Deadlock Holiday

Discovering British Television

2010-09-15T11:27:00.000-07:00

The Hat-tip: When you feel like reviving a blog but have absolutely no material in mind, what do you do but borrow ideas from others' posts. Just as Swaroop's article on Rahman albums inspired a follow up on this blog, Soumithri's post on television has given me the incentive to write about my viewing experiences with British Television Shows.

The entry point for me dates back to 2007, while I was over at Ghanashyam Anna's place during my internship in Hyderabad. With not much else to do, I watched his DVDs of The Thin Blue Line and Only Fools and Horses, acquisitions from his days in the UK. TTBL, starring Rowan Atkinson, is a sitcom about the goings-on in a Police Station with some particularly hilarious banter between the officers and the CID detectives, while 'Only Fools..' takes us through the misadventures of two con-men, the Trotter brothers. I'm not really sure what drew me in, but it was refreshing to see Atkinson play someone other than Mr.Bean (he is ten times the actor when he actually opens his mouth), and the simple but well-executed plots in 'Only Fools..' had me hooked.

My curiosity aroused, I went back to other old shows I had paid little attention to when they had earlier been broadcast on STAR - Yes, Minister and Blackadder - and then started searching for something more contemporary. High-speed internet in the US turned out to be a godsend. Why British TV, you may ask? It belongs, as Soumithri says, in its own separate slot of awesomeness. It makes for viewing that is fundamentally different, if that's what one is looking for. I'm not going to suggest that it is better or worse than American Television; but since most couch potatoes around me agree that American shows (since they dominate the airwaves here) form the accepted 'template' for English-language programming, I shall use American TV as a basis for comparison.

To explain further, I give you one of my analogies: British TV is to its American counterpart what Tamil Cinema is to Bollywood. Many people who watch films in both Hindi and Tamil feel that, while Tamil Cinema lacks the glitz and polish of Bollywood and has a more low-budget feel, there is a grit factor and down-to-earthness about it which makes it more compelling at times. Its characters tend to be more everyman (or everywoman) than glossed-up. The experience of watching the US remake of The Office soon after seeing the original was a bit like watching Saathiya after Alaipayuthey. The US adaptation is a fine show in its own right but, when compared to the poignant, farcical world of the UK version with its quietly desperate inhabitants, seems a little watered-down; I know which one hits me harder.

There's also an 'out of the box' element to these shows which keeps me interested. They don't enjoy the sort of financial backing from networks which their American counterparts have, resulting in much smaller teams of producers and writers (and about 6 shows on average per series); but a relative lack of resources is often made up for with innovation. The Crystal Maze, which many of us who grew up in the 90s fondly remember, ran on a shoestring yet was a wholly enjoyable game show, especially with Richard O'Brien at the helm. In Q.I, which Soumithri also wrote about, Stephen Fry and the contestants elevate the world of quizzing and trivia to something, well, quite interesting. And there's the irreverent sitcom Coupling, which took the FRIENDS formula and turned it on its head.

The humour in Brit-coms can be fairly unsanitised. Sometimes this means they go to lengths which American shows won't, and sometimes it simply means the characters get to say "fuck" a lot. The Inbetweeners is an American Pie-esque adolescent comedy with a mean streak and rougher edges, and is quite watchable although it covers no new ground. British drama, on the other hand, can be refreshingly understated. Judge John Deed, whose reruns are being shown on the BBC Entertainment Channel here, is an intense courtroom show without the unnecessary trappings of Boston Legal, for example.

Of late, I've been a sucker for shows which try to incorporate realism through the single camera setup and by focusing on the mundane. The Office is the most obvious example. There's also the downbeat Outnumbered, which portrays the chaos in the lives of a couple having to deal with their three pesky, oversmart kids; it's funny in a low-key sort of way. My personal favourite is Peep Show, which I wrote about earlier. David Mitchell and Robert Webb make a brilliant comedic duo, and this is the show for those of us who tend to find ourselves thinking a bit too much. When I first saw it, I wanted to go to the nearest rooftop and shout about it to everyone I knew. These days, I look at it as a highly potent recreational drug, to be taken on occasion. Try it and let me know what you think.

It's not all solid gold though, and I've discovered a fair number of duds along the way. I'm often disappointed by the geek sitcom The IT Crowd; great concept, but poorly executed. Not Going Out, of which I caught a few episodes on BBC Entertainment, is heavy on bad puns and little else.

Of course, there are many sides to British Television I haven't explored - those panel shows which Soumithri mentioned, a number of interesting sounding sci-fi programmes, and sketch shows. And there are serials which tap into the country's deep reservoir of myths, legends and culture such as Merlin, Robin Hood, Jeeves and Wooster. The one I'm really looking forward to watching is the recent mini-series Sherlock, though I hope the positive reviews haven't set my expectations too high.

I've said enough. What have you been watching?

The Blogger's Dilemma

2010-05-04T23:11:00.000-07:00

Right. You haven't blogged in ages, you wonder why the little ideas for posts which once ran in your head simply refuse to take root. Probably just another case of writer's block, you think, only to remember you've been writing on cricket fairly regularly. Is this finally it, a state of semi-retirement in which you stick to writing about the stuff you know best?

But. A part of you wants to feel otherwise, to keep it going if only for the reassurance that you are indeed, still, a "Blogger". So you rummage through your head for possible topics, and lazily scan through the list of unfinished posts in the hope of seeing your link rise to the top of all those blogrolls by the end of the day. (Aside: "Blogroll" is "bogroll" with an added "L". I vote for a change in terminology.)

You straightaway zero in on a number of things you could pour derision on - religion, the city, the uncoordinated moves of IPL cheerleaders - and then decide that ranting is the last refuge of the frustrated. You're above all that now.

You come up with a general updates type post, detailing which book you started on the way to office, which friends you caught up with after X years, and how comfortably boring life is. You then realise that these updates are already plastered, in more concise form, all over Facebook and Twitter. You then remember you still haven't actually joined Twitter, and make a mental note to do so.

You start on this wacky story that's been brewing in your mind for a while now, in which you've casted your friends as these bizarre characters based on their individual quirks. It suddenly strikes you that the only people who'll get your story, don't read your blog.

You think perhaps you should try your hand at poetry, after all everybody seems to be dabbling in rubbish verse these days. This idea is aborted after five minutes when you've managed to come up with "'Twas a warm and sunny afternoon".

You excitedly start on a review-type post which describes how crazily addictive Peep Show is, or how Mark Knopfler's lyrics once made this deep impact on you, and then decide you're in no mood to "put shag" (as any IIT-M bloke would likely say).

So you finally settle for this vaguely existentialist post about your latest attempts at putting keys to editor, and predictably end up writing it in second person.

Burning Bright?

2010-02-11T21:50:00.000-08:00

(Taking the cue from Shom's post)

One of the (many) sobering things about this is, fifteen or even ten years ago such a statistic would have sent a chill up my spine; today, it almost comes across as just another piece of bad news.

Then, I would struggle with basic maths but could name practically each and every one of the designated Project Tiger Reserves. I would reel off "40,000 at the turn of the century, only 1800 in 1972, 4000 today", and not always be met with looks of recognition. I'd stay up late and trade the homework completion hour for watching Land of the Tiger on the BBC (the episodes of which are available online - do watch), or devouring Nirmal Ghosh's Jungle Life of India. There was much inspiration to found in the work of people like Billy Arjan Singh, Valmik Thapar, and Ullas Karanth - I missed a day of school once to attend a seminar conducted by Dr.Karanth. Where has the passion gone?

Several among us might have genuinely cared when we were young (and privileged?) enough to do so. The rat race soon beckoned, and we threw in our respective lots; we found a myriad of reasons to not head off the beaten track, and work towards landing a position from which we might be able to make a difference. Perhaps, as far as Project Tiger is concerned, this is where the plot was lost.

I'd like to believe the situation is redeemable, and this looks like a good place to start.

Of Time Mismanagement and Such

2010-02-08T09:43:00.000-08:00

There's this theory about life in graduate school I once read about (I can't recall the source I'm about to paraphrase here - PhD Comics?). Broadly speaking, there are three kinds of activities available to the grad student - working, partying and sleeping; however, the average student has only two degrees of freedom. To put it another way, time and energy constraints ensure that one can only go through grad school doing any two out of those three things.

While this is not absolute, it nevertheless rings true when I think back to my University days. I usually can't do without my eight hours of sleep a day, never mind which hours of the day they may be, and so my student life was largely a combination of stop-start slumber, and hours of work which proved just sufficient to stay afloat academically; any partying I might have hoped for was pretty much sacrificed as a result. The few occasions when grad school would bite me in the bum, were usually because of an untimely deviation from this routine - such as a sudden trip to the movies, or a visit to the bar when work needed to be done. Now, I did have my share of fun at University (even if there may be little photographic evidence of the same on my facebook profile), but not to the extent that it could significantly alter or affect the way things were going. If I had really utilised all that 'wasted' time on work instead, I might have marginally improved my GPA, and little else. In hindsight, I had quite a delicately balanced system in place.

An external condition, however, is all that is needed to upset such a balance. When the time came to turn my attention to a job search, and the preparations it involved, my system was thrown into chaos. If I sleepwalked my way through most of grad school, I ended it crossing a busy street on roller-skates during rush hour. I got my degree, but not the job I had been looking for.

The months of being without full-time work were initially a mixture of anxiety and relaxed resignation, for there's little you can do when the market is running on empty. Slowly, however, I found myself having to divide my time almost exclusively between the job hunt and sleeping; anything else seemed like a luxury, yet all that didn't stop me from indulging in what Krish Ashok aptly calls "focussed inactivity and alternative non-value-adding hobbies". The search, not surprisingly, hasn't ended. And now, back in Bangalore, I've volunteered to work for a startup to give myself something constructive to do on the side - effectively, an external condition.

I wonder how I might have dealt with this long spell of joblessness had it arrived, say, just after I was done with my undergraduate degree. Every move I made back then was somehow calibrated with the intention of not screwing up, which has ironically made me rather inertial now (Comfortably numb, but I'm trying to avoid Pink Floyd references!). Would it have been better to mess up earlier? I doubt I would have been preoccupied with pondering time management issues, at least. Anyway, now for some much needed shut-eye.

So you're an R.I? That don't impress me much..

2010-01-29T00:16:00.000-08:00

An oft-recited quip from the Big Joke Book of Desi stereotypes suggests that, the acronym NRI would be more accurate if it were to expand to "Non Returning Indian". By deciding to abort my job hunt in the U.S and return to Bangalore, I have done the unexpected and, it seems, the unthinkable; I'm one of that rare breed, the Returned Indian (R.I for short).

I've said goodbye to campus life as an international student, morning cereal and americano shots, apartment maintenance, credit ratings, impromptu discussions on status and work visas, late-night walks on empty streets, super-fast Internet speeds, online television streaming, access to fifty varieties of beer, on-call drinking buddies, taking complete cleanliness for granted, being complimented on my command over English, and stuffing myself on junk food out of necessity. I say hello once again to filling breakfasts and great coffee, having people in my face all day, my own full-fledged bed (yes), downloading without fear of the authorities, surreptitious drinking and eating-out, the bustle of the streets, impromptu discussions on politics and films (and being expected to have strong opinions on the same), and being rebuked for my appalling Tamil and Hindi.

The reactions of people around me over the last two months have made for some interesting observations. As an RI, that rare being, family members and the extended ones are likely to look upon you as the local zoo management might a white tiger; initially, a lot of fussing over this recent arrival who draws in the eagerly-awaiting crowd, but this soon gives way to puzzlement about how you turned out this way, different from the rest. Recessive gene or not, what went wrong?

Yet, the attitudes of family members (and whatever vested interests they may have in your career path) are much more predictable than those of people who (apparently) have less of a stake in you. When dealing with the 'rest' - close friends, mere acquaintances and assorted hangers-on - you, the RI, can likely expect the following:

1. You will be subjected to intense scrutiny by people who know you well, not least in the way you talk. The slightest change in your accent is all the invitation needed to spark off a confused-desi bashing thread, which is typically kept going in the following way: use a moderately biggish English word and it'll be attributed to the Americanization of you; sprinkle your speech with some colloquial slang, and you'll be accused of trying too hard to fit back in. It's heads-they-win-tails-the-joke's-on-you.

2. Having been abroad and expanded your horizons, that heady citizen-of-the-world feeling will disappear soon; you will be brought down to your home-turf with a resounding thud by those people who are just waiting to pop the question, "So, where do you feel you belong?", and enjoy a knowing smirk at the raw nerve they've touched. Nevertheless, you could rescue the situation by replying "The stretch from Anna Swamy Mudaliar Road up to Wheeler Road extension in Frazer Town, that would be it", showing them that you are not to be outdone in the business of being insular, either.

3. There are several contrasting initial reactions to be had from people meeting you for the first time, and learning of your return. Admiration, for example, typically comes from those who are about to (reluctantly) leave for the US or the UK themselves, and your 'bravery' is just the reassurance they need. There are those who will think you stupid for walking out on your chosen land-of-opportunity, but they'll store your email ID anyway in the hope of soliciting information when it's their turn to depart. You might encounter the odd armchair nationalist, who will reprimand you as soon as he hears the word "America". And, indifference is usually met with when trying to chat up that seemingly attractive someone, who could well be thinking "God please, get back to whereveritis you came from!"

4. The fixation with ordering mineral water "specially for him, he is US-return" wears off soon among people, but with toilet paper - that other great cultural differentiator which gets people inquisitive - it's another thing altogether. If (unlike me, I hasten to add) you're taking your time to acclimatize back to the Indian way, DO NOT let on that you still have rolls stocked up in your bathroom, unless you want to be the subject of much mirth as discussed in points 1 and 2. This being the 21st century, you could be entitled, however, to wonder out loud about an absence of a water-spray/hose-pipe. Just don't call it a health faucet!

It's great to be back.

Big Bend Camping..and More

2009-11-08T17:06:00.000-08:00

What do you do when you need respite from twelve crazy months of job hunting, interviewing and introspection? What do you do when you get fed up with turning to music, reading, blogging, TV shows and other forms of mental wankery for stimulation?

You get outdoors and do a load of stuff you've never tried before, that's what.

Around a month back, I joined Bulla, RK, Bakri and Raghu on a visit to Big Bend National Park in Southwest Texas. We were also able to fit in a visit to the McDonald observatory, and some spectacular underground caverns at Sonora.

We often come across lists titled Things to do before you turn thirty and the like, which are designed with a view to providing the reader with a reckoner for basic fulfillment. While the suggestions on 'things to do' may vary quite a bit across different compilations, it's probably fair to say I might have doubled my tally on the pre-thirty count of most lists. Some notable first-time experiences on this visit included:

1. Camping out in the wild. This was a campsite, but nothing more. No facilities. Nada. At the mercy of scorpions and snakes. I must add that it was quite a relief to be able to finish off with taking a dump in the Visitors' Center, and avoid having to do it woodland animal style.

2. Trekking through rugged, bear and lion infested, mountainous terrain. The fact that the beasts elected to stay away was well received (only in hindsight).

3. Swimming in a river; in this case, the Rio Grande. That this was a relatively slow-moving stretch, and that we used life-jackets, can be glossed over. This was great consolation for missing out on the canoeing. And, by swimming across and touching the cliff (to the left of the gorge in the pic), we were in contact with Mexico. After Wagha, this marked the second border I've been to.

4. Cooking in the wild. (As an aside, few things beat chai in the wilderness).

5. Going deeper underground and being among weird and wonderful cave formations.

In addition, there the 'star party' at McDonald, a visit to the old German settlement Fredericksburg, and some spectacular birdlife all around - warblers, bluejays, and the turkey vulture pictured below (who knew they existed?).

By the end of the trip, I had a new-found respect for the state of Texas. Being in the liberal student heartland, it was always tempting to think in terms of an Austin-versus-the-rest-of-the-state divide. The landscape magnificent and varied, and the people we encountered extraordinarily friendly and hospitable, contrary to what outsiders might imagine. If you're ever in Lone Star country, one word; explore.

Current Music: Collective Soul - Shine

Article on my Cricket Blog

2009-10-28T17:37:00.000-07:00

There's a new post up on my cricket blog. The only reason I'm linking it here is that it is essentially a follow-up to this old post, written over two years ago. Quite a few readers had opinions to share back then, so I'm hoping this will re-ignite some of those discussions.

I'm also looking at ending the posting drought on this blog very soon, and should have some new material up in the next couple of weeks.

Current Music: Lily Allen - The Fear

So 1995, So What?

2009-07-31T19:41:00.000-07:00

Ever find yourself infuriated by certain words or phrases? The kind whose usage in everyday conversation is often enough to trigger an explosion in your head? Lately, I've discovered that putting a contemporary spin or contextual twist on an otherwise innocuous word is sufficient to drive me nuts. Take, for example, the Americanism "sweet" (to be rolled off the tongue "sweeeet", in order to convey vehement approval), as made famous by this scene from Dude Where's my Car?. Then there's "not" - as in the 'not' jokes, suitably parodied in Borat. The effect of such usage is to not merely chip away at your nerves, but also numb your senses to the extent that you find yourself using those very words.

The latest word to get my goat is "so", used in conjunction with a specific period in time, in such a manner as to ascribe datedness to something. Sample: "You still own a discman? That is so 1999, man!" Or, "Multi-cuisine restaurants are so 1994." And even, "Those clothes are so, like, yesterday" ('Like'? The list is growing). Being an unabashed nostalgic and often prone to living in the past, my annoyance at this currently-in-vogue expression isn't all that surprising.

Perhaps I should take a leaf out of Krish Ashok's book - or a line from his blog, at any rate: "Ranting...is so Blogosphere circa 2003".

Current Music: Therapy? - Bad Karma follows you around

Skin deep

2009-07-14T18:42:00.000-07:00

During one of my visits to the Bay Area, I chanced upon a copy of the Desi Tribune. As the name suggests, it turned out to be a regional daily catering specifically to California's large Indian population, with an accent on the latest news from back home. It read like an issue of Deccan Chronicle, or the Bangalore Times - poor standards of writing and editing, more information about the lives of b-list celebrities than you'd normally bargain for, and providing some comic relief all the same. That day's issue carried an article about actress Anjana Sukhani, and focused on her statement that she would consider wearing a bikini on screen only if "the role required it". This got me thinking (which is just what you're supposed to do when confronted with material of this sort, right?) about how the bikini has seemingly caused everyone in Bollywood and the audience to re-examine their sensibilities, and has provided so much fodder for the media to fill up print-space and airtime. We've come to the point where actresses, fully aware that displays of bare flesh are likely to have them pigeonholed, must insist that they will be taking up "only serious roles" in the future, if only to reaffirm their acting credentials. It comes with being subject to our society's ultra-high standards.

What has me intrigued, however, is that I seem to remember the likes of Zeenat Aman, Sharmila Tagore, Parveen Babi and Dimple Kapadia (among others) appearing on screen in skimpy swimwear back in the day. How come their credibility doesn't appear to have suffered for it? How come those images have aged gracefully into culthood, as opposed to the notoriety which seems to accompany the ones of today? How come today's heroines have such a big cross to bear, and must resort to the will-wear-if-role-demands-it line when asked about it? Or was it a similar story in the 70s and, belonging to a different era, we'll simply never know about the controversy generated then which might have faded over time? Pop-culture theorists and film junkies, feel free to unleash your greater wisdom on me.

Current Music: Crowded House - Don't dream it's over

Federer's feat

2009-06-21T11:38:00.000-07:00

Two Sundays ago, Roger Federer's much-awaited win at French Open was a bit of an epiphany in a couple of ways. It served to demonstrate the unifying force that tennis on television has become, in our family; everyone had been glued to the set, eagerly willing on King Roger. I suppose this could be put down to the major events coming along only once in a while, keeping the sport fresh in our collective consciousness, without overkill. And, since it is largely an individual affair, personalities are illuminated all the more in a way they aren't in most team sports.

