throw back to the olden days, I boarded it not at a bus stop, but in running at a busy intersection. But I stuck out rather starkly from the regulars that day. And how! For starters, I was in shorts and a t-shirt - a definite give away that I was truly not a regular patron. I had in my hand a black helmet. Stuffed with sweets and savories from Gowri Shankar (Chennai's best wheat halwa and sonpapdi maker to date!) And I was clutching a pink ladies' purse on the other. And I misheard the fare as Rs. 70 and without batting an eyelid, handed the conductor a hundred rupee note when he had actually asked for Rs 17. So. Out. Of. Touch. The conductor now has a device for ticketing but still doesn't go to the passengers to issue tickets. Old wine in a new bottle anyone?

Mysore - the clean thorn in my flesh

This city, where from hails my wife, was announced as the cleanest in India's swachh Bharat campaign. People that made the announcement obviously didn't marry a dyed-in-the-wool Mysorean udugi. For someone that already had her nose in the air when it came to matters concerning general cleanliness and hygiene in public places between the two cities, this announcement making it official (across all of India) made her float on air. Oh the ribbing that I had to endure in both Mysore and Chennai! Especially when the train was just pulling into the northern outskirts of Chennai. Ouch! My only feeble come back? I could recharge my mobile internet dongle at 11:30pm in singara Chennai and not in heritage Mysuru. Aha!

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!