I was also overpowered by the way Fed had captured everyone's imagination. Has there ever been a more popular champion of our times? When I think of the major sporting heroes over the last decade or so - Michael Jordan, the Williams sisters, Tiger Woods, the Australian cricket team, Michael Schumacher - celebrated they may be, but they've tended to polarise people. The kind of feeling Federer has inspired in us is miles away from the cloying hero-worship one might associate with an Indian cricketer or an actor. Among the onlookers, there were a few who suggested that despite this incredible feat of conquering clay, his bogey surface, the one tag which will always accompany the victory is the absence of his nemesis - Rafael Nadal. But to claim that this triumph is a tainted one is rather unreasonable. Can we really attribute Steffi Graf's domination in the mid-90s to the stabbing of Monica Seles, or indeed the rise of the Williamses to Martina Hingis' injuries and personal problems? Let's just take the best these players have given us, shall we? The history books don't lie.

In a post on my Cricket Blog, I examined the nature of our attitudes toward underdogs and theorised that most of us (Indian fans, anyway) would willingly support an underdog who exudes spirit and gallantry, but not so much one given to stagefright or mental weakness. In tennis terms, I suppose it might explain why a Pat Rafter's Wimbledon near-misses are remembered with much fondness, while a Tim Henman is left to our afterthoughts. But, there is another kind of "underdog" we willingly give our hearts to; the the oldie who is a shadow of his past, yet battles the odds in attempting to do it one last time. Every Indian fan will fondly remember Steve Waugh's final rearguard innings of 80 at the SCG, even though India couldn't force the win. Tennis has thrown up many such examples - Ken Rosewall, trying in vain to win that elusive Wimbledon title as a 42-year old, and the returning Steffi Graf putting Martina Hingis in her place during the French Open final in 1999 for one last title.

Although he is far from finished, I have a suspicion that Federer's Paris sojourn inspired similar emotions. People feared that he might be over the hill, and I personally wondered whether those five setters against Haas and Del Potro might not have drained him both physically and mentally. I vividly recall the case of Pete Sampras in the 1996 French Open, when three five-setters against the likes of Sergei Bruguera, Todd Martin and Jim Courier had taken so much out of him that the eventual winner Kafelnikov swept him aside in the semis. Not so with Fed in 2009, but all along, supporters were just that little bit scared for him. As it turned out, he adapted beautifully, using his serve and often exploiting his opponents' relative weakness at the net to good effect.

Federer's chance to move to fifteen Grand Slam titles adds a compelling edge to this year's Wimbledon (Nadal fans are having it real bad at the moment, aren't they?). It will be particularly interesting to see the challenge posed by Andy Murray - perhaps the Kevin Pietersen of tennis - who is widely tipped to be the main threat to a record-breaker. In the meantime, I'll remember the French 2009 not so much for all the history-making, but for Fed's ability to have enthralled us all collectively. It was no mean feat.

Current Music: Patrick O'Hearn - Homeward Bound

Keeping it Weird

2009-06-03T09:16:00.000-07:00

I suppose I should have written this post a lot earlier, given that I left the city of Austin four months ago. I just didn't want to succumb to the general feeling you get upon leaving a place you've resided in for a long while, and come up with a predictably gushing post straightaway. I wanted to immerse myself in new surroundings, and let time and space provide some perspective. Well, they certainly have; I realise I miss Austin like hell.

I'm glad I spent the last two-and-a-half years studying in Austin, as opposed to a big city like New York or Chicago; I can't imagine a place being more tolerant of a slacker like me (in no way did that tolerance extend to my program of study, though). If anything, it was a bit too much like Bangalore. Being forced to live in a chaotic metropolis might have been better for me in terms of building up survival skills and street-smartness, but I'm not a believer in getting outside your comfort zone if you can help it. If circumstances were to dictate that I remain in the US for a long time - and I hope they don't - I would still rather live in ATX than anywhere else.

In Mohsin Hamid's book The Reluctant Fundamentalist, the Pakistani student protagonist sums up his feelings for New york thus: "I was, in four and a half years, never an American; I was immediately a New Yorker." I suppose I could talk about Austin in similar terms. For example, once when I was in the elevator of the Music Department, humming a classical piece I had just heard, the person just beside me asked me what tune it was and engaged me in a discussion - it was that sort of place.

The Highlights:

A great bunch of 'seniors' who helped us settle in during the first month. Besides going out of their way to help, they made excellent company which was just as well because I somehow never hit it off too well with the people who came in at the same time as me.

The incredibly good public transport system. Being a student I could get anywhere at almost any time of the day for free. It allowed me to get away with being too lazy to acquire a driver's license here.

Zilker Park and Barton Springs, though I didn't go there too often. Particularly memorable were the 4th of July fireworks and the Trail of lights festival.

Being part of the Acoustics Track in my graduate program, which meant belonging to a small but closely-knit community within the Department. Really nice people and some extremely good profs made those Friday Technical Seminars and occasional study sessions good fun. It's a pity I couldn't go on to do a PhD there, but I knew i wasn't cut out for it.

Dr.Wilson's microphone-twirling imitation of Roger Daltrey on the last day of the Transducers class.

Eve and the rest of the crowd at Antone's Record shop, who contributed generously to my cassette collection. Also, getting to watch Eve and the Exiles perform live at the store.

The visits to Half Price Books.

The Monday Jazz nights at Ming's. The food at Ming's deserves a mention too - they do such amazing things with eggplant/brinjal, I think I may have finally overcome my dislike of kathrikai curry and baingan bharta.

The nights spent playing RISK with the Blackstone gang, and later Ticket to Ride and other games with another crowd. My interest in Board Games has been rekindled.

Watching the urban Bat Colony emerge from under the avenue bridge at dusk.

Going to my first football game and cheering the Longhorns in the forty degree heat of September. And otherwise, encountering the legions of football fans decked out in burnt orange, either on their way to the game or setting up barbecues on the University lawns, on any given Saturday.

Hanging out with the Red River gang, jamming way into the night, singing rubbish and even playing the keys after a long time. They even got a strong warning for playing too loud one night!

My stint as the teaching Assistant for the Physics lab. Not only was it a great (and well-paying) job which made me revisit physics in a enjoyable way, it also got me acquainted with many American Undergrads whom I wouldn't have encountered otherwise.

Some of my students dedicating a song to me, to be sung to the tune of Afroman's Because I got high (The chorus went "Because of Suhas, because of Suhas). Too much!

The administrative staff at the Department. who were extremely helpful in dealing with the problems related to academia or paperwork.

My (retired) graduate advisor who was totally flexible with letting me decide what courses to take. I used to see him jogging around campus and was amazed how a person his age could keep himself so fit.

Driving through Barton Hills, with its stunning scenery and the occasional deer crossing our path.

Trivia nights at those Irish Pubs, and the other beer joints we frequented.

Trudy's, particularly for their seemingly bottomless Mexican Martini.

Roaming the crowded 6th on Friday nights, watching scores of undergrads getting drunk and acting silly.

Having Dr.Lo staying with us for two months. Among other things, he showed me how to eat with chopsticks.

The novelty of sitting down to a "no-holds-barred" exam, where we were allowed to bring in anything, even laptops!

The moment last year's election results were announced. I was on campus getting some work done at the time, when a bunch of liberally-inclined (and presumably inebriated) sorority girls nearby broke into a loud song whose chorus went "Obama! Obama!".

Watching all those indie-movies with Bulla and gang at the South by Southwest festival, which even featured live appearances by the cast and director themselves.

And a few regrets:

Not having made more effort to meet up or keep in touch with certain people.

Not taking the opportunity to learn something different, like kayaking or salsa or a new language, given the number of classes available in the Union.

Not making the effort to visit the Austin zoo.

Not visiting a typical Texan barbecue spot, such as Rudy's or the Salt Lick. With most of my friend-circle there being vegetarian, this was never really on the cards.

Not being able to catch Austin City Limits even once.

Intellectual Property closing down.

Not being able to further extend my stay at the University through the recession.

Not being able to land a job in Austin!

Current Music: Shakti - Lady L

The BIOTE Diaries: Exit Hamster

2009-05-24T22:37:00.000-07:00

With his rounded apple-cheeks and squeaky giggle, and his penchant for spewing technical gibberish, the Hamster proved to be a real cartoon; a cross between a Hanna-Barbera character and an IT geek. I (secretly) gave him the moniker partly because of his rodent-like appearance and mannerisms, and partly after a similarly annoying insider who followed the Australian team around in Tim May's book, Mayhem. Heaven knows why he decided to temporarily leave the Indian office and seek a project from the Sacramento center, given the barren nature of the job scene here. He arrived here a month-and-a-half ago, five years of work experience under his belt, having never lived away from home before. Being familiar with the bouts of homesickness and sudden helplessness which us mollycoddled Indian bachelors face when confronted with alien surroundings, we did our best to set him at ease and help him with the initial adjustments.

As early as on the third day from his arrival, the Hamster gave us an indication that he was all set to make a royal pest of himself. In this previous post, I talked about the stove-cleaning incident in the apartment which left me completely bemused. Let's just say as soon as his eyes fell upon the stove covered with the imprints of spluttering oil and gravy, the Hamster saw an attention-grabbing opportunity. Summoning up all of his whistle-blowing intent with the enthusiasm of an eighth-standard teacher's pet, he promptly complained to the office guest house coordinator of the same and earned us a reprimand. Well, I suppose we had it coming, but still..

Despite all the homesickness, the fairly orderly nature of the house meant that he became a little too comfortable, not lifting a finger to help with the cooking or cleaning. Over time, he would demonstrate previously unseen levels of tight-fistedness, seemingly believing in high thinking, simple living and maximum scavenging - but taking the last two much more seriously. He appeared to be a storehouse of technical knowledge, meticulously poring over books and numerous pdf files, and claiming mastery over several technologies on his three-page resume. He also seemed to think it was his duty to share his infinite knowledge and resources for the betterment of mankind, and subjected us to the same. Now this wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing, when you consider his standing as an experienced pro and our state of being struggling engineers on the look out for adequate jobs. The problem was, our man's enthusiasm was greatly in excess of his ability to put across ideas. In his almost embarrasing excitement at dispensing advice, he often got way ahead of himself - whenever he spoke, his brain-mouth coordination seemed to disappear in a flash, and he ended up being plain incoherent. On most nights upon our return from the office, he would unwittingly excite the tinge of regionalism in two of my roomies, with whom he shared a common language. Typically, they would switch to the online stream of the regional channel's Election 2009 coverage, yak excitedly about the manifestos of the local politicians, and eventually drag us all into a their-state-versus-rest-of-India debate. The upshot of all this was, not only did it prevent the rest of us from crashing immediately after a long day's work (much to our chagrin), it elicited several complaints from the neighbours directly a floor below - whom we had successfully managed to antagonise earlier through the ill-advised move of playing cricket in the corridor.

He was as insufferable in the office as in the apartment, apple-polishing the associates whenever possible. During the classroom sessions he attended along with us, he displayed the peculiar habit of giving off a stifled laugh - sort of like the snickering of Muttley - upon hearing a random word, for no apparent reason. For example:

INSTRUCTOR: Struts is a widely used framework...
HAMSTER: Framework ehh heh eh heh
INSTRUCTOR: ...which you might find confusing initially..
HAMSTER: Confusing ehh heh ehh eh

If this scene were a cartoon strip, you'd have thought balloons with the word "spastic" floating over most of our heads. Eventually, he seemed to single me out for special treatment. I suddenly became the focus of his gyaan-giving trips, with him stopping about twenty times a day to peer over me working at my laptop, and professing advice on how do it differently. As I said earlier, he probably had only the best intentions, but somehow ended up sounding like Donald Duck on crack. Unfortunately one day, he happened to ask me a couple of questions after a particular session during which I had completely switched off, and came to the conclusion that I was suffering from attention deficiency syndrome and needed help. More gyaan from his end, then. In every ensuing session, he would suddenly turn to me with a weird smile on his face, one that seemed to say "So how's the concentration thingy coming along?", as well as "Got you by the balls!" at once. At this point, I decided I was having enough, and something had to give. I remembered Tim May's words, "Alcohol is the solution", and decided I needed to apply the same to this problem at hand. What could I do, get him drunk before a session to sedate him? Nah, not plausible, he'd probably end up talking all the more. Give him a round of straight talking? Probably wouldn't get through his thick skull. When and how would we get rid of him?

Two of the other roomies ended up solving the issue for me, bless them. I earlier whined about their stinginess and their obsession with keeping accounts to the last detail; but on reflection, managing accounts and expenditure for the entire lot is a thankless task and requires much focus and bloody-mindedness, and for that they deserved credit. Unknown to us, they got into some sort of a bitter argument with Hamster, ironic given the amount of Election revelry they had been indulging in together over the last month. They claimed that Hamster was unwilling to pay up his dues for the month, because he was unhappy with some of the items he was being made to pay for. Hamster told us instead they were coercing him to pay for the petrol/gas, which we had initially agreed would not be split even, and was adamant they were out to fleece him. The roomies then revealed that we had only recently revised the agreement on the petrol (apparently, I was not around at the time), and Hamster was trying to get off cheaply. Whatever breakdown in communication had transpired, the rest of us were being kept in the dark and simply decided to let the dispute stay between them. A few days later, Hamster got a call from a friend in town saying he would be away for a few months and subletting his apartment; he jumped at the opportunity of being able to use his friend's home, and was gone in the blink of an eye. He also announced he would be working from home for a long while, so we wouldn't be seeing him at office. A little later, I was soaking up a stiff drink and the sudden peaceful feeling which seemed to have engulfed the apartment.

Current Music: Coldplay - Viva La Vida

Don't Become a Techie: Reason #47

2009-05-04T17:59:00.000-07:00

A relative who works at Intuit Inc., Mountain View, told me of Wipro chairman Azim Premji giving a talk at their California headquarters recently. One of the issues he had apparently touched upon was that of Indians returning from the US, which naturally got me very interested considering, like Yossarian stuck in Pianosa, I've always been hell bent on eventually returning to my home country only to find some 22 potential catches acting as obstacles in my path. In a thinly-veiled fit of nationalism, he commented that US-returnees were "cultural misfits" in the Indian corporate environment, and thus better off working in America which affords them the sort of work culture they might have grown accustomed to in the recent past. He added that Wipro would soon stop recruiting these kinds of applicants for Indian offices and post them in the US, where they belonged, instead. He cited the number of such people who were only too happy to get back to the US after a returning stint in India as justification. (It's difficult to escape the feeling that the translation might read: "Indian IT professionals are a largely one-dimensional lot, given to doing as they're told without really questioning everything around them, making them a manager's delight. Having US-returnees, with their revised expectations and their newly-acquired notions of voicing opinions, of being treated on par with their seniors in the workplace - not to mention their ridiculous salary demands - would be a hindrance to the conveniently implicit, understood hierarchical system prevalent in corporate India".)

If this is a common perception, consider an observation which anyone who's worked with a major IT firm such as Infosys, TCS, Wipro, or Cognizant will attest to. Such companies, whose customer base is largely made up of American clients, are extremely conscious of the image they project overseas; one of their major concerns is that many of their employees may be a liability when it comes to the art of schmoozing with foreign client representatives. They spend substantial amounts of time and money on holding training programs which deal with the "soft skills" aspect, covering everything from US workplace lingo and warnings about chatting with your co-workers in a regional language, to table-manners and fork-and-knife etiquette. So, us wannabe returnees will supposedly have a tough time fitting in with those who are preoccupied with trying to fit in.

Rich!

Current Music: Tiger Army - Through the Darkness

Rahman's Fab Five: Redux

2009-04-28T16:20:00.000-07:00

I've shamelessly decided to piggyback on Swaroop's post, Rahman's Fab Five, and compile my own list. I did plan on putting up a Rahman-centric post on more than one occasion, but was too lazy to get down to it. So it seems Swaroop's list has provided me with an excuse to finally indulge and get this out of the way.

While I often claim to be an albums-and-not-singles kind of listener, my approach to music records is rather basal, focusing more on nostalgic value and spur-of-the-moment-feeling. Since I won't be able to dissect Rahman's albums with the same artfulness as Swaroop, my choices are perhaps more a reflection of the raw emotion and memories they bring with them. I grew up on a steady diet of Rahman's music through the 90s, but after the turn of the decade I tended to miss out on some of his later masterpieces. This can be put down to the fact that, from the end of school up till around the third year of college, I went through a phase where I thought of myself as a proper metalhead and was surrounded by peers whose musical philosophy was of the "louder the better" variety. Rahman was never far away however, and my renewed interest over the years has been rewarding. The post-2000 stuff also offers plenty from his catalog waiting to be discovered by me, definitely something to look forward to.

Again, this is not an all-time top five list, which is why Roja and Thiruda Thiruda don't figure in it. Rather, it is a loosely-chosen list of albums which perhaps best represent the spark that Rahman's music has time and again provided to the otherwise mundane process of getting on with life.

1. Rang De Basanti: While it is by no means one of Rahman's stronger efforts, I associate RDB with some really good times. Like the first half of the movie, it has a freshness about it that refuses to go away, and every song is an earworm. There was a trip to Kochi with friends in early 2006, during which the title track was played relentlessly, and it has since been stuck in my head. It was quite a masterstroke to get Daler Mehndi to sing it, briefly putting everyone's favourite Punjab da Puttar back on the charts. There's the delightfully cheesy Lose Control/ Pathashala, filled with mindless lyrics. Lukka Chuppi was a song which grew on me thanks to my Austin roommate who listened to it on repeat; Lata and ARR's interlocking verses are a treat, as is the lilting melody of Tu Bin Bataye. Roobaroo, however, stood out for me because it somehow managed to legitimise the ridiculous climax of the movie when I saw it for the first time; the fact that a simple tune (with the acoustic guitar providing a nice touch) was able provide this kind of uplift to a movie was simply the work of a genius. Overall, this is the sort of effort which ARR could probably have come up with in his sleep, but what the hell, it's all good.

2. Kaadhalan: There are two abiding memories of my vacation in Madras during the winter of 1994 - watching Shane Warne spin his web of magic around the Englishmen (particularly this hat-trick at the MCG) on the telly, and listening to the neighbourhood boys discussing the vagaries of the lyrics from the Kaadhalan OST, especially the superhits Urvasi and Muqabala. Now, this album is possibly the best example of how dubbing Tamil music into Hindi loses much of the sting of the original. The Hindi equivalent has not aged well, and many 'Northie' friends have pointed out that the lyrics are nonsense. Indeed, my clueless 11-year old self could not figure out why an adolescent might get a kick out of irritating a girl with lines like "Oosi pola odambirunda thevayille pharmacy". The bottom line is that such music was not conceived with the intention of fitting into the Bollywood scheme of things, and as a result is much more enjoyable when taken in its original context. Anyhow, this soundtrack is really diverse and contains barely any filler; there's the beautiful, sensitively crafted Ennavale, the earthy Erani Kuradhani (Gopala), the eminently hummable Kadhalikum Pennin, and of course that hilarious ode to Madras Bashai, Pettai Rap. The album sure is one hell of a wicked ride.

3. Rangeela: Talk about a seamless transition. Rahman's first original score in Hindi is chock-full of dependable delights. I'll remember this one in particular because a relative handed me the tape long before the songs were ingrained in public consciousness, with the words "Listen to this. This is going to be the next big thing." In what must have seemed like an unlikely arrangement at the time, Asha Bhonsle does the playback for 21-year old Urmila Matdonkar in Tanha Tanha quite stunningly. Asha also features on the infectious Rangeela Re, while Udit Narayan shines on Yaaro Sun Lo Zara, and Kya Kare ya na Kare. My personal favourite, however, is Mangta Hai Kya, with its pulsating, tense buildup and agitated percussion before Shweta Shetty's seductive vocal takes over. Indeed, just as he resurrected Daler Mehndi with RDB, Rahman provides Ms.Shetty with probably the high point of her career. Who would have thought she was capable of hitting those high notes?

4. Bombay: So distressed were we when Kuchi Kuchi Rakamma displaced Didi Tera from its long-standing no.1 spot on the Satish Shah-hosted countdown show Philips Top Ten, we actually wanted to get everyone in the building to sign a petition asking Zee Telefilms for a reversal (In retrospect, WTF were we thinking?). Rahman won out, and the gain was mine as I slowly got exposed to some of the best music I had ever heard. Bombay is one of those albums from which it's just impossible to single out a favourite tune. Kannalane, brilliantly sung by KS Chithra, haunts me every time I listen to it. Humma sounds equally awesome in Hindi and Tamil, Uyire is the album's moment of tenderness, and the Bombay Theme is simply one of the best instrumentals ever. Of late, I've been hooked onto Poovukku Enna (the "Halla Gulla" song), which previously used to annoy the crap out of me. All of a sudden, amidst a bassline which lends a sense of irreverence to the song, the yelling of those kids seems to bring out the..er..kid in me.

5. Indian/Hindustani: Indian occupies a strange, almost latent position in the Rahman catalog. I mean, ask a person to name as many Rahman albums as he can remember and the chances are Indian would figure very late in the list, if at all; but play him Akadanu Naanga and suddenly the memories start flooding back. I'll remember it for some of the most bouncy, energetic tunes ARR ever composed. Among them, Maya Machindram and Telephone Manipol, the latter featuring some memorable vocal work from the teenaged Harini. There's also the sedate and heartwarming Pachai Kiligal , sung by Yesudas.

Phew, that took some effort. Now if you'll excuse me, I have fifteen years' worth of music to catch up on.

Current Music: Thiruda Thiruda - Putham Pudu Boomi

Don't Give a Peep

2009-04-22T23:19:00.000-07:00

This has been a particularly unproductive week, and for that I can blame Television all over again. I've stumbled upon this funny British sitcom and have been hooked for a while now. I've been mostly out of the TV game for the last few years, and generally watch only on recommendation. After watching the first few episodes, I found myself wondering how no one ever told me about Peep Show, given that it's five seasons old. Then again, accidental discoveries are the most memorable ones, so whenever I hear people talk about this show I can feel quietly smug about my nose for good TV programming.

Peep Show gets its name from the fact that the two main characters' lives are seen mostly from their own points of view, as though the camera were held in their hand all along. We get to hear their thoughts when the scene shifts to their individual POV. The premise is fairly simple; it follows the misadventures of two loser roommates, Mark and Jeremy (played by comedic duo David Mitchell and Robert Webb respectively), in their mostly futile attempts toward gaining social acceptance and wooing the women in their lives. They're essentially two ordinary blokes to whom weird things happen. Suitably, they are a study in contrast. Imagine George Constanza as a history nerd with even lower levels of self-esteem, and Joey Tribbiani as a desperate slacker with a nasty streak, and you'll get an idea...ah forget it. No point in trying to form analogies with other sitcoms, just watch and find out. They're well supported by a stellar set of characters. Among them, Sophie, co-worker and the object of Mark's confused affections; Super Hans, Jeremy's band-mate and fellow crack-addict; Johnson, Mark's smooth-talking boss; and Nancy, the American girl briefly married to Jeremy for visa purposes.

One thing I've always liked about British sitcoms - and Peep Show is no exception in this regard - is that even when they're flinging the most obvious jokes or predictable plot developments in your face, they manage to make you laugh out loud all the same. That comes with ace dialogue delivery and acting backed up by a razor-sharp script. Consider the scene in the office where Mark has managed to find the password to Sophie's email account. He's surfing through her inbox, and you know what's going to happen next; Sophie appears and catches him in the act. But it's all executed so brilliantly, you can't help but guffaw. And, rather than providing the characters with catchphrases, the creators seem to have hit upon an endless supply of memorable oneliners.

Where Peep Show really sets itself apart is the boldly obnoxious nature of its content - it relies on what many reviewers like to call the "cringe factor". It's all very bleak and cynical, and the fact that the main characters often come across as first-class jerks with little scope for self-betterment means it won't appeal to everybody. It still manages to be very realistic; I mean, you find yourself empathising with their problems but can't approve or sympathise with their actions. The situational humour revolves mostly around sex, drugs, liberal use of profanities, misanthropy, anger management and still more sex, pushing it firmly into 'adult' territory. That has probably denied it airtime on mainstream television, though I'm guessing it might have become a sensation in Britain by now (it is apparently selling very well on DVD). While it's true that shows like South Park and Family Guy are also characterised by offensive humour, they make full use of the cartoon medium to realise their ends. Peep Show, on the other hand, does not deal in escapism or shock value. It has a natural feel to it, switching scenes effortlessly back and forth, and ends up being (perversely) believable.

It's a pity each season is just six episodes long; every episode leaves me asking for more. Catch it online if you can, for it'll save you the trouble of having to look far and wide for the DVDs. I know I'll be buying them eventually.

Current Music: Alice Cooper - No More Mr.Nice Guy

The BIOTE Diaries: Down in a Dump

2009-04-11T17:58:00.000-07:00

It's a really good thing this apartment complex has a 24-hour gym on the premises. It provides a reassuring and necessary constant to the daily grind, but being just about the only place for miles which stays open later then 10 P.M, there was never much of a choice when it came to looking for things to do here. The other night, after a long spell of steady rain, I was making my way to the gym as usual after work when I was greeted by a weird, almost surreal sight. I walked along the extremely narrow footpath, flanked by a garden on either side, and noticed that the thousands of resident snails had crawled out onto the path, leaving me precious little space to actually walk to the gym entrance. I had move forth on tiptoe to avoid stepping on them, and felt as if I was in Commander Keen, that old 2-D PC game in which the hero dodges poison slugs by jumping or using a pogo stick. It was a funny feeling, coming as it did in the middle of one of the more sordid concrete wastelands of suburban California.

Life indoors has been less memorable lately. It sucks having to remain in office till late, given that we've already missed a few of the pizza parties and bingo nights that keep happening in the building. While I've grown used to spending time by myself and even being cocooned if necessary, I'd at least like to be able to meet some people here. The University often kept me equally busy, but there were still places to go whenever you wanted to step out, back then. I'm getting a little fatigued with all this talk of H1-B visa processing, amazing job offers which some lucky souls have managed to snap up, requisite skill-sets on resumes, and engineers harbouring nothing but wet dreams of six-figure salaries in this country. Quite often, it's the little things that grate on your mind and it's all you can to do to laugh them off. The visa applications have been delegated to the India office, and the communication levels from their end have been insufficient (to put it mildly), resulting in a string of laughably pointless mails to and fro. Anyway, I'm trying to channel all this annoyance into planning my escape from this industry. Why is it that the monetary rewards of career paths seem to be in inverse proportion to how mentally stimulating they actually are?

Current Music: Avial - Nada Nada

The BIOTE Diaries: Beating the Bookstore

2009-03-29T21:42:00.000-07:00

You know it's the start of a new semester at the University of Texas at Austin when you hear a certain clamour on Guadalupe St., known locally as The Drag. Students throng the stores on the Drag near campus, hastily stocking up for the new term, which means having to buy a whole new set of books. Make no mistake, books are expensive here, and that goes double for textbooks. Naturally, a bunch of places have sprung up where you can get your stuff secondhand or at a reasonable discount, among them a place called Beat the Bookstore. But "Beat the Bookstore" is no longer just the name of a store, it is now an unofficial motto of UT students, a philosophy. And this philosophy has trickled down to the issue of shopping at general bookstores, the ones which cater to the needs of Literature and History majors (among others), and book-browsers like me. But the situation only became clear to me during my final week as a resident of Austin, Texas. It felt like the end of an era in more ways than one.

On a Tuesday that week, around the same time I came to hear of Premier Bookshop's impending closure - and I like to believe this was more than mere coincidence - I was walking down the Drag when I saw the sign, a sign that the economic crisis was having its effect right in front of my eyes; the University had decided its main bookstore was dispensable, and would be closing it down soon. I stood in front of Intellectual Property, the place where I had spent many a leisurely hour over the past couple of years, and slowly read the announcement that they were discounting their entire stock by a sizable amount, before closing for good in a month's time. I duly rushed in to pick up one last title from there. On the Road (Jack Kerouac), which had in fact been recommended to me years ago, was unavailable, so I settled for Crash by J.G Ballard, at a reasonable 40 percent off.

To those Bangaloreans who swear by smaller places like Premier, Blossom, Bookworm and their ilk, the picture of IP above probably suggests that it was just another big corporate establishment with all the trappings, but devoid of any soul. The reality was way different; compared to glitzy monstrosities such as Borders or Barnes and Noble, IP was positively quaint. It combined the proprietary helpfulness of Premier with the immaculate arrangement of Sankar's, and the interiors were simple yet inviting. If you look closely at the pic, you'll notice a narrow long blackboard above the shelves running the length of the walls; this was typically decorated with quotations from literary figures, inscribed in chalk. Best of all, it was a peaceful place staffed by ever-smiling book enthusiasts who didn't mind if you hung around and flipped pages indefinitely. They had an excellent catalog, and although their books were first-hand and therefore priced accordingly, discounts were common. They featured a neat bestsellers' section which was regularly discounted by 30 percent; it got me acquainted with a range of titles which often left me bookshelf-dreaming, if nothing else.

Why did they close down? After all, every big University needs a decent bookstore, and this was located in a prime area teeming with potential clients. A friend of mine came up with an interesting theory, one which Malcolm Gladwell might have approved of. He observed that, with the door being perpetually open and the windows wide and big, thus allowing the sunlight to come in, as a casual browser or potential customer you had a constant view of the crowded outside world; you were thus compelled to leave sooner than you normally would. The interior of a bookstore should be designed to keep the customer's attention focused solely on the books, and that means paying more attention to little visual details. The same open-view-of-the-street was true of Premier as well, but that place had a fiercely loyal clientele which kept it on life support for about two years after the end of the road had been reached; perhaps IP's customer base was more fickle. As I made my final purchase, I had a quick chat with Dara, one of the staff whom I'd come to know over my regular visits to the store. She had some interesting insights to offer on the predicament of the friendly neighbourhood bookstore:

"You see, bookstores like ours operate on very small margins. We compete with the bigger chains as well as the downright secondhand places, and in our case we even had to supplement the income generated from books by including a Computer Products section. In hindsight that was a bad idea, because you already have a computer store on campus which fulfills the needs of the very customers we were hoping to attract. Perhaps we could have worked on the interiors and the arrangement a little, like having a properly organised History section to target specific UT majors. Our location also worked against us, there's no parking for miles in this crowded campus area. Of course college kids mostly don't read as much as they used to...that was pretty evident from the declining number of sit-in-readers we had over the last year. But I would say the biggest threat to our business is the emergence of the online bookstore. Now that people are getting everything they need cheap at Amazon, why would they bother with a place like this?"

There was a sense of calm acceptance in her voice, which betrayed only the slightest hint of regret, much like the matter-of-factness displayed by owner Shanbag upon his decision to close Premier. When I read this article on IP's closure, I found the last couple of lines (which talk about the opportunity to cash in on the closing discounts offered) particularly interesting:

Just because you couldn't be bothered to support a local bookstore while it was struggling to stay afloat in one of the riskiest pieces of real estate in the city doesn't mean you can't capitalize on its demise. That there is the American way.

More power to the American way, then. Nevertheless, I was happy to be around at the end, for it was consolation for not being able to make one last trip to Premier.

PS: Premier's closing had me going all nostalgic as well; I even commented on the resilience of the store in an earlier post. I'm too tired to write a piece on it here, but I do recommend Ramachandra Guha's tribute in The Hindu.

Current Music: Cut Copy - Hearts on Fire

On Watching the Watchmen

2009-03-17T12:39:00.000-07:00

If you're wondering what the deal is with this new superhero movie, and intend on approaching it with caution, my two bits would be: read the book first. Hell, read the book anyway, whether or not you care about the film. Now I'm not trying to play the snob who's out to praise the book to the skies and trash the movie adaptation; I read the comic series a few months ago and thoroughly enjoyed it, but that alone does not make me a comic book connoisseur. (Disclaimer: I sure as hell don't spend my free time playing dungeons-and-dragons. I spend it writing blog posts.) If you've already read the book and liked it, you probably *have* to watch the film for no other reason, just like me.

[For a quick plot summary, read the wikipedia entry].

Watchmen, being commonly seen to represent the "kingship" of the Graphic Novel genre (which is probably justified), was ever a likely candidate to be turned into a film, sooner or later. The fact that it was mentioned in Time Magazine's 100 greatest novels list has only added to the legend. Porting it to the cinematic medium was always going to be a tall order, for it is a veritable African elephant, simply too big a beast to be tamed. While the film does eventually collapse under its own weight, the director Zack Snyder deserves an A+ for his ballsy effort to realise the impossible and keep it propped up. He was faced with two equally ominous options - playing it safe and keeping the fanboys happy by remaining as faithful as possible to Alan Moore's work, or doing a variation on the theme and risk being critically panned. He chose the former, and unfortunately the characters are "bottled up within that frame" as another viewer told me.

The movie clocks in at 165 minutes, and can be tedious to sit through. Like The Matrix, it is possible to get the gist of the plot and be spellbound by the concept if you concentrate hard. If you're expecting an evening of mindless entertainment, be warned; this movie is relatively low on action, and its depth of content it makes The Dark Knight seem like a pleasant little stroll of a tragi-comedy. Synder has really taken it upon himself to put the "Graphic" in this Graphic Novel adaptation; whenever violence surfaces, it often takes the meticulously detailed and brutal form that was apparently a defining feature of 300, but it doesn't seem to work well here. There's also a particularly violent rape scene as well, which was a little hard to stomach.

The best feature of the film, without a doubt, is the portrayal of Rorschach. Jackie Earle Haley does a splendid job of bringing out the vengeful hostility and vulnerability behind the mask of the story's most fascinating character. It's just a pity the movie had already run too long to delve deeper into the details of Rorschach's past. (Incidentally, The Tales of the Black Freighter, which serves as the fictional comic-within-the-comic in the book, was also left out, but will be released separately on DVD, detailing the characters' backstories. Now there's a neat marketing idea.) Also worth talking about is Malin Ackerman's solid performance as Laurie Jupiter a.k.a Silk Spectre II, despite her part in a most ridiculous scene which I've mentioned below. The rest of the cast, particularly Billy Crudup as Dr.Manhattan are less inspiring.

One of the most noticeable aspects of the film is the deliberate injection of accompanying music at various points, an almost blatant admission that its target audience likely consists of neurotic record collectors (yup, guilty as charged!). This can be extremely hit-or-miss; it works in the opening scene, as images from the past are played to Bob Dylan's The Times They are a-Changin', showing that Snyder wasn't too preoccupied with the original to add a few distinctive touches of his own. But Sounds of Silence at the Comedian's funeral and All Along the Watchtower while Rorschach and Nite Owl crash into Antarctica are way out of place. And oh yeah, there's Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah serving as the bizarre background to an ultra-passionate love scene between Laurie and Dan. What's up with that? Unfortunately, what could have been one of the movie's more surreal moments is completely spoiled by the activation of a flamethrower to signify Laurie's orgasm. Downright tasteless and stupid. I don't think I'll ever be able to listen to Hallelujah with the same ear again!

Alan Moore, who distanced himself from the film adaptation, had this to say about his work: "It's a comic book, not a movie. It's been made in a certain way, and designed to be read a certain way: in an armchair, nice and cozy next to a fire, with a steaming cup of coffee." Looking back, that is precisely the reason I enjoyed the book so much. Instead of having to take it all in at one shot, I was able to enjoy it piecemeal, reading one volume of the series at a time. Having sat through this monster of a film, I was, well...filled up, but definitely not satiated.

Current Music: Christy & Emily - Superstition

The Slacker

2009-03-09T22:56:00.000-07:00

To be sung to the tune of The Seeker by The Who (see link at the end for the original). This didn't come out as well as my previous attempt at a spoof, but it's a bit more autobiographical.

[Dedicated to anyone who has happily acquired the jobless, wothla, vetti, or vella tag]

I've slept through my past,
Don't bleed for my future,
I just live for this moment,
But they all think I'm a loser

Chorus:
They call me The Slacker,
I've been drifting low and high
I won't care a hoot what I'm after,
Till the day I die.

I asked Richie Linklater,
I asked my teachers
I asked Dude Lebowski,
But he couldn't help me either

[Repeat Chorus]

People tend to bug me,
'Cause I got no plans
As they ransack my dreams they make me wanna scream,
Focusing on my space,
Need my peace of mind
I'm a Slacker, I'm a really clueless man.

I won't care a hoot what I'm after,
Till the day I die.

I learned how to curb my useless anger,
Yeah, but look at my face, see me fake a smile
I'm happy when life's good, and when it's bad I'm mine
I've got an MS Degree, but I don't know how or why!

They're looking for me,
They think I'm confused
I try hard to tell them,
But they keep telling me what to do!

[Repeat chorus]

Current Music: The Who - The Seeker

The BIOTE Diaries: Chilli Chicken in a One Horse Town

2009-02-28T20:49:00.000-08:00

It's been just over a couple of weeks in my latest posting at Sacramento, CA. The moving in and adjustment to the new work routine have happened so fast that I've scarcely had the time to drink it all in, but I have formed a couple of initial impressions to put down all the same.

First up, the much vaunted California weather appears to be one big myth. This place is pretty enough, if not strikingly so, but with all the rain, cold and gloom I've hardly had a chance to step outside and look around when done for the day. Anyone stuck on the east coast or the midwest would probably argue that this place is heaven by comparison, but having been told that things are more costly in CA because you're "paying for the weather" it feels a bit of a let down. I have much to take in so I hope things will improve.

As for the area I live in, it's culturally dead. The apartment is fine, but the surroundings give me the distinct feeling of how things would be if I lived in Electronics city, or Sarjapur (Bangalore readers will relate to this) - nothing but office buildings and lawns, big empty streets with intermittent zooming traffic, and a few convenience stores here and there. No bookshops, no music stores, no cafes which stay open late, and no movie theaters (where will I catch the opening of Watchmen in a week's time?). It's just as well I have to spend twelve hours a day in the office, I'd have a hard time figuring out what to do here otherwise. I had a lot I took for granted back at the University, and though things are too rushed for me to pine for the comforts of my previous location, the thought of being stuck in this halli for the next few months makes me want to make a trip to Austin sooner than I'd planned. Or at any rate, get my license done, rent a car and make a trip somewhere.

I recall the frantic packing I went through in Austin, neurotically assembling my collection of books and audio cassettes together (even making a list of the ones I left with my friends back there), trying to stuff the last two years of my life in a couple of suitcases. Maybe I should be concerned about my continued obsession with my cassette collection and borrowed books, things I should have outgrown by now. But much as I like to think that almost everything is dispensable, it turns out that these kinds of tangibles - stuff you've put a lot of effort into acquiring - eventually breed a sort of possessiveness that's terminal. Too many happy memories, I guess.

The apartment's nice and big. I'm rooming with four others, and while we've got along so far I'm reserving my judgment. New roommates always provide an interesting study in observation, as well as apprehension. It probably stems from what Tim May describes very well in his book, Mayhem:

I think that the practice of putting two fully developed males, friends or not, in a room together for several months is a fraction unnatural. Your most intimate conversations with loved ones, your private habits, private noises, private scratches are all shared with someone who is sleeping six inches away.

He might have added the part about disagreements arising from the way plates are dumped in the sink, the bits of hair spread across the shower, and the way the wastebin overflows onto the nearby carpet. Rooming with someone of unknown habits can either force you to re-evaluate your sense of aesthetics, or make you realise you're not the cleanliness freak you imagined yourself to be. The next few weeks will be pretty revealing.

One of my roomies made a weekend trip to San Jose to attend a family event. He returned with several dabbas of ultra-fiery food, leftovers from the function. Among the takeaways was some chilli chicken which proved to be the ultimate tearjerker, and has since shaken my world in general and my digestive system in particular. It reminded me, in the most masochistic way, of the last time I had eaten something this spicy; back in July 2005, I accompanied Shom and another friend to RRR, the Andhra restaurant in Bangalore. We were daft enough to go along with the waiter's recommendation, a chicken dish which was spicy on the outside - no surprise there - but proved to be dynamite on the inside; it was liberally stuffed with chilli seeds. The subsequent assault on my taste-buds was like nothing I had ever felt before, or three years after; who would've thought I'd be compelled to revisit that memory in my current situation? Not quite deja vu, but strange all the same. And thus I shall conclude this entry with a piece of advice to all epicureans back home: never trust a waiter at an Andhra restaurant.

PS: Although not originally intended, the title of this post could be thought of as a tribute to a certain book by Pankaj Mishra. Highly recommended for an insight into small town India.

Current Music: Al Pitrelli - Birdland

The B.I.O.T.E Diaries: Going to California

2009-02-21T18:52:00.000-08:00

The recent past has seen a fair amount of change. Well, it all just had to be so. December was the time I would earn my degree, and all my thoughts would need to be directed more at the short-term (what is my next move, and what do I plan to do with my life?) and less at the immediate term (who am I going to stooge a dinner off tonight?). After a billion job applications, ideas about ditching this US business, and thoughts about staying in school, I've moved to California to start a job of some sort. It's not what I would ideally like to be doing, but such is the state of the economy that finding employment anywhere is as about as easy as locating a creek in the Kalahari, and certainly as essential for a graduating student.

There was minor heartbreak along the way. In the midst of these trying times I actually managed to secure a job in Bangalore; but it wasn't just any job, it was a dream job, a job far removed from whatever I'd done academically till now, unexpected and out of the blue. For a variety of reasons, mostly dictated by monetary concerns and cold logic, I ended up turning it down. As for how I felt about the whole deal, it was something like this; imagine the girl of your dreams, the special someone you let slip by an age ago, is suddenly back in your life. You're stuck in a listless marriage and would love a clean break. But something is holding you back, and you're unable to take the brave decision and execute it whole-heartedly. And so, you let go.

The consolation here is, career choices are not as complicated as relationships, so I'm carrying on in the hope that the dream might yet be realised somewhere down the line. For the time being, I continue to rack my brains and try to find out the best use of my Master's Degree. In a sense, the Indian IT and Tech sector fallout as a result of the recession almost seems like a good thing, when I think of people like myself back home. It might encourage those kinds, the ones with some creative instincts but no particular academic fixations, to look at other avenues instead of putting all their cerebral eggs into the Technical basket. Then again maybe not, 2001 happened and very few at the time seemed inclined to skip the beaten track. But again, the bucking has to start somewhere right? Maybe when I have enough money..

Another good thing about the recession is that it's given everyone out here a common topic for discussion. You can sympathise with someone who's lost his job, empathise with someone who's looking for one, laugh collectively when someone quotes the latest economy-joke, and relate depressing tales of layoffs and paycuts when you're surrounded by boring company and don't have a stiff drink to come to your rescue. The economy has been pretty hard on students, too. I was on the threshold of continuing my stay in Austin as a PhD student, and when I bid adieu I also handed over a coveted Teaching Assistant position to a friend, which for him was solid gold; and there were hundreds of others waiting to pounce on the same. It's become near-impossible to find work on campus of late.

But that was Austin. I wonder what lies ahead in this new place. Apart from Arnold Schwarenegger and the Kings, Sacramento doesn't seem to be an especially renowned city. My next few entries will feature ramblings from the Californian capital, and my experiences adapting to this new environment.

In case you're wondering about the acronym in the title, that's Blame It On The Economy.

Current Music: Delhi 6 - Arziyan

A Letter to the Chief Minister

2009-02-14T01:52:00.000-08:00

Dear Sir,

With regard to the recent pub attack in Mangalore, I was glad to hear your willingness to take up the case against the Ram Sena in the state cabinet. Your statement that people taking the law into their own hands will be dealt with firmly is also good to hear, though it would be more reassuring if you dealt with the potential troublemakers well before their hands get to work. However, your declaration that you "will not allow pub culture to grow in Karnataka" leaves me concerned.

Whether it is our congested yet still beautiful capital city, or up-and-coming places like Mangalore, I suppose you feel that much needs to be done to guard against such incidents happening in the future. But is clamping down on pub culture the solution? Yes, the inconvenience caused to urban pub-goers like me, by having our friendly neighbourhood watering hole closed, is minuscule compared with the problems which less privileged people have to deal with. Quite a few elders in the family would agree that more good can come out of staying away from pubs than bad. Apparently, it is a trivial issue which we should take in our stride. But have you considered that denying us a basic freedom could be counterproductive? I probably don't have to remind you of 1993, when Shri Veerappa Moily imposed a ban on liquor sale in the afternoon with a view to keeping schoolkids away from pubs; it only started them off earlier. Would you really rather have the whole lot of us knocking back bottles only at home? There would be a fair amount of cultural disrespect involved, I can tell you!

We are also presented with the angle that pubs have been deemed unsafe for women, and therefore in the name of personal safety it makes sense for us 'youngsters' - girls in particular - to keep away from them. If most of the women I know take this as an affront, as they should, they certainly don't need me to speak on their behalf. However, I speak for the average pub-going Indian male when I say it is an insult, a slap on the face of our standing as good citizens. Most of us waited till we were 21 to enjoy our first drink; and enjoy it (sensibly) we did. We spend many a memorable Friday evening after a hard day's work, unwinding over a pitcher of beer and good company. Perhaps urban India is lacking in alternate recreation when it comes to deciding where to meet up with a bunch of friends on a weekend; but the fact remains, the occasional drink at a favourite pub has become part of the fabric of our professional and social lives. Maybe not something we would choose to define ourselves by, but something as essential as a Sunday lunch at home or the odd familial visit to the movies. And yet, we have organisations all around insinuating that the only reason we might go to a pub is to drink ourselves silly and misbehave with women. Is that the solution then, compromising a lifestyle choice of a sizable number because a sexually repressed few continue to find a convenient outlet for their frustrations?

Having been away in America for the last two years, it is possible that the exposure to this consumerist and (supposedly) more liberal society might cause me to look at things in my homeland in a less pragmatic light; what works here does not necessarily work in India, and the last thing anyone wants is another NRI telling them exactly what is wrong with the state of things back home. But consider the city I lived in for nearly two decades, Bangalore (I refuse to call it by its changed name). It boasts no notable sites to attract the discerning tourist, and the only conceivable reason a holidaymaker might stop by is to make a connecting trip. Yet, in the past, tourists were mostly enamoured by this progressive city and the welcoming nature of its inhabitants. This naturally translated into an enlightened attitude towards alcohol, hence the growth of the pub culture you now want to stamp out. Although you may not be willing to admit it, the pub scene has had a mostly positive impact on the way Bangalore is perceived, a small but vital contributory factor in appealing to the techie and tourist alike. Compare this with Chennai, a fine city in its own right, but a place which remains incredibly insecure when it comes to matters of the bottle. This is what a friend of my father had to say about the issue there:

In Chennai, going to buy liquor from the government controlled TASMAC shops is an utterly anti-civilisational, self-demeaning act. The atmosphere around these shops is filthy beyond description. You have to gingerly maneuver your steps between dollops of spit and phlegm, remains of old and fresh vomit, broken bottles, remains of the plastic pouches in which vendors sell kadalai (boiled gram) and pickles, puddles of piss in the corners, drunks lying sprawled in the muck and a general air of depravity and squalor which beggars imagination.

I don't know about you, but that description strikes me as a pointer to how things might be if pub culture were indeed wiped out. By and large, the public recognises that social drinking is a behavioural norm, not a recipe for breaking a household. Why would you want to change that perception?

We keep going on about how India is a developing country, and how we find the term disparaging. I think everyone would do well to remember that development is measured not only in material terms or standard of living, but also in the evolving of our attitudes and sensibilities over changing times.

Yours faithfully,
SC

Current Music: Duran Duran - Save a Prayer

American Dappankoothu

2009-01-28T20:02:00.000-08:00

On what was my last Saturday night in Austin, Bulla and me roamed 6th as usual, looking for a place where we could sup our beers and enjoy some decent live music. We landed at a joint whose name I forget, but the look and clientele were distinctly extreme metal. We headed out to the backyard, where the 'funeral concert' for local alcoholic energy drink Sparks was taking place. With a crowd of around twenty, the next twenty-or-so minutes were taken up by some wasted idiots on the mike, mostly relating incredible tales of how "Sparks changed my life". Then the bands came on, and the whole place turned into a mosh pit.

Whilst the guys on stage were churning out loud jackhammer-like riffs, the lead vocalist/growler whipped off the cordless mike and pranced off the stage onto the floor as if to be one with the audience, seemingly in the act of inciting a riot. And it worked, for a joyous moshing session followed. It was like playing bumper cars minus the cars, or a form of dodgeball where each participant doubles up as a ball. Somewhere in the middle of this blokes-only barroom brawl, the odd girl would crash in for her piece of the action. "This must be a form of American Dappankuthu!" remarked Bulla.

I decided to test Bulla's observation. Is there a connection between Death Metal and Dappankuthu at a fundamental level? These were the points of comparison I was able to come up with:

1. The bretherhood factor: Really, if beer has helped ugly people have sex since 100 BC, then Dappankuthu/Death Metal has given them a reason to live. Consider your average Tam stud; having survived 12-odd gruelling years of the oppressive boys-only senior matriculation environment, his hopes of having a life are dashed when he makes it to engineering college, courtesy boy-girl interaction rules like these. Having fallen into that abyss called social ineptness, he is finally rescued by that great unifying asylum for the hormonally repressed, Dappankuthu. As for his American counterpart, I'm willing to bet my metal tape collection that if society hadn't given up on him he'd be spending rather more time in the club than on practicing his air guitar. You see, it all boils down to a sense of belonging. Of course, the token female may decide to gatecrash and occasionally steal the show (like the one in Naaka Mukka, or the girl in the pub whom I had a crush on for exactly thirty seconds), but this is all essentially Fight Club on earth, just like Palahniuk envisioned it.

2. The revenge of the drummers factor: Most musical genres are rather one-sided. In Carnatic classical for instance, the vocalist holds center-stage for most part, with the others having decidedly supporting actor roles. In arena-rock, the loud cheers are reserved for that pansy guitarist who uses his 'instrument' as an excuse for..well, you know. But finally, the much maligned, butt-of-all-jokes drummer gets his due. A metal band is almost overdependent on breakneck percussion. And a street-procession dance is nothing without the tighter-than-hell beats of little drummer boy.

3. The wedding factor: Having become the mainstay of the Kollywood music industry, kuthu songs are enjoying a renaissance of sorts at wedding halls. Step aside Kajra Re, gotta have some Appadi podu instead. And if Cock and Ball Torture is the last band you'd want playing at your wedding, maybe you should have a look at this before you plan the festivities.

4. The surprise factor: On the evolutionary scale, these two musical styles are mostly rated as figuring just above rock - the kind flung around by cavemen to create sounds, that is. Nothing could be further from the truth - if the experts are to be believed, they transcend the average idiot's capability of aural appreciation. But even a below-average idiot would find it hard to resist the leadoff guitar in this In Flames song, or indeed the opening riff of Chikubuku Raile. The latter has further asserted itself in MIDI format as one of the more common ringtones to annoy your co-workers with in office.

5. The convenience factor: The lure of Tamil gaana songs was aptly summed up by a kuthu-ophile on campus, "You can just do whatever you want without worrying what someone will think when they watch you 'dance'". When similarly asked for comment, the metalhead offered a more simplistic description: "Fuck You!". As opposed to a round of clubbing, for which preparation involves everything from selecting the right styling gel to painful self-assessment of dancing skills, a nightout with the mob is remarkably stress-free. And if you really want to dress the part, simply don that lungi or smelly black t-shirt and you're good to go. Tattoos and body-paint are welcome additions.

6. The questionable content factor: By design, the lyrics are supposed to ruffle a few feathers - the whole exercise would be pointless otherwise right? While the metal crowds fuel themselves by continually being at odds with everyone from God to the First Lady, their South Indian brethren revel in their own notoriety by disregarding prudishness completely. From an outsider's point of view, paying extra attention to the lyrics can be an immensely trippy and rewarding experience. Just don't expect any inputs from the insiders themselves - with a view to preserving their cult status, they've been ordered to give the impression that they take themselves as seriously as possible.

Besides reaffirming that I have too much time on my hands (and increasingly appalling taste in music), this whole exercise has given my future some shape. These days, I spend a lot of time wondering just what to do with my Acoustics Engineering degree. I have now resolved to get some experience mixing sound in a recording studio, and shall then promptly head off to Ulsoor Road where a latent appreciation for all things gaana and metal exists, if the growling and beating you hear during processions is any indication. With the right resources, we will produce a fusion album - and it will be called American Dappankuthu.

On being anti-SMS lingo

2008-12-13T12:38:00.000-08:00

One of the classic pieces of interaction on the Indian campus takes place between the mostly-Hindi speaker (rather pejoratively known as the 'Hindi Type' or HT, for short), and the mainly-English speaker (equally pejoratively known as the 'English/Inglis' type; ET for short). HT sees no reason to speak in anything other than Hindi unless he has to; it is also his way of cocking a snook at the uppity ET. ET, for his part, is in all probability a Tam, Bong or Mallu who did his schooling in a 'speak only English within the premises of this institution' kind of place and does not feel any need to change now, and refuses to be apologetic for his appalling Hindi. They have this special means of communication where one speaks in Hindi, the other in English and somehow the messages get through. While each of them feels this mild contempt for the other for not speaking in his preferred tongue, there is a grudging acknowledgment that he wishes he could speak the other's language better.

This is just a random thought, but an online conversation between an SMS lingo person (SL) and a complete sentences person (CS) is along very similar lines. Both parties refuse to take a backward step when it comes to their preferred medium of communication while looking down on the other, but at the same they have to admit that the other's is a legitimate means of communication. When the chat is going on, SL is probably wondering why CS is spending so much effort in getting his grammar and spellings right. He decides to ignore the hint and stick to his guns, thinking to himself, "wat 2 do, v r lik dis only". Since I've been mostly on the other side of the fence, I can better predict CS's attitude at the time. CS is likely to be one of the following:

1. The tragically unhip: People who at one point dabbled in slang and SMS lingo in order to fit in, fell flat on their faces and decided the wisest recourse was to avoid it altogether.

2. The activists: People who dare to be different from the word go, and are particularly proud over their mastery of the English language. They derive mileage out of smallest of causes. Likely moderators of the "Say no to SMS lingo" community on Orkut. The archetypal guy probably heads the debate team (and lets the whole world know), while the girl has to carry her copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" wherever she goes.

3. The evolved CS: Just out of college, this person has decided that ranting is so second-year-undergrad, and adopts the "to each his own" stance. While extremely pleased about his world-view, he still has a slightly condescending attitude towards the SL's, despite the fact that a few years ago, he was one of them.

And which one do I come under? I dunno (dammit!).

"One, please" (or, Thou shalt not dine alone)

2008-11-13T22:40:00.000-08:00

I love my food, but I'm also pretty irregular about it. I eat when I feel like it, whenever the whim to experiment takes over, and often in sync with my equally random sleeping habits. I'm not much of a cook, but I like checking out new places and all that blah. I often eat alone, because most of the people I hang out with are not given to random spontaneous trips to some arbit place. And people find it difficult to believe that I actually eat alone at diners and restaurants. Or, to be more accurate, I find it hard to come to terms with the fact that people find it odd.

At around 11pm yesterday I was dying of hunger. I'd put two consecutive night-outs on campus and for all purposes had practically lived there. My body clock was messed to the extent that I had breakfast at Kerbey Lane at 7 in the morning (without having slept a wink), and promptly went home and crashed. I slept a bit more in the afternoon after class and had seen out the entire day without having anything else to eat. I've talked about how Austin is the Bangalore of the US in many ways, and here too most restaurants close as early as 10pm. Kerbey Lane cafe, close to campus, is the one 24 hour place around and your only other late night options are the beer bars which serve your usual pub grub. Anyway, I didn't feel like cooking dinner that night or ordering food because my roommate A was out with his friends B, C and the rest of their gang, and it would have worked out to too much food for one person. A,B, C and the others had gone to this beer joint close to my place, called "The Flying Saucer".

There's another Kerbey Lane somewhere closer to my apartment. I called up B, a regular patron, and he reckoned it would be a 25 minute walk. Too far, I decided. My stomach was well and truly rumbling now, so the Flying Saucer loomed as the only option. Although they model themselves on a traditional German beer place with some 300 varieties of Beer from all over the world, the Flying saucer serves some good simple German fare, basically sausages, wurst and potato salad. So I headed there, and though it was buzzing quite a bit for a Thursday night, I managed to get a table on the patio outside. As I was tucking into my dinner, A suddenly stepped outside and was more than a little surprised to see me. "You should've come inside and joined us. We're heading home now." "Well, I just came for a quick bite. I'm not drinking you see." And he added, with a look of major concern "You enjoying yourself?" Out came B, C and the rest of them, hanging around the place for some post-drinks banter. Before I knew it, I had become this object of major curiosity among the group, who clearly thought I had lost my marbles by being seen alone in the place. "I thought you were going to Kerbey Lane!" said B. "Well, I decided it was too far to walk, and this was the only place open for dinner." C had just joined the group and voiced his amazement, and I had to repeat the explanation for his benefit. "But surely you can't come here for dinner! Alone!" "I'm doing just fine, no worries" didn't seem to cut it with him. The rest of them, on being told "Woh us ka roommate hai" were meanwhile nodding their heads knowingly. So much for a peaceful dinner.

Even if I'm not the most gregarious person, I'm not a recluse or anything. I keep some really good company here, but at the same time I like a bit of privacy and anonymity, and often enjoy doing certain things by myself, like browsing through music stores or going for random walks. And sampling food, of course. But far from wanting to understand, people seem to be disturbed by it and classify it as abnormal behaviour. Another blogger had a nice long rant about how annoying it can be the way society perceives the single woman. For the single twenty-something male it can be equally irritating and also amusing to see others' reactions if you don't conform to the stereotype. Apparently, you have to live by the 'work-hard-by-day party-harder-by-night' credo, be surrounded by fast-talking cronies everywhere, be a complete Raymond family man at home and an incorrigible flirt everywhere else, be obsessed with fast cars and bikes, have strong opinions on everything and NEVER be seen alone. If you like reading, blogging or, god forbid, eating by yourself you suddenly become this depressing Devdas type character who needs help.

The funny thing is, I've known people who like to consciously portray themselves as solitude-loving lone wolves, who like being far from the madding crowd as if to build an aura around them. Whether this constitutes an iconoclastic streak or just being an exhibitionist, I don't know because in my case I'm not out to prove anything to anyone. I guess I could take the philosophical view and be reminded of a line from an Archie comic: When a person dares to be different, he gets called an individualist. On the other hand, if he is different, he becomes an oddball.

Big fish, little fish

2008-11-07T17:30:00.000-08:00

I read that Bangalore now has a second Landmark bookstore, this time in Jayanagar. The arrival will probably be welcomed in South Bangalore but it makes me wonder what lies ahead for Select, Blossom, Premier and other places of that ilk in the future. The old Madras Landmark is probably the best I've ever been to, and holds many happy memories. But the one in Forum mall tended to disappoint because of its comparatively indifferent staff and ridiculous pricing. The arrival of Planet M (with its customer schemes and mostly clueless personnel) on Brigade road sounded the death knell for some of my favourite smaller music shops, and I can only hope the same does not happen with the Crossword and Landmark expansion, which comes at the expense of personal attachment.

Franchising may be big in the US, but there's an admirable 'support local businesses' drive here in Austin (and other places, I'm sure) that makes me wish more of the same happened in Bangalore. More than the traffic, pollution and insider-outsider wars, it is the compromising of local flavour (the 'homegrown' factor) and this inexplicable need to keep up with other cities which is my major bone with Bangalore of late. When a branch of Copper Chimney opened in Bangalore, critics were quick to point out that the food and quality of service were nowhere near that of the Mumbai branch. I can well imagine regulars to the Chennai Landmark feeling similarly about the Bangalore one, and yet we have branches sprouting in all corners of the city now. Why, you must ask, do we go ahead and try to emulate everyone else and be someone we're not? There were enough good homegrown establishments to begin with, but today apparently the Landmarks and PVRs have to be accommodated wherever possible so that every big city gets streamlined and devoid of uniqueness. This will allow the Bangalore haters to get stuck in and feel further vindicated, but at least some local businesses continue to lend the city some charm.

Another blogger had written a similar sort of post when the Forum Landmark had first come up, and suggested it was a similar situation to the one portrayed in You've Got Mail. I suppose this gives me a reason to watch that rather lightweight film again and perhaps see it in a new light. Apart from the fact that my weekends have become excruciatingly empty.

Not-so-random musings

2008-11-02T12:02:00.000-08:00

This opening paragraph business has been reduced to a space for convenient and banal explanation as to why I can't seem to post more regularly. Has blogging become such an indulgence that I have to save as much material as possible for a monthly post, as if to justify the bloody exercise? A more appropriate term for 'writer's block' would be 'laziness'.

So I turned 25 a couple of weeks ago, my face smeared in cake and my body soundly kicked from all sides, as if to make up for the relatively sedate celebrations of the last two years in Austin. I barely escaped being flung into the apartment pool, despite actually playing along and protesting. A year ago, I woke up the day after my birthday feeling strangely miserable and empty, and decided the solution to all my problems was to get a haircut. In twelve months, nothing's changed. The long hair remains (with a lousy haircut looming large), the sleeping through classroom lectures (with date and topic neatly scribbled in my notebook) continues, and I am still oblivious to the happenings of the world outside. The problem then, with 25, is expectation. It may be a mere number but it gives people (including myself) a license to ask questions about my life to which 'I don't know' or 'we'll see' are not acceptable answers. In that regard, maybe I do feel old. But then age is just a state of mind right? Whatever.

Another occasion which made me feel old (or shall we say, 'dated') was, strangely enough, a heavy metal concert I attended a couple of months back. It was one of those 'Metal Masters Tour' sort of things, with an all star lineup of Testament, Motorhead, Black Sabbath and Judas Priest. With stalls outside selling beer on tap (a blessing in the oppressive summer heat) and food, which you were allowed to bring in to the arena, this was the sort of concert experience I could only dream of having earlier seen live acts only at the comparatively repressive Palace Grounds in Bangalore. But the crowd was an eye-opener. If the same lineup were to be playing at Palace Grounds, your entire Engineering/ St.Josephs Commerce College metal contingent would have shown up in all their black finery (making sure their t-shirt featured a band other than the ones on show), and suitably wasted to the point of being at their savage and anti-social best). Here, apart from the precious few at the half-full mosh pit right in front, the place was packed with forty-somethings, presumably wallowing in nostalgia and ready to put away their band t-shirts for a Halloween party. Nevertheless, the show was a great one, and a gentleman named Ruben Palomo was nice enough to send us a few snaps like the one above (we had forgotten to bring our cameras).

It sometimes concerns me that after coming here I haven't expanded my musical tastes as much as I used to during my earlier college days, and it's difficult to stay contemporary when you don't own a TV and your friends listen to mostly retro stuff too. But then again, one of the things I've come to like about the college crowd in this country is their attitude towards musical tastes; everybody listens to a wide range and nobody really tries to typecast themselves or anyone else because of it. I mean, on a typical Indian campus you find people using musical leanings to make a connection, and even friendships. Whether it's your guy-girl gangs who spend endless hours playing Antakshari and Guess the Shayari, or your guys-only Metal 'til Death groups, music seemed to polarise people. I'm not saying that sort of thing doesn't happen here, but (having gotten to know and work with a few American undergrads), it's just far less noticeable. Although I've always been something of a classic rock loyalist, I no longer cringe when hip-hop is played on the radio, I sing along when the desi junta blast out Himesh and mindless Punju ditties, and I've come to appreciate (thanks to a few people I've met at the music department) that DJing is an art, and a difficult one at that. I don't know whether this gradual attitude shift is due to evolving of my musical senses, or simply growing up. But I'm happier for it.

Mentally, I feel exactly the same as I did four years ago, circa final year of undergrad. But the crucial difference then was I already had a job to walk into as soon as I graduated. I wonder if that was a good thing, after all. If I was forced to actually hunt for a job and make myself *ahem* marketable, I would have probably learned a good deal about job hunting (and myself). That particular challenge has finally come up (given that I don't feel as if I've learnt a thing in the last four years), what with an economic slowdown here and all. Depending on how it pans out, I will probably get a small taste of what Will Smith's character must have felt like in his pursuit of happyness.

Passing the Baton

2008-09-06T17:34:00.000-07:00

I could have updated the blog much earlier over the last thirty-two days. I haven't been particularly busy, but then free time has never really lent itself to substantial blogging has it? I did consider putting up a post about the Olympics, about how merely watching Usain bolt, Michael Phelps and Dara Torres scale their respective peaks of excellence was uplifting in itself. About my earliest memories, of Greg Louganis, Ben Johnson and showjumping during Seoul '88. And the relay. No event captures the spirit of from you to me as visibly as the relay. I'm currently mining the web for Doordarshan's old National Integration ad, featuring all those sportspersons (Gavaskar, Usha, Padukone and others) running the length and breadth of the country, passing on the blazing torch. Truly magical, that was. Find it and you'll make my day.

In the meantime, thanks to Swaroop I get to pass on a baton of sorts myself. Since I probably won't be buying him a beer anytime soon, I'll try to comply with the other terms and conditions on Swaroop's post and urge all of you to read his blog. Filled with satire, spice and other things nice, I can't recommend it nearly enough.

Choosing seven blogs to pass on is not quite the no-brainer it seems. I read a great many of them at random, sometimes without letting the writer know of my presence and each one has proved to be interesting in its own way. So finally, among the dozens of friends, family and arbits who have provided me generous hours of timepass with their writings, I've narrowed the list down to the following:

1. Ashanka: Hers was the first blog I used to read on a regular basis. Filled with quirky and witty accounts of life in the big city, and consistently solid writing.

2. Atulya: The Monkee is a seasoned traveller, and he sprinkles his blog with several tidbits about the places he visits. A highly readable blog I discovered belatedly.

3. Shom: His sports blog is the kind I aspired this blog to be back in the CTS days of 2006. No regrets because I have a great time reading his posts anyway. He earlier blogged here and a very good blog it was.

4. Prabha: This is the blog of a true junkie. Named food for thought, it is filled with food and just about everything else. She claims the blog is "mainly here for my entertainment", but behind all the timepass lies much love and effort.

The remaining three blogs are each owned by a senior of mine from RV. For various reasons, they seem to have been on a hiatus for a while and I hope this might compel them to write more frequently.

5. Soup: He always calls it as he sees it. Mostly forthright accounts about life while he was in France, now that he has returned there to study the updates might come in more regularly.

6. Nitish: A fun blog full of rants and raves. One of the earlier blogs I used to read during my CTS days.

7. Raghuray: Another one from the old days, when my blog never existed. Every time I go here, it's as if he throws the old Monty Python line at me "And now for something completely different".

I'm not imposing the fine print on anyone, but I'll do a quick copy-paste-edit job on the points from Swaroop's blog. Awardees may:
1. Award seven other people. (Or zero, or one, or two depending on how seriously you decide to take this).
2. Write a post about this award, and link to our blog in that post.(Optional)
3. Buy me any food or drink for this award, not necessarily a pitcher of beer.

Pass it on.

On Blogging

2008-08-05T20:09:00.000-07:00

This is my fiftieth post. I've noticed a few bloggers using the same landmark as an opportunity to look back at how it all started for them and how their blog evolved, and I think I'll do the same. I've always liked milestones, even if most of my milestones have been small ones. Fifty posts in just over two years may not seem like a big deal; most of my favourite bloggers would be able to put out twice that number in the same time, and still exercise great quality control. On the other hand, a lot of people I know have let their blogs fall by the wayside so all things considered, I'm happy I've kept this going.

As with most things, I have an ambivalent attitude towards it. The name was taken from a cassette I have at home, featuring some highly entertaining discussions among BBC radio's cricket commentary team members. In June 2006, when the Bangalore monsoons were bringing about stop-start passages to my routine, blogging seemed to hold this 'rainy day and a cup of tea' sort of appeal, something to kill time with. I eventually found this picture to be very wrong; these days, all my posts inevitably get keyed in when I'm supposed to be working. A look through the posts from the beginning is actually a pretty good indicator of my lack of focus and general direction. I started off intending it to be a simple diary and a way of killing time at the workplace. I next wanted it to be an all-sports blog. I then went back to writing some general everyday crap, till I left Bangalore for Austin. When I was well and truly into the gradschool routine, there was a paucity of things to write about. I now took to posting cricket match reports and reviews involving the only institution I care about, the New Zealand team. This somehow didn't work out, so I shifted all that to another blog, Paint it Black which has been rather in a state of neglect. I've continued to blog ever since, but only occasionally. There's been the odd satisfying post, but most of the time I've been torn between writing a post that feels forced(for the sake of keeping the blog alive), or letting things drift.

I often wanted to rant, but instead ended up discovering that I don't overflow with enough bile. I wanted to review endlessly, but often couldn't summon up the attention to detail. I've tried writing about day-to-day life here, but it's hard because nothing ever happens in boring ol' Grad school(and I mean that in the nicest possible way. I like dormancy and the relative lack of blog-worthy happenings around me). Of course, there's also the issue of everyone in my family from my parents to my zillionth grand-aunt having discovered the blog and wanting to mention the same every time they meet me. That was quite weird to deal with in the beginning, and seemed to take some of the fun out of the whole exercise. I mean, I started becoming rather conscious of the material I was putting up because feedback from a lot of corners is guaranteed. On the other hand I seem to have earned something of a regular readership, not a bad thing at all. It's good to know that people care about how I'm getting along.

I suppose one starts to appreciate blogging for what it is when it gets likened to say, watching Dravid build a long innings, or Grad school life; a series of mostly mundane events with the occasional moments of brilliance that actually make the whole thing seem strangely worthwhile. For example, it was quite heartening to see the response to my critique of Mukul Kesavan's article last year, including a comment from Mukul himself. I really enjoyed coming up with the Beatles spoof, the lines of which occurred to me in a dream and that's as close as I'll get to feeling like Lennon on LSD. So overall it's been a satisfying exercise in timepass; no more, no less.

A shot in the arm

2008-07-05T14:51:00.000-07:00

One of the best things about maintaining a big tape collection is the thrill of revisiting or rediscovering an album you've neglected for a long time. The other day, I was feeling quite listless having just moved into the new apartment when I suddenly fished out this Best of Junoon compilation out of a pile of tapes in a suitcase waiting to be unpacked. This was probably my first listen in three years (and certainly my first 'serious' listen) of the entire tracklist, and by the end it had sucked all the worthlessness out of my day. The tape seemed to scream and crackle into my eardrums of its own volition, perhaps out of those years of neglect.

As is my regular habit, I spent a couple of minutes glancing at the album cover and ridiculously thin sleeve and my mind immediately flashed back to 2004, when I purchased the tape in a nondescript corner of Brigade Road for 65 bucks. Being an EMI release, this was marketed in India by Virgin Records, a fucked-up company I have a major grudge against. Ever since they took over music licenses from their dependable predecessors HMV and Milestone, they have successfully marginalised listeners of audio cassettes (to the point of flogging tapes to a quick death in the market), by overpricing, compromising on their quality, leaving out lyrics booklets and sleeves, and also by simply refusing to release albums in the format. I've been hard hit ever since. Despite there still being a sizable number of cassette buyers in India (admittedly mostly for Hindi film music), it enraged me that the industry was trying to drive our kind to extinction. Anyway, enough ranting. Back to the album sleeve, lyrics to some songs were considerately included, with their English translations an added bonus. There's only so much Urdu I can fully comprehend.

The cuts on this compilation, in keeping with Junoon's reputation for creating images of beauty and despair with their strife-torn homeland as a backdrop, are sheer diamonds in the rough. Somehow the combination of Urdu verse, Sufi sensibilities, tablas and tastefully injected guitar riffs adds up to a sort of street-level authenticity which Indian counterparts rarely accomplish. 'Garaj Baras', contributed by Ali Azmat to the soundtrack of Pooja Bhatt's Paap, has an a Rolling Stones-like intensity to it. 'Meri Awaz Suno', probably the best known song off Azadi after Sayonee, is the typical cry-for-help that characterises Junoon's more resigned songs, as they lament the situation back home. 'Kyon Pareshan hai tu' is brilliantly resonant. 'Pappu yaar', one of two Punjabi songs on the album, opens up the formula a bit by adding elements of funk.

'Best of' albums are usually far from the finished article. I straightaway wondered about the exclusion of three tracks which would have made the set feel more complete. The Punjabi ode 'Bulleya', which pre-dates Rabbi Shergill, 'Jazba e Junoon', their anthem for the 1996 World Cup (and an abject lesson to Indian songwriters on how to get behind your team), and the Political satire 'Ehtesaab'. The last one was the song that got Junoon banned in Pakistan for the video, and I remember being fascinated upon reading about in 2000, when my rebel phase had well and truly kicked in. While the song is simplistic, the video is pretty clever and biting.

(After looking up the album online, I discovered that the actual compilation, presumably on CD, does have Bulleya and a few more songs on it, seemingly confirming my suspicions about the music industry's blatant attitude towards the cassette. Ah, life's a Virgin. Fuck it.)

Repeated listens bring nostalgia attacks with them. 1998 was the year Sayonee was in heavy rotation on MTV and Channel V, and Junoon were suddenly established as superstars, and the toast of various music award ceremonies. The song itself is a masterpiece, and for me invokes a sort of optimism-pessimism feel (even though the song and the video are both pretty despairing); a feel achieved and bettered only by Sultans of Swing. The influx of Pakistani singers and Sufi rhythms into Bollywood music can be traced back to these foundations in 1998, and while Indian-artists-versus-their-Pakistani-counterparts is the next logical talking point, it'll have to be left for later discussion.

The compilation may not be perfect, but it served its purpose. Which was to cry out to me "If you think this is good, HOW DO YOU THINK THE MAIN ALBUMS SOUND?". I'll definitely get around to acquiring most of Junoon's output. I'm also looking forward to hearing Ali Azmat's solo stuff, and will be glad if someone would be willing to share the same.

Rediff on Bahadur's funeral

2008-07-04T16:10:00.000-07:00

Rediff in many ways is a sign of the decade. They started out as an excellent Indian portal, full of high quality writing and a solid webmail service. These days they seem to put out mostly sensationalist tripe, but occasionally there is some good stuff to be read on the site. This article makes a good point.

I didn't know of the Field Marshal's death, or the fact that he had been based in Wellington until I chanced upon the article a couple of days ago. It's nice to learn of the public reaction and I hope the media acted suitably as well. Apart from that, the article says it all and there's not much to add. But a glance at the comments section was quite telling. It features the inevitable crass mudslinging between two camps that seems to characterise any feedback on articles related to politics, cricket, films or the weather. In this case, the bone seems to be between supporters of the Congress and the BJP (read:'secular' and 'communal'), and they use the article to try to highlight the apathy of the opposition while absolving their leaders of any blame. Reading the comments proves to be disappointing not only because the readers appear to ignore the point of the article, but also as it shows the privileged class in poor light. We urbanites (and I use the term in the assumption that all of the estimated 60 million Indian Internet users are English-knowing city dwellers)seem unable to evolve beyond name-calling and a clannish us vs them mentality. But then, as a 52 percent voter turnout in Bangalore showed, we are probably indifferent to the real cause, and more concerned with satisfying our own pet propaganda.

Picture Imperfect

2008-07-04T11:51:00.000-07:00

I've made a few seemingly inconsequential vows in my lifetime, with or without reason. Never to own an I-Pod, which still stands. Never to set foot in Bangalore Central, which I broke during my last visit to the city. And never to put up any images on this blog, for what I never knew. The last one is about to be broken, because this comic is right on the button:

I guess this puts my ranting about the insomnia problem in perspective, which is not a bad thing at all.

This of a hot Southern evening....

2008-06-19T23:31:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I'll be shifting house.

Just when I thought I'd come to terms with American lingo, it turns out you don't shift, you move. So yeah, I stand corrected, I'm moving to a new apartment.

A new place is kind of like a new pair of slippers. Uncomfortable in the beginning, but soon enough you fit in and life goes on. Until it's time to hunt for a new one. I like living in the past, but this place has definitely run its course. The furniture provided to us right at the beginning has become useless, the sofa has long become a breeding ground for bedbugs, and the bursts of tap (sorry, faucet) water upstairs has been reduced to a trickle. And of course, Splinter had been a regular visitor over the spring. We kept him at bay by placing big bottles against the kitchen cupboards and cutting out his food supply. But he still comes out at night, almost as an unseen roomie. The casings on the lamp lights have come off as well, so I expect they'll slap a heavy fine on us. But then we'd do well to get back even a small fraction of the deposit from them, so maybe we're even.

I didn't have any great friends in this place, but there were these people I would encounter while strolling barefoot through the premises, walkman in hand. Most of them had a smile ready, some would stop for conversation. They made my evenings. The Filipino who's been around, the punk who had a strange habit of leaving his beachball to bob about in the pool, the Japanese girl who seemed nocturnal, the jamming trio who took a fancy to Bob Dylan songs, the IITan who invited me in for tea, and the chap who compiles his thesis outdoors on his laptop. Maybe I could have got to know them better. Maybe I didn't feel like worming my way into new places.

The new apartment doesn't look all that promising. There's not much around, just wide open fields; this one was closer to the university. There aren't any places to grab a bite in the immediate vicinity. Maybe the crowd there will compensate. The manager seems a bit cold and rude, but that's how they all are apparently. It's their job to be as detached as possible from the tenants. Thesis boy has this theory that you only find women in such positions of power; a man would probably invite you in for a beer and ask you the score.

I'm almost apathetic to this change of apartment, but when it happens I won't know what I'm hoping to find, or what I'm leaving behind. Better to keep it that way.

Return to two cities: Madras

2008-06-11T23:50:00.000-07:00

(Continued from the previous post)

In the middle of the vacation was a three day visit to Madras. Considering my first ever post was about my previous trip to the city, it feels appropriate to give a nod to the return-visit on this post. Now, few places divide opinion like Madras. I have this typically middling attitude towards the city; a nice place, but I'll take Bangalore over it any day. This is a bit ungrateful on my part, because back in the day when Bangalore was a sleepy town, Madras was the closest we were to a big city. And it provided me all the entertainment Bangalore couldn't over the summer holidays. Endless spaces where you could play cricket, video libraries which boasted tapes of the 1975 ashes and the 1994 survivor series, libraries from where I read my comics, and of course the Nungambakkam Landmark - the best bookshop ever. Even better than Premier.

Madras is generally everything Bangalore isn't (which is not intended either as a compliment or criticism), but this time the city did its best to seduce me. The roads, cleanliness, shops and overall efficiency gave me the feeling of a big but not bursting city completely at ease with itself in this funny decade. Part of the trip was spent at Mahabalipuram and the Crocodile Bank (which I didn't enjoy to the full because it was way too hot, the reptiles decided submerging was the best policy). Back in the city, I did eventually return to Landmark - and this time it was the one in Spencer Plaza, which I hadn't visited till date. This branch thankfully keeps up the standards of the Nungabakkam one, including a highly knowledgeable staff which the Bangalore Landmark sorely lacks. What blew me away however, was the plaza itself. I'm not a malls person, but if you must visit one Indian mall Spencer's would be it. I can't put my finger on it, but the ambiance which felt like a cross between forum and Dubai plaza actually worked for me. Add to this the eye candy all around and it was a great place to be at.

I met up with my cousin for a drink that evening. Getting a drink in Madras is still not the simple matter it is in Bangalore, for ever since Amma imposed complete government control over the sale of liquor, options are limited to shady wine shops and big hotels, and a pub can only be granted a license if attached to a hotel. We headed to the Maris, a purely veggie hotel that's been around for ages. If the thought of having no meat to go along with the beer was a dampener, I wasn't very happy with my first impression of the pub/bar either. It was dingy as hell, and undoubtedly a 100% male preserve, which seemed to reinforce the 'permit room' picture I had in mind. However, the place won me over by doing the basics right: Blissfully powerful air-con, ice cold beer (a detail certain Bangalore pubs often neglect - the ice cold bit, I mean) and no loud music (Bangalore pubs, take note again), just the IPL on a big screen. The crowd was pretty decent too - average joes but no drunken louts, happy to relax after a presumably hard day's work. The simplicity of it all kind of summed up Madras for me, although I was only too happy to get back to Bangalore. And of course, nothing could beat the sheer novelty of being being served rasam-vadai and sundal with the beer!

The vacation ended too soon, and I can only wonder what the two cities will be like next time around. Dickens' London and Paris is a different world in a different era, so I'll have to twist his opening line as I steal it for an ending: it isn't the best of times, it isn't the worst of times.

Return to two cities: Bangalore

2008-06-11T22:06:00.000-07:00

The decade hasn't been all that kind to Bangalore. Through a combination of apathetic governance, overpopulation, burgeoning traffic problems and certain inadequacies, the city seems to have become a sort of punching bag for the rest of the state and country. Outsiders reportedly don't feel as welcome as before. Even Bangalore's forgiving climate isn't what it used to be. And of course, the Royal Challengers weren't exactly the epitome of sporting prowess last season (If you think the last one was irrelevant, the most common question I get from Desis these days in Austin is 'Why are Bangalore so crap?').

Bangalore redeems itself by being a very...hmm...redeeming sort of place. The day I landed for the short vacation was the first time I became conscious of my US-returnee blood. The dust and pollution got to me, and it felt really strange because on my visit last year I never felt anything of the sort. After all the waiting, I was also taken aback to discover the volume of traffic on Wheeler road (refer previous post). I recovered quickly, for in spite all the limitations and changes, Bangalore still provides the same dependable delights. For example, a typical morning would center around kickass chutney and coffee, my dad's obsession with getting the perfect shot of the cuckoos on the tree next door, and helping my mom at her office (with a free ride to MG Road an added bonus). The afternoon would usually involve critical acquisitions around the MG/Brigade road area, such as a pair of jeans that actually fitted me, or an old battered Magnasound Cassette from one of the two shops-that-actually-sell-these-things. The evenings were generally about food and friends.

For me, two Bangalore institutions epitomise the nature of the city in the face of change like no other: Lakeview Milk Bar, which was rudely sent packing from MG's last year, has made a seamless shift to St.Mark's Road and continues the drive in service and brilliant sundaes (Preacher's note: Corner House fans,forget everything else and have the triple sundae here. Even now at Rs.60, I still rate it the best pound-for-pound sundae going around). And Premier Bookstore, which was supposed to have met with a rude ending of its own, soldiers on in the same place with the same messy but fascinating piles. As I made my discounted purchase, I asked Shanbhag about the lease problem and how long he could expect to remain there. He smiled and muttered something with a casual shrug. Whatever it was, I completely agreed. It was a stupid question.

(continued in the Madras post)

Where the streets have no traffic

2008-05-03T12:58:00.000-07:00

It'd be easy to say that I'm headed all the way to Bangalore for a paltry two-week vacation purely for a small round of hometown indulgences - eating/drinking, loafing, visiting old bookstores and cassette shops - in addition to visiting family. The real reason I'm going is to relive the experience of crossing the main road outside my apartment.

I define 'home' as a place where you can cross the street without ever having to look left or right. You step outside, without so much as a quick glance at the incoming traffic, and next thing you know you're transported to the other side as if the traffic never existed. You might as well be blind (for those few seconds, anyway). It's this feeling of invincibility I get every time I hop over to Thom's Bakery and stores on Wheeler Road, for a round of provisions or a quick snack and it's the homecomer's ultimate high. The one thing here that makes me conscious I'm an outsider is the fact that not only do I have to remember "left-then-right" all over again while crossing, the speed of the converging traffic is much less predictable too.

Of course, I'm alive to the possibility that the traffic menace from the rest of the city may have spilled onto virginal Wheeler Road, as Change usually conspires to crush my happiness. That, however, doesn't mean my expectations are dampened, and I look forward to finding out what else might have changed and whether I can deal with it. Just before my last visit, at home they actually considered keeping mineral water and toilet paper ready for me. I'm happy to say that TP is not yet a necessity, but a reassurance that my stomach's immunity system hasn't been spoilt by another year of American water would be most welcome.

Drip off the tongue

2008-04-28T15:57:00.000-07:00

Work dangles over my head like an axe waiting to come down, but all I can think of is food. I'm not sure how many grad students feel the same way, but deciding where my next meal will come from is becoming an increasingly integral part of the the day. This tendency puts me at odds with the company I keep, most of whom are satisfied that returning home to a meal of potato curry and rice every single day provides at least one reassuring constant in this place. Though a lot of people think I'm superficial (or just plain impractical) for not seeing things in this light, it does make my occasional food quests more challenging and interesting.

Which brings me to the common desi pastime of cribbing about the food scene here. You've heard it all before, but no reports of homesickness can be complete without mentioning how you miss your ghar-ka-khaana, how you've been forced to learn to cook(and whatever you whip up tastes infinitely better than the junk you get outside), how the trip to Madras Pavillion or Taj Palace is the high point of your month, and most importantly, the reaffirmation that Indian food is the best and everything else is as bland as hell.

My friend has this theory that the one side effect of Indian food is, if you've been eating nothing else all your life, the continued assault of spices and chilli will eventually damage your taste buds. To the extent that you'll find most overseas food (particularly Western cuisines) totally flat and tasteless and as a result be unable to appreciate the subtlety and mild flavours that make some of the food here really worth trying. Ashanka makes the point quite well, in a post about her China visit. I guess most of the college and work crowd I used to hang out with would label me a pretentious pseud for subscribing to sentiments like these. I remember most of the quizzing crowd in RV and the rest of Bangalore who used to deem eateries which were not cheap or even moderately classy as "pseud places", probably because it fell in line with the whole "simple living high thinking" aura. It could be the same attitude that desi grad students have towards eating out here. I mean, some of them would be happy living on Taco Bell throughout their study program. For my part, I'm willing to spend good money on good food once in a while, even if it's only for the sake of trying something new.

My two-bits for the cribbing crowd would be: there's lots of good food out here, if you take the trouble to look. You need to be prepared to sample and experiment, and the rewards will come. The myth about (the lack of good) vegetarian food here was debunked long ago. From American salad and sandwich bars to immigrant-run Mexican and Vietnamese places, there's something for everyone and every budget.

Note: Since I'll be leaving for Bangalore in two weeks (and fully intend to revisit all my favourite food haunts there), homesick desi readers will probably take all this patronising with a pinch of Morton table salt. A classic 'other side of the fence' case - but not for long.

Battling Insomnia

2008-04-10T16:12:00.000-07:00

The original title I had in mind for this post was "The trite and tested", because I was all set to write it in point form once again. When every other post on your blog is a list of some sort, you know that scourge called writer's block has kicked in. At one end of the blogging spectrum you have Fred Astairs and Prabhu Devas who churn out sonnets and haikus of varying quality, but varying nonetheless. At the other end we have the majority whose hypothetical two left feet are forever stuck in that blogospheric cement called listmania. So this post is really an exercise in dragging my feet away before the cement dries.

Anyway, this insomnia problem is quite debilitating. In my previous student phase, it might have actually felt pretty cool to declare to the world "OK, so I'm not a morning person after all. Everything happens by night so screw you." Insomnia's a bit like cynicism. One moment you feel all knowing and proud, mocking reality's moves with your every observation. Next thing you know, it's dragging you down at a time you wish you had kicked it long ago. So now, after my body clock has devolved to the extent of unfailingly keeping me up till 3 in the morning, I've decided I need to become an early bird overnight, dammit.

I tried a whole lot of suggested remedies. Reading, which at my mother's insistence, used to work back in high school, but no more. I tried listening to some long winding tapes of L.Subramaniam and Miles Davis but found myself concentrating too hard on the music. My roomie recommended a nestle hot chocolate drink which came with the tag "award winning", and the psychological impact of the tag was good enough for it to cure my problem for a short while. Unfortunately, I couldn't find it in the shops again and horlicks wasn't a good enough substitute. So I'm back to square one again and open to suggestions.

To ponder, or not to ponder: Ten things I'll probably never understand

2008-02-24T13:54:00.000-08:00

1. The rear spoiler on cars: I'm not a car person so I guess I won't get the point. But seriously, does aerodynamic benefit really matter in the crowded city? And 'spoiler' is just the right word, in terms of looks.

2. The stock market: At some point I'm going to have to convince myself that ignorance is neither bliss nor an excuse.

3. How the transistor works: Now here's a notable academic (anti) achievement. After finding modern physics interesting in class 12, six years of engineering have done enough for me to un-learn the baby steps.

4. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand: I must have attempted to read this book at least ten times, and have never got beyond page 50. Objectivism be damned!

5. Why every contemporary Bollywood song has a seemingly mandatory Hinglish chorus: Samples: "My dil goes hmmmm", or "I looked at you, you looked at me
aur ho gayi mushkil ...." OK, so using English in film songs isn't a new thing, and is probably a reflection of how adaptable modern Hindi is. But isn't the fad starting to feel overabused and jaded?

6. The toothpaste tube etiquette suggestion. Squeeze tube from bottom and flatten as you go up: Here's a rule I've been following blindly from day one. Will be happy if someone can provide me the scientific or logical explanation.

7. "What is the matrix?": Eight years after, I still don't know the answer, and I still couldn't care less. If you finally figured it out at the cost of many a tedious moment, I hope your grey cells took a well deserved vacation.

8. Organised religion: The emphasis is on organised. Maybe this is what comes with a liberal Hindu upbringing, but I believe religion is a personal thing and should be left to the individual. And I'm neither an atheist nor an agnostic.

9. Death metal type vocalists: How does the genre (and all its related styles) get so popular when the lead singers seem to have drawn their primary inspiration from Cookie Monster?

10. Women calling each other "babe": Interesting one. A case of mars and venus, I guess.

Pronounced "Su-haas"

2008-01-29T20:00:00.000-08:00

Americans sure appreciate brevity and clarity. Especially when it comes to names, and that goes double for foreign names. Exotic names simply disturb the precious equilibrium here. Unless you are French or Spanish (with a suitably seductive accent), foreign names are a turn off. The effect this has on us outsiders-looking-in is quite noticeable on campus; some laugh it off, others acquire convenient nicknames, and a few are even tempted to change their name. The far-eastern students, obviously aggrieved by the manner in which their names are murdered by the average American who takes it upon himself to pronounce them, have hit upon a callcenter-like solution; they adopt convenient 'American' aliases (Trang becomes Alex, Xingzhou becomes Robin). The yanks are spared the tongue twisters, their eardrums are spared the damage, and everyone's happy.

Indians, however, are not so compromising (unless they dream of ending up in a callcenter themselves). Long names are like prized possessions to be flaunted, an attribute that adds to individual uniqueness. While Americans prefer our names any day to the Chinese, for every Shah or Singh with which they may get away lightly, there is always a Sabharwala or a Ramalingaswamy waiting to confound them. Occasionally half-measures prevail; Padmanabhan introduces himself as Paddy, and Manimozhian provides a reassuring 'You can call me Mani'. Far from being upset about the inability of his name to be universally accepted, the average Desi gets a kick out of it. Despite the high standing that goes with all this, I'm pretty happy that my short five-letter name has posed no problem whatsoever for American tongues. Surprisingly, they find it easy to pronounce my surname too. The only ambiguity I can recall is when a Teaching Assistant spelled my name as 'Suhaas' and wondered if I was German. Well, anyway I can be happy with the fact that no awkward moments have resulted in calling out my name.

This is in complete contrast to the scene back home. In India, it's as if the simpler the name is the more difficult it becomes to pronounce; hardly anyone gets my name right the first time, and fewer still prefer to leave it as it is. 'Suhas' is apparently the perfect candidate for a mumbled corruption. Some landmark abuses of my name over the years include:

1. "Sugas": This is the Tamil pronounciation. In much the same way as 'Mahesh' becomes 'Magesh'.

2. "Subhash": As if the Tam version wasn't bad enough, this is the regular Northie version. At one point, I was called Subhash Ghai in school and that was as close as I got to being likened to anyone in the film industry. And I won't even mention the Bong version.

3. "Suhasini": A common way of mocking a young boy is to girl-ify his name. I think it has its origins in the fact that Suhasini Manirathnam used to live very close to my Grandmother's old Madras home. Another film industry connection.

4. "Seuss": Inspired by Dr.Seuss?

5. "Sauce": Apparently a lot of people feel the need to condense two syllables to one.

Well, at least one thing's changed for the better after coming here.

No more fear and loathing in Austin, Texas

2008-01-19T12:23:00.000-08:00

A couple of readers, presumably the only ones who visit this blog, have complained that my posts have degenerated into cynical nothingness. The apparent overload of dreary dark drivel seems to have raised questions about my state of mental health. In my defence, I maintain I have been totally jobless of late and the dross I keyed in was just for kicks, without any pretensions of wanting to prove anything to anyone. However, in a bid to retain my core audience (whoever they may be), I have resolved to give the blog a more optimistic outlook.

The last newyear resolution I made must have been back in 1990 when I promised to be a good boy or not to fight with my sister or some such crap. Eighteen years on, the time seems right for a new one. I promise to curb my pessimism and facade of bitterness, even if 2008 is already nineteen days old. Maybe I have unwittingly been enjoying it and have been in denial about the comfortable student existence I now lead. Out here, I have finally come to the realisation that I'm leading the good life in its twilight, and I should savour it while it lasts. I am now free to make my own entertainment, without any pressures apart from academic ones, and that rocks.

The first day of the new semester was a case in point. It could've been any day of the last year-and-a-half, which is a very reassuring feeling. I had a class at nine in the morning and had duly set three alarms. As if by clockwork (excuse the pun), I was woken only to turn off the noise and blissfully get back to sleep each time. I somehow leaped out at five to nine and arrived in class at my usual standard time. Once on campus, I could focus my faculties on the most important item on my daily agenda: lunch. The day spun madly but predictably on, and I was all the happier for it. Work will soon pile up, but the timepass will remain a constant. Might as well celebrate it, while it lingers on. For now, i can look forward to another sem's worth of the following:

1. Hours of guilt free sleep constrained only by regular homework. One of the reasons I would rather not work in this country is the scary thought of having to wake up at six in the morning most of the time. No such worries at the moment, though.
2. The daily indulgence of getting to answer mankind's most important question: "Where shall we have lunch?". The undisputed highpoint of my day, and I've been pretty pleased with my discoveries here, including a Brazillian restaurant.
3. Continued improvisation on my own cooking. While the results are not always as palatable as they should be, it gives me scope to enjoy the previously stated activity even more.
4. Access to a library with pretty much all the books in the world. As a result, I've become pretty promiscuous in my reading habits and I'm currently shuttling between four books at the moment. Whatever faithful lit snobs may say, variety rocks.
5. Access to a swimming pool. Great for cooling off once in a while, or relaxing in the sun on a deck chair with cooler in hand and dark glasses on to render the roving of eyes in the direction of heavenly bodies less obvious.
6. Trips around town in the local buses with (visibly) colourful characters. This is a place full of hippies, you see.
7. Putting my tapes to good use. I've recently come into possession of an old cassette player, so I don't have to rely solely on my walkman to keep my tapes in circulation.
8. Oh yeah. And coursework of course.

So, life's good. The year has got off to a fine start, following the resolution. I'm not repenting on that one.

Lost in a dream, nothing's what it seems

2008-01-09T21:45:00.000-08:00

Yup, readers will squirm at me reading too much into a cricketing incident and wondering if it mirrors the real world. I accept cricket is not a metaphor for life, but sometimes it comes pretty close.

If you're in India right now you must be sick of Bollyline or Puntergate or whatever the media has chosen to label the Sydney test happenings. I was disturbed. Not merely on a cricketing level. That 'pact' about taking the fielders word, proposed by Ricky Ponting and accepted by Anil Kumble before the game, strangely continues to resonate. It allowed the Aussies to justify the Ganguly dismissal on day 5, and I'm certain they couldn't believe how well it served their purpose. It sure came back to haunt Kumble, didn't it? What was he thinking? It seemed to serve as a reminder that 'trust' is something better left to storybooks, fables and moral science classes. Or maybe it just reiterated a new age truth that anything you 'trust' in may be used against you.

I can see where Kumble was coming from. As a keen student of the game and a great admirer of his opponents, he was all for entering into what seemed like a move towards the right spirit (whatever that means, you might say). Maybe he saw it as a chance to play the game the Aussie way - as a fellow blogger put it? Perhaps he was just being a hopeless romantic, imagining world peace was still a solution. Given the chance I too would like to believe that people around me, friends, competitors or otherwise, are well intentioned and things like 'honesty' and 'integrity' do not exist merely in the corporate sense. But ever so often we are forced to re-evaluate and lower our expectations of individuals because, well, a Puntergate happens. I guess there's only so much any of us are willing to live up to.

We live in an era where how you say it is sometimes more important than what you say, or what you do. Ricky Ponting's success, particularly in the way he dictated that umpiring verdict and the way he was able to sway the match referee's decision to punish Harbhajan Singh, bears this out. The guy (before this game, anyway) was an expert at talking to the media and saying all the right things, being the perfect ambassador and all that. It took a Puntergate to know the real Punter behind the smiling skipper. And I am pretty unhappy about this because I believed, or wanted to believe in his nice-guy image.

Am I being naive, or just too much of a cricket tragic?

A decade of two Martina Hingises

2007-11-10T19:02:00.000-08:00

Martina Hingis, according to the image transfixed in my mind from her heady days in the late 90s, is the brazen, cocksure schoolgirl whom you love to loathe but just can't ignore. Someone with the supreme confidence and arrogance to say what she wants about herself and everyone else, the attitude to carry it off, AND be good enough to get away with it.

Four years after I muttered "good riddance" to myself as she was forced into a state of semi-retirement after a series of injuries, it appears that her solid comeback has been stopped in its tracks following the cocaine accusations. She claims she does not have the heart or drive to fight them off, and has permanently retired. Which leaves me a bit devastated because much as I hate the old Hingis, a part of me wanted her comeback to be a shot in the arm for the old school, and even out an era dominated by a power game. Not only to inject some feminine grace back into the sport, but also have a survivor and a distinct personality from the 90s (a decade that appeals more to me) still holding fort.

Tennis, being a one-on-one sport, provides more room for predjudice and mindless anti-fandom than cricket or football. Back in the day, when Pete Sampras cried for his coach and then proceeded to beat Jim Courier in an epic five setter, I was at best grudging in my praise for him. This Courier fan was convinced his man was robbed of victory by fate, and all this additional on-court drama only turned the tide of sympathy in favour of nice-guy-Pete even more. I found it revolting, at the time. (No offence Pete, you're the best). Though Pete and Martina are poles apart as personalities, in a similar way I was turned against the Swiss miss during her meteoric rise to number 1 in 1997. With Steffi Graf on the wane, I was hoping one of Mary Pierce, Concita Martinez, Jana Novotna and Sanchez-Vicario would attain the top spot they had been denied during Graf's reign (I would add the Goddess herself, Gabriela Sabatini to that list had she not prematurely retired). Instead we had the bratty 16 year old, complete with the suffocating presence of her mom-coach Melanie "Monitor" taking the world by storm and having a big mouth to boot. Unbearable, it was. In hindsight, and to be fair to her, early success was drilled into her by a tennis loving family who had the audacity to name her after a champion from yesteryear.

Our mutual dislike, as I like to call it, developed further over the next two years. Martina continually mocked me by winning a string of titles and spending about 200 plus weeks at the top, while I celebrated her occasional defeats as the next best thing to a New Zealand victory. She took it one step too far by dismissing Steffi Graf's comeback, and I had the last laugh when Graf outplayed her at Roland Garros in '99. That was when it all started to go downhill for her. She had ironically said of Graf's comeback "it's a faster, more athletic game now than when she played. She is old now. Her time has passed." Little did we know that the same "faster, athletic game" she spoke of would be taken to new degrees by the Williams sisters, and Martina just couldn't compete. I somehow just couldn't enjoy the rise of the Williamses (complete with the suffocating presence of dad-coach Richard), great athletes but all power and little subtlety. It seemed to have an indelible impact on the game until the advent of Justine Henin. My stand on Hingis had softened considerably by this stage. A while after she called it quits the first time in 2003, in a typical case of not knowing what you have till it's gone, I suddenly longed for her game; deft placements, changes of pace and overall variety, the antithesis of the 21st century game, it needed to return to supremacy. Not to mention her undeniable charisma and visual appeal.

Post 25, you're a senior citizen in women's tennis terms. So it was a little hard to reconcile with the image of the new Hingis when she returned from her two year absence in 2005. Gone was the brash teenager and a solid and mature twentysomething had taken her place. Her comeback was creditable for most part without setting the world on fire (though she did reach as high as number 6 in the WTA rankings). In a perverse sort of way, I wished she could be the obnoxious kid of yesteryear, but she was already on the wrong side of her 20s. As I type this, it serves as another reminder of how time flies. (Martina Hingis is 27? Getting old, aren't we all)

Surprisingly for a person who loved and devoured his weekly Sportstar, I've never been big on posters. However I will concede that in any dream poster collection of mine, Martina Hingis will occupy pride of place alongside Sabatini, Graf, Henin and Sharapova in the women's tennis category. That is my grudging tribute.

May the Force leave you be

2007-09-08T16:55:00.000-07:00

During a conversation with a friend of mine, the kind who smashes quizzes all over the countryside in his sleep and accumulates a fortune in cash/bikes/accolades/whatever, I casually asked him if he ever considered making it (quizzing) a career. You know, conduct quizzes and quiz based events for a living, a la Avinash Mudaliar or Derek O'Brien. The Indian Corporate and academic world being what it is, you would never be out of business and there's good money in it too. "No", he replied, "The moment it stops being a hobby and becomes work, there's no fun in it."

This sentiment seems to agree with one of my (hardly original) pet theories that as soon as you are under compulsion to do something, or if you have someone pressing you to do a piece of work (and enjoy it), it becomes a chore and out goes the enjoyment. When it involves something that should be a leisurely activity, things get especially bewildering. Fine, if you're a helpless creature like me who's incapable of surviving alone in the jungle, you do need to seek advice and instructions quite often. However, a hobby is what it is because you don't have people telling you what to do. For example, I renewed my interest in books halfway through college primarily because I discovered a lot of good stuff on my own or by accident. Hitherto I was being told by everyone to cultivate a 'reading habit'(what a disgusting term!), and it was a bit of a turn off from printed matter which I'm happy to say is well behind me.

Rules, however are a part of life so you have to live with them right from the start. Call me a cynic, but I still think loving your school, studies or work is overrated. In one Calvin and Hobbes strip, Calvin is shown dreaming about blowing up his school on the way to it, then he snaps out of it with a sigh when he reaches there. Bill Watterson adds a footnote saying he got a lot of flack for that cartoon, and those readers (who apparently took him very seriously) had obviously never been to school before! If you're like Suzie Derkins, oh so excited about the first day of school and looking at it as a chance to meet new people and teachers and learn new stuff, all I can say is you better watch out for that snowball heading your way. I think a lot of us got along better with Faculty in college than in school, probably because our opinions and expectations of each other were much more transparent. Once they accepted that we turned up for class just for the attendance and our aspirations leaned more towards clearing exams than enriching our knowledge with the finer points they had to offer, whatever tension there was in the air gradually vanished and both parties could slip into a comfort zone. We, in turn, understood their point of view and difficulties with the system and were on largely good terms with them. School with its blind protocol was a different story, and I still find the notion that school should be fun quite amusing. On the subject of studies, everyone loves talking about their 'academic interests'. Who are they kidding? The term is an oxymoron.

'Job satisfaction' is another overrated term. Liking your job and office is one thing, but can you really be crazy about whatever it is you're doing? This is work after all. Like studies, it's not something that's meant to be enjoyed. It's all very well to proudly declare that your dream job may be that of a reviewer of DVDs or a cricket commentator, but would you be able to live your passion on your own terms?

Since I don't use 'labels' on this blog, or categorise my posts, I should probably insert the word RANT (using oversized capitals) in the title. I have three assignments thrust upon me, so go figure. Maybe it's time I outgrew these pet theories and turn to one of my hobbies on the side for immediate relief. I've gotten hooked to Scott Adams' Dilbert books of late. The next book in the series I plan to purchase is called The Joy of Work.

An ice cream man's guide to a happy life

2007-07-20T04:01:00.000-07:00

It must be a decade since I've read an Archie comic book (or 'digest', as they call it) in its entirety. Along with Disney Today, Amar Chitra Katha and Tinkle, the Archie digest was a source of generous timepass laced with mostly juvenile humour back in the day. One particular strip remains stuck in my head because it pretty much sums up the uncomplicated nature of the characters, in this case Jughead Jones.

The story begins thus: Jughead's mom has cut off his allowance, and he whines to Archie and Reggie about it, "Now how do I pay for all the food I want to eat?". He tries his hand at a variety of odd jobs to raise the money, right from lawn-mowing to dog-walking, but he screws up things and gets the boot each time around. He is in a desperate position.

Next, Archie and Reggie see Jughead driving an ice cream van, complete with the ding-a-ling bell, and slurping on a cone. "So Jughead's an ice cream man now!" comments Archie. "Yeah, and it looks like he's his own best customer!" observes Reggie. "I love this job!" says Jughead, "All the ice cream I can eat! And other guys are willing to trade all kinds of stuff with me! How about that!". The immediate scene shows him exchanging his cones for a popsicle and a sundae with another vendor.

"But doesn't it get boring eating ice cream all the time?" questions Reggie. "That's why I trade off some ice cream for other stuff when I wan't something else" comes Jughead's reply, and he's shown giving off a cone in exchange for a pizza pie. "Thanks man!" says the pizza boy, wiping the sweat from his brow, "Phew! It's hot." "See?" says Jughead, "It'a long summer. Everyone's only too happy to give me all kinds of food in return for my ice cream."

"But don't you have to pay for all that ice cream you eat?", asks Archie. "Yeah, that's why I'm willing to sell off some of the ice cream - but just enough to break even" says Jughead. "Yeah wise guy, but it means you don't make any money, right?" counters Reggie. To which Jughead answers, "So who needs money? All I wanted was enough food to satisfy my hunger pangs!"

Reggie thinks out loud "I really wonder who's crazy....Jughead or the world". Archie replies "I have a hunch it isn't Jughead".

PS: It's often said that beer is the solution to all the world's problems. I reckon ice cream isn't far behind.

We all live in an IT company

2007-06-06T22:34:00.000-07:00

(To be sung to the tune of The Beatles' Yellow Submarine. This is my first, and probably last attempt at a spoof. Inspired by my 12th standard days when we used to see droves of techies riding to office on their bikes and chant 'There go the IT boys!'.)

In the town where i was born
Lived a man, who cracked JEE
And he told us of his job
In an IT Company.

So we slogged our asses off
Till we made it to IIT
And we finally lived our dream
Of joining an IT Company.

Chorus:
We all live in an IT Company,
IT Company, IT Company
We all live in an IT Company,
IT Company, IT Company

'Twas our first day at Infy
A speech by Narayan Murty
Then a hundred PPTs
About our IT company.

[Repeat Chorus]

And our friends are all aboard
Many more of them, on the floor below
And they type, and surf away
Ta-ta-ta-tak-ta-tak-ta-tak-tak
(Synchronised punching of keys on the keyboards)

[Repeat Chorus]

So we sit, and code all day
And enjoy the free coffee,
Nine-to-five, then five-to-three
In our IT Company

[Repeat Chorus]

Then we're sent, to the USA
An onsite visit, all for free
We get homesick every day
But what the hell, we're IT!! (Shout out loud)

[Repeat Chorus]

As we work, and earn with ease
A social life is all we need
Pay hike, fat salary
It's great to be in this Company!

[Repeat Chorus, then fade out]

Flying Fatigue

2007-06-06T21:31:00.000-07:00

Back in middle school, I had two obsessions: wildlife and air travel. Anything beyond your reach always fills you with intrigue, which partly explains my obsession. In the early 90s, flights were prohibitively expensive, and the nearest National Park, Nagarahole was taken over by Veerappan and co. It looked a dead certainty that I would never experience the delights of boarding a plane (train travel seemed boring and commonplace) or seeing a leopard in the wild, so I celebrated them in my own imaginative capacity. I used to think the hallmark of an Indian town or city was the presence of an airport. Similarly, when I used to pore through write-ups about wild sanctuaries over the country, the first piece of info I used to look for was their proximity to the closest airport!

Thirteen years down the line, I retain my fondness for the wild, in spite of (or because of) the fact that I haven't been to a national park of any significance. But, an overkill of flying through the week preceding my arrival in Bangalore (after completing a year's study in the states) has pretty much killed my appetite for the skies. A few years back, I would have laughed at the thought. Time brings about a strange cognizance however, and I can now fully understand why regular air travellers hate flying. The clamour in airports, checking in, waiting for long hours, luggage worries, claustrophobia, erratic food.....the cons outweigh the pros. I flew from Dallas to LA, and two days later I left on a Malaysian Airlies flight which stopped for an hour in Taipei and landed in Kuala Lumpur. Next came an eight hour wait for the connecting flight from KL. When I finally landed in Bangalore it was the closest I've come to feeling like a zombie. Rough work it must be, being a businessperson or a cricketer and living out of a suitcase all the time. For the moment I'm happy being a student. The silver lining was I got to see quite a bit of LA and KL which did make the whole exercise appear worth it. Especially noteworthy was the four hour trip around KL in a hired car.

It feels great to touch base in India after nine months. That period hasn't been especially life changing or anything, but I did come to realise a couple of things: 1) Travel light and don't try to stuff too much into your luggage. It just isn't possible to pack your entire life in a suitcase. 2) Networking (aka contact-buliding), much as I detest the word, is an essential skill. Don't stay home without it.

Flicker, then be blown out

2007-05-02T14:35:00.000-07:00

The world's most livable city goes from garden to grave. The best doubles pair in tennis splits up and breaks a billion hearts. Pink Floyd cassettes are re-released at 35 bucks higher and the lyrics booklets conveniently forgotten. The ice cream place two blocks away gives in to competition decides to call it a day. A charming hotel becomes a mall so grotesque. A quality sports magazine goes tabloid and sells its soul. Music channels on the rise bite the dust in a Bhangra Sandstorm. The world's best batsman is consumed by injuries and rendered mortal. A narrative wildlife show of yesteryear is condensed to a crappy interactive educational CD. Flexi-timings in college are stamped out, year after year. A trio of memorable theaters are now abandoned wrecks. A mind-boggling music store inexplicably vanishes. The original reality show with a bald guy in a maze is succeeded by lousy American ones and their Indian counterparts. Classy cola ads give way to tripe with mudslinging being the sole motivation. A remotely interesting syllabus is deemed not 'educational' enough and changed. A cartoon channel goes new age and compromises on humour and animation. Wrestling goes from sport to soap opera. Even cheap bookstores start deciding comics are for the elite. An amazing prof feels his teaching interests lie elsewhere. Endearing folks come and go. The streets are full but I feel alone...

Reality bites. The good shall die young and the not-so-good shall inherit the earth. The above is a random list of gripes I've had to live with, watching a part of me disappear all the time. Part contemplation, part resignation. Maybe it has the trappings of a shamelessly negative mind wallowing in the past, conveniently leaving out the rest of the story, the bright spots. But all this has spanned more than a decade of decadence. And that's long enough, isn't it? Extinction is forever.

IIT revisited...again??

2007-03-13T01:26:00.000-07:00

First we had Chetan Bhagat with his endearing but admittedly lightweight story about what not to do at IIT, through the eyes of three misfits within the 'fucked-up system'. Then came Abhijeet Bhaduri with his b-school version, the cleverly titled 'Mediocre But Arrogant' (an acronym for MBA). And now we have a third book that looks similar on the surface: Amitabha Bagchi's "Above Average", the life of an IITan and his quest to become the drummer of a rock band. The novel was apparently released on the 12th of February.
http://www.aboveaveragebook.com/

The title itself is quite telling ("Five point someone.....Medicore but Arrogant...Above Average", do we detect a trend here?), but after reading this excerpt from an interview with Bagchi posted on the website, maybe he deserves the benefit of the doubt: " I was near the end of the first draft of Above Average when a friend called me one day and said that Chetan has written a book. At that point I had already been working on Above Average for three and a half years. So it's not as if I saw all these books get successful and then decided I wanted a piece of the pie. I guess I just got scooped by Chetan Bhagat." He also goes on to say that the book is intrinsically different from FPS, the latter being about life in IIT while his book is more about the growing up of a middle class student. The author, like Bhagat, is an alumnous of IIT Delhi but the interesting thing is he is employed as an Assistant Professor there at the moment. Wonder if that detail changes the reader's perspective, somewhat?

One thing's for sure, the book will sell very well initially, in the wake of FPS' popularity and for the same reasons will attract cynicsm from a lot of potential readers. The synopisis may leave a lot of us pursing our lips saying, "Not again!", but on reading some of the excerpts on the site, I must say the prose seems solid if unspectacular. Maybe the book does deserve to be viewed on its own terms. The shadow of its two 'predecessors' (Bagchi would definitely not appreciate my using that word, but I will reserve my judgement) will be very hard to escape, though. I will probably pick it up out of curiosity, when I next make a visit to India. If any of you happen to read it, I'd be interested in hearing your feedback.

One book on the IIT theme I would definitely recommend, however, is the non-fiction "The IITans", by Sandipan Deb, editor of the Outlook. I read about half the book a couple of years ago and it has since remained on my long list of incompletes. It was certainly well written, though. From what i remember, the author takes a look at how the IITs were formed, foreign collaboration and all, and how they have evolved over the years. He talks to IITans past and present, in all corners of the world, about what life was like in the IITs. Deb reserves special mention for those who left their cushy jobs in the states and elsewhere, and returned to work in the public sector as a path to personal fulfillment. There's even a chapter where female alumni recall what it meant being a girl in an overwhelmingly male-dominated institution, and so on. My memory of this book is pretty hazy, and I plan to re-read it from start to finish sometime. I'm sure you would enjoy it as well.

A Random Song List

2007-03-04T13:47:00.000-08:00

Sometimes you look back on your music catalog and decide to compile lists for the heck of it, which is great timepass on a gloomy Sunday. A lot of people have asked me what my favourite romantic song would be, and this list is a partial answer to that I guess. This isn't a list of love songs in the strict sense, but more a 'songs about love' list, so my choices are common yet not-so-obvious at the same time. Here are four of them, in no particular order.

1. BLACK - PEARL JAM
Most people know Pearl Jam's album TEN for the song 'Jeremy' which was their statement for the whole teen-angst thing (and therefore made the group more marketable). However, 'Black' is a much more haunting song. Of course, it makes this list because it is (the) song about a lost love. But what makes it resonate more than Jeremy is the fact that the protagonist (or is it antagonist) is not merelytormented, he shows himself to be extremely vulnerable. It starts off rather innocuously, a gradual bulid up. With "All I taught her was everything..", Eddie Vedder brings in the 'loss' element. The clincher of course is the amazing set of lines "I know someday you'll have a beautiful life, I know you'll be a sun in somebody else's sky, but why, why can't it be, why can't it be mine...", Vedder might have spoken for every single one of us there. By the end, Vedder has plunged the song into despair and actually sounds like he is weeping uncontrollably. I have never heard a vocalist paint a picture of helplessness as effectively.

2. BABY I LOVE YOUR WAY - PETER FRAMPTON
I like this song because it gives me a feel of Goa for some reason. I've been to Goa only twice in my life, last in 2002, so that's saying something. If you haven't heard it, I suggest you get hold of the live version on FRAMPTON COMES ALIVE, which is one of the more enjoyable live albums I've heard. In contrast to Black, this acoustic gem isn't an intense song at all; it's pleasant and mildly upbeat. My interest in the song was renewed when I read Nick Hornby's Hi-Fidelity last October. The young singer's rendition of 'Baby i love your way' captivates Rob, and I often associate the book with the song. "Shadows grow so long before my eyes...And they're moving across the page...Suddenly the day turns into night" might give you a clue about why I picture Goa, or a peaceful moonlit beach, everytime I hear the song.

3. SOMEBODY TO LOVE - JEFFERSON AIRPLANE
This is the classic 'not a love song, but a song about love'. Grace Slick's vocals give the impression of her being a worldly-wise but willing-to-lend-a-helping-hand sort of character. To me the song seems somewhat situational and atmospheric; it gives the impression of a rather naive person going through a day-to-day routine in an unforgiving environment, trying to take her (or his) worries in her stride and putting up with the inconsistencies of people around her. Eventually, the bitter undercurrent, the taunts, and the scores of people taking her for a ride all get to to her and she breaks down. She feels trampled and out of place in this atmosphere, and needs somebody to love. ("Tears are running down your breast and your friends baby they treat you like a guest..") Again, my interest in the song was renewed when it appeared elsewhere. This time, it was the Jim Carrey movie 'The Cable Guy'. The film has often been dismissed as one in which Carrey's lunacy goes overboard, but I like it's disturbing element. When Jim Carrey sings it at the Karaoke session in the movie, it seems to fit in very well in the scheme of things. His Friend, Steven, is in the midst of a troubled relationship and he, the Cable Guy, needs a friend. It's strange but also sometimes a given that I need to find book or movie references to truly appreciate a song for what it is. Amen to that, anyway!

4. NEVER TEAR US APART - INXS
Out-and-out love songs are not really my thing ( I absolutely hate Aerosmith's 'I don't wanna miss a thing', for example). This one, however, is a class apart because it somehow manages to sound both melancholy and sugary at the same time. There's the lovely violin intro which builds up a bittersweet mood, and then Michael Hutchence takes over. The song really belongs to him, his smooth vocals sound as reassuring as Eddie Vedder's are vulnerable. In hindsight, it's hard to believe this is a song from the 80s when overdone power ballads were the in thing. The lyrics are simple rather than brilliant, but "If I hurt you, I'd make wine from your tears" is an interesting line. The last minute sees the saxophone suddenly kick in, a great finishing touch which leads the song to a dreamy end. Ultimately, it's the small details which make this song a moving one.

Honourable mentions:
EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE - THE POLICE
DON'T FEAR THE REAPER - BLUE OYSTER CULT
DIAMONDS AND RUST - JOAN BAEZ
WONDERWALL - OASIS

In response to Mr.Kesavan: 'Cricket and Coolness?'

2007-02-03T13:48:00.000-08:00

PREFACE: I must admit to the extremely narrow context of this post: it is merely a personal perspective on an issue nicely dealt with by Mukul Kesavan, on Cricinfo Blogs: Maybe you could read his post before you read mine.
Men In White: On the Strange Death of Indian Cricket

While reading the comments in response to this post by Mr.Kesavan, I think quite a few people were misled by the title of the post and proceeded to deride him about representing such a small (and admittedly elitist) sample of the Indian cricket-viewing population. But that's just the point. It was not meant to be a socio-analysis on a large scale at all - the sample under observation was chosen quite deliberately. The way I saw it, the author has noticed something of a decline in that section of the cricketing audience - urban, middle-class, English-speaking children - which may be small but is intrinsically vital to the game in this country. Being part of that elitist minority, I couldn't help reflecting further on this. I grew up in similar yet not-so-similar circumstances to the kids Mukul describes, and I found myself drawing on my associations with cricket (and football) through my school and college life. Again, this post (as was Mukul's) is of fairly narrow context so my ramblings may as well be deemed irrelevant.

First of all, Mr.Kesavan's article does beg the question, "Is the decline of the audience mentioned really of any importance?" I mean, cricket was perceived as an upper-class, exclusionist sport but the tables have turned. The focus has indeed shifted from metropolitan cities to smaller provincial areas, as reflected in the makeup of the national side. Such a shift can only be for the better, in which case if the audience in the cities is at all on the decline it shouldn't matter too much right? I don't think so, and can actually empathize with the author when he says "When our children defect, an unbroken sequence of cricketing generations is severed, a familial cricketing tradition, a silsila, becomes defunct." What the urban middle and upper class brings to Indian cricket is a sense of tradition, sentiment and knowledge of the game. Cricket is the subject of much controversy today and when I say 'controversy', I'm not talking about match-fixing, sledging and the like. People question the relevance of cricket in today's global and consumerist world - as the author puts it "international cricket sometimes seems like a tawdry, post-colonial leftover, too small and tarnished a mirror....". For such a reviled and seemingly characterless sport, cricket has a rich and varied history. Such are the nuances of the game that cricket literature is unrivalled by that of any other sport - it's a genre by itself. Surely all this is something to be celebrated? And this is where the audience in question, with the relative tastefulness it possesses, comes in. But again, is all that sentiment, romance and tradition something the urban Indian sports fan would want to associate himself with? Apparently not, if Mr.Kesavan is to be believed, and it's something that seems to be vindicated when I think back to the way my peers looked at cricket right through school and college. The masses outside the big cities, who form the overwhelming support base of Indian cricket really do capture the pulse of the game. What most of them would not care to develop is a deeper appreciation for the game, test cricket in particular. Most of them don't have the time for it - they have too much to worry about in their day to day lives. Unfortunately the BCCI doesn't seem to give a damn about the sensibilities of such fans, constantly feeding them a diet of non-stop one dayers on flat pitches and the crass commercialisation that goes with it. That may have contributed to cricket being perceived as 'uncool' among rich city boys. That seems to be exactly what Mr.kesavan is worried about - the dwindling of Indian cricket's most 'knowledgeable' fan base. And let's face it, every sport needs its knowledgeable and articulate fans.

I must confess to being exactly like Mukul's son when i was a kid (I'm talking eight or nine years old here), but in a different way. I first started following cricket seriously during the '92 World Cup. By the end of it, I was a New Zealand fan and have been so ever since. At the time, it seemed way cooler to follow a 'successful' team who had an innovative skipper who scored matchwinning fifties at will, a spinner with an Indian name who opened the bowling, and a 22 year old called Chris Harris who could run out my favourite opposition batsman (David Boon) with a direct hit from the boundary. (India, of course, were miserable in that tournament). With that as an example, I can see why high school kids prefer to be associated with Arsenal and Henry rather than the Indian team. But again, eight year olds are much more impressionable than teenagers so I'm not sure if the comparison is wholly valid. I've been casually following football for quite a while now, and still haven't found a team to support (Though I do have a soft corner for Barca and Liverpool). The World Cup means more to me than Club football, anyway. In college, however, i did notice that cricket was being upstaged by football(especially when it came down to the business of supporting one's favourite team), at least in the coolness stakes. Cricket had become the sporting equivalent of Bollywood for the so-called hep crowd - something everyone discusses but no one really wants to admit his fondness for, since it's supposedly passe.

Nouveau football fans will always be a source of puzzlement to cricket purists like me. They're all up to date with the club scene (Read: The EPL) but couldn't care as much when it comes to the World Cup. No one seems to know what a dominant force Liverpool was in the 70s and 80s, or about Geoff Hurst's goal in the '66 final. Even worse, no one's discerning enough to appreciate that the EPL is, apart from the top few teams, a hotbed for mediocre football (as opposed to La Liga for example). The EPL craze is a marketing phenomenon and an extension of the massive ground it's covered in South Asia over the last half-decade. In the school-timeline, I can trace it back to 1998 when all those French World Cup winners moved to English Clubs and ESPN began airing the games primetime. Support for the EPL at the expense of quality football elsewhere has been a by-product. As far as I'm concerned, this is dumbing down and commercialisation at its peak. City slickers of today prefer the junk food of the EPL and 300 plus one-day games as opposed to the fine cuisine of the World Cup, other leagues, and test cricket. Even worse is the trend that some people come across as fair weather fans, whose loyalty is easily subject to change.

In a moment of hubris, I reflect on my unwavering support for the New Zealand (cricket) side over fifteen years now. Not a great side, admittedly, but still I do feel a sense of 'we' as opposed to the Indian team. Yes, i do care about the Indian team - except when they play the kiwis. This may amount to small scale treason, but it's been ingrained over the years. That - loyalty - is ultimately what it's all about. If Mr.Kesavan's son remains an Arsenal fan for the next fifteen years (assuming Arsenal experiences a few big slumps in between), I'll consider him a genuine fan. But back the the larger issue which Mukul was addressing, I'll always swear by cricket and its idiosyncrasies. I hope all those other city kids the author is worried about eventually realise that cricket is the real thing, and get back to the game we love. Irrespective of how the national side performs.

A Victorian Secret in Bangalore

2007-01-16T22:18:00.000-08:00

NOTE: To anyone who objects to my not calling Bangalore by its correct name: simply adjust maadi.

One of my dad's friends is in Bangalore for a visit. There's been talk of many of them meeting up, and apparently one of the venues suggested was a pub in Bangalore Central mall. My dad was immediately drawn into refusal mode(when he heard this suggestion), and the following chain of mails resulted, letting them know why he objected to Bangalore Central:

Initial Mail from my dad:
Hi Deepak
Leave it to the other Bengaluru dakoos to choose the venue - BUT with one clear proviso: I think Bangalore Central cropped up as one option; sorry, but under no circumstances ie even to meet you, Deepak, will I step into Bangalore Central ever. Its built on the grave of my favouritest place, the old Victoria Hotel. And, Iam serious about this, so please everyone don't think Iam joking about this!

Friend's reply:
Hey Cad
No panic - its going to be an apparently sensible place called the Windsor Pub.
What is Bangalore Central exactly? A shopping mall?

Dad's reply:
Deepak,

Yeah, Bangalore Central is one of the many malls that have sprouted up all over.

The Victoria Hotel, which was razed to allow B Central to come up, was an incredible place; it started (in the late 19th Century) as some sort of club for the Brits; then became a (small)hotel, with large rooms and almost as large attached bathrooms. Plus a restaurant with stained glass windows, a verandah where you could sit on cane chairs and have beer and food; also a large garden area, where you could sit in the evenings (under massive, really massive 300 year old trees)and spend several leisurely hours over whiskies or rums, and food. The food was a mixture of Western (actually Anglo Indian, like cutlets, masala fish fries, etc) and South Indian non veg (like muton pepper fry, etc). On Sundays,they had a terrific breakfast, including spiced Goan sausages + paav. or Appams and mutton stew, and of course bacon and eggs.

I remember a time around 1992, when a close friend of mine was relocating to Hong Kong, and we decided to spend his last evening here, just the two of us, at the lawn of the Victoria, which we had haunted thru the previous 5 years. We started off on our rums around 8pm, along with snacks... and continued thru till past 11pm, when the waiter said it was time to close - BUT, that if we could tell us how many more rums we wanted, and what food we would eat after that (incl suggestions as to what would taste ok even if it was cold), he would put all that on another table next to us. We told him, he brought the stuff, we paid the bill (incl of course a hefty tip), and continued; just the two of us, just one light burning in the entire hotel, under those incredible trees, till 2.30am! Post which, we cleared the plates, left them neatly piled up and covered, woke up the watchman to have the gate opened, and he saw us off with an exhortation to drive carefully!!

Many times I asked the owner (a Malyalee who had grown up in Sri Lanka) whether he would sell his hotel to me, and to name his price (if he had, I swear I would have moved heaven and earth to raise the money); the answer was always a polite no.

And then, suddenly, the hotel closed down; the owner and my waiter friends all disappeared; the trees started being chopped off; and this horrible glitzy irrelevant monstrosity started coming up. I took an oath that I would never ever go there; my son understood perfectly, my daughter thought it was sentimental nonsense and that I would certainly go to Bangalore Central after perhaps a couple of years. Today, I think she too appreciates the strength of my conviction!!!

So, see you at Windsor Pub!!!

End of chain. Time for me to go into partial-internal-reflection mode:
I had been to the Victoria Hotel two or three times as far as I can remember. It was indeed a classy place - not 'classy' as in the garish concrete splendour of the Leela, but with a green leafy old-world charm - the sort you'd associate with a hill station retreat. It was incongruously located at that Mg Road-Residency Road Junction, a nightmare these days given the volume of traffic. While I was there, I was probably too preoccupied with other things in my head to take in every detail, but I have fond memories of the garden area my dad mentioned above. It had an earthy feel to it which felt miles away from MG road. And the food was kickass as well as unpretentious - I remember trying spicy Vindaloo and Goan sausages there for the first time, finding them too hot to handle. So too mutton pepper fry and the rest. (Of course, I wasn't allowed any beer - I suspect that would've helped!) I discovered, among other things, there's more to South Indian food than idly-vada-dosa. What would I give now, to be able to sit and have a beer there with the right company and all that spicy food, amidst all the greenery, so hard to find in the rest of Bangalore!

Yes Bangalore has its malls, and for those of us who like to believe we want something older, there's always Pecos, Lakeview, koshy's and the like. But I have a feeling I've missed out on something here, by not being able to revisit the Victoria. Another jewel of the 'old' city brushed away in favour of the demands of commercialism. The Garden city tag may have long disappeared, but if you still want to know why, look no further than the Victoria as an example.However it feels futile and hollow, keying this in all the way from Austin (with the benefit of hindsight). Oh well...

Paint it, Black: Preview of the tri series

2007-01-11T21:18:00.000-08:00

NOTE: By the time this is published, the tri-series would have got underway. Had to rush it in, nevertheless.

There are as many as eight survivors in the kiwi side for the CB series from the one that last competed in the same tournament five years ago (if Scott Styris joins the side later, that'll make it nine). While it does show the reliance of New Zealand on a core group of players, the squad will be hard pressed to emulate the class of 2002, when Fleming had studied the Aussies all season long and worked out their vulnerable areas. Inspired by the rookie Shane Bond, with support from Chris Cairns and Chris Harris, that team subjected Australia to three consecutive defeats and nearly a fourth, playing an unfamiliar brand of streetsmart cricket which caught their opponents napping. This time, the Aussies aren't likely to be off the ball and it will take much more than imaginative captaincy to beat them. Three victories over the Aussies may be a bit optimistic but a place in the finals would be the very least of the team's expectations. Bracewell and Fleming both pride themselves on having worked out a versatile one day outfit, though there must be worries at the back of their minds after the lukewarm series against Sri Lanka. The batting is quite underdone and (as usual) needs either Fleming or Astle to run into a rich vein of form. To do that straightaway in Australia is a tough ask. The bowling perhaps lacks a key ingredient in Kyle Mills, the most improved kiwi player in the last couple of years, and depends too much on Bond. It'll be interesting to see how Fleming uses and shuffles his attack. For instance, a case could be made for using Daniel Vettori in the slog overs, as the Aussies have generally been happy to play out his overs in the middle of the innings. The absence of Scott Styris and Jacob Oram seems to have affected the balance of the side, and the kiwis will be hoping for their return midway through the series. If they are to reach the final, (and I'm sure they will), attacking would be the way to go. NZ have already signaled this intent by using Brendom McCullum as opener. The likes of Ross Taylor and Peter Fulton should enjoy Australian wickets, and Mark Gillespie looks to be a reasonable foil for Bond though the Aussies will be more than happy to test his nerve under pressure. The main worry for me, though is the bench strength or lack of it. With eight games to get through, it looks like Bracewell could have chosen a later moment to unveil his rotation policy!

On to the Aussies, who've won eight out of the last nine triangular tournaments at home. While they look set to make that nine, if there's any weakness on their part it's probably their predicatbility, or so I like to believe; strong men but with a familiar approach. The kiwis have played them so many times in the last couple of years there should be no surprises, really. Yet Fleming and co have totally lost the edge over them, unable to seize vital opportunities each time. As an example, the spin duo of Brad Hogg and Cameron White shouldn't strike terror into the hearts of too many batsmen - I mean, NZ's duo of Vettori and Patel, and even Monty Panesar should really be able to outbowl them. But every time they're able to capitalize on the pressure created by the quickies and prise out a few important wickets. It usually takes outstanding individual performances (Bond in 2002, Jerome Taylor in the Champions Trophy preliminary round this year) to beat the Aussies, simply because they demand the very best of the opposition.

England are something of an unknown entity, beacuse they don't play either Australia or New Zealand regularly in One Day Cricket. Despite their woeful track record of late, this relative anonymity might suit them just fine. What they do have in their ranks which the kiwis don't is proven explosive quality in the batting - Kevin Pietersen and Flintoff, who might understand what Chris Cairns would have felt like as the allround star in an otherwise average lineup. How the kiwi bowlers deal with Pietersen is something I'd be interested to see. Their batting looks a bit more accomplished than New Zealand's at the moment. Add to this a couple of hard nuts in Jamie Dalrymple and Jon Lewis and the side looks decent on paper. I'm backing the kiwis' superior fielding and overall know-how in ODIs to give them the edge. If England do pip them for a place in the final, I may well be tearing my hair out. And if the Aussies are then displaced, I might just buy myself a wig.

Paint it, Black: Plumbing the Depths

2007-01-07T00:08:00.000-08:00

Every now and then comes along a game you're better off forgetting. Given the lukewarm nature of the current NZ-Sri lanka series, that shouldn't be a problem (for kiwi fans, at any rate) when you consider the kiwis' defeat in the fourth one-dayer which is their heaviest in history. It so happened I didn't catch the game on streaming online video or on cricinfo (which has become the norm these days), to my supposed good fortune. When I did eventually see the final scorecard, rather than shock me outright it seemed to confirm a couple of truths which have been lying beneath all series long. They have eventually surfaced, it appears.

Firstly, and most importantly, the tactics carried out in the name of rotation have left the top order in a mess, pretty much where it was at the end of the Champions Trophy. As I mentioned in the previous article, the Rotation Policy does seem to have brought a few positive changes - Brendon McCullum as opener, for one. However, in his apparent eagerness to juggle the batsmen around, John Bracewell seems to have only brought chaos into the ranks, when it needn't have been that way. I think he would do well to realise that the kiwis still depend largely on their most experienced pair, Fleming and Astle and to have them match-fit for the series in Australia should have been top priority. I'm sure the players themselves have no idea what the batting order for the next game will be. In Astle's case, he is much better suited to opening the innings and batting right through. The presence of McCullum and Taylor would enable him to go along at his own pace without worrying about the run-rate. Given that he was barely convincing in the tests, Fleming should have figured right from the beginning of the series. The Aussies would be extremely interested to note that he's been nailed leg-before by Chaminda Vaas quite regularly of late (as were Taylor and Marshall on Saturday); a certain Nathan Bracken might well be taking note.

Secondly, the kiwis' (or Bracewell's) refusal to field their strongest side must come as a bit of an insult to the Lankans, a better team than we sometimes give them credit for. It's all very well to use a five match series as preparation for a decidedly longer, tougher one - but when you're up against an explosive batting team and an attack which boasts Vaas, Murali and Malinga you can't expect a run of victories without your best lineup. The Lankan batsmen have blown hot and cold on this tour like most subcontinental sides, but the strong bowling unit has more often than not kept their kiwi counterparts in check. They do look a better side than New Zealand at the moment, and a 3-2 victory in this series would be a just result for the entertaining cricket they've played.

Lastly, I do think the selectors may have missed a couple of tricks as far as the squad for Australia is concerned. Michael Mason may be a stout hearted trier, but looks to be cannon fodder for Ricky Ponting and co - if Chris Martin were to join forces with Bond and Gillespie instead, the Aussies might have a bit to think about. Not too sure about Andre Adams either - the selectors might have done better to bolster the batting by adding Mathew Sinclair or Lou Vincent. Or, if they really wanted someone with allround skills, I would have gone back to Chris Harris (still performing reliably for Cantebury). In the previous article, I had talked about how 'utility' players were a constant fixture in the Australian side adopting the rotation policy. There seems to be a parallel here of packing the side with too many bowling allrounders, such as Adams, Franklin and Vettori, in the hope they may strengthen the batting. The latter two may be indispensible, but specialists are the need of the hour. Which is why Vettori should go back to being a number 8 or 9.

Paint it, Black: Dissecting the Rotation Policy

2007-01-05T13:06:00.000-08:00

The phrase "Rotation Policy" was most famously drummed about during the ODI campaigns of Steve Waugh's Australian side during their peak, in 2000 and 2001. It essentially comprised of two strategies: slotting individual players into definite roles, and resting the incumbents at various times during a series so as to give the second-choice player a chance. While Gilchrist and Mark Waugh were regular openers, Waugh was often rested to give Matthew Hayden a chance. Such tactics apparently kept the side fresh and the competition healthy, and all along Australia's success was attributed to their flexibility. Central to this policy was a middle order of 'utility' players which included Andrew Symonds, Ian Harvey, Shane Lee and Damien Martyn (yes, he was thought of as a bits and pieces player).

But, in January 2002, when New Zealand and South Africa arrived for the annual VB series, the same rotation policy was shown up for being too, yes, inflexible. As New Zealand fans will fondly remember, Australia lost three and almost a fourth game to the kiwis chasing, and failed to make the finals in their own backyard. The press criticised the complacency that had been bred as a result of Rotation, and the Waugh twins were jettisoned for good. To cite an example of how the policy failed at the time, it dictated that Mark Waugh,Gilchrist and Hayden could not play together in the playing XI because their role as openers was cleary defined; thus Australia would not field their strongest (or, shall we say, in-form) side. The same set of utility players I mentioned were shaken up and forced to reinvent themselves; Harvey as a specialist death or changeup bowler and Martyn as an authoritative no.4, while Symonds found his feet in the World Cup after a prolonged struggle. Since then, it's fair to say Australia have been practising a restrained form of rotation under Ricky Ponting. Except, it's no longer a compulsive strategy - Ricky Ponting refuses to leave anything to chance. The word 'rotation' is something you'll never hear from the Aussie Camp these days.

Now, kiwi coach John Bracwell has adopted the tactic with a view to building depth in the side before the World Cup. It may be partly justified given New Zealand's problems with injuries, and at the same time may leave players confused as to what exactly their role in the side is. At the moment, it has certainly brought in changes that look promising - Brendon McCulum as an attacking opener, Hamish Marshall down to a more comfortable number 6 and Michael Mason establishing himself at a World Cup contender. There have been a couple of perplexing moments too, such as Daniel Vettori's promotion to the middle order, which I hope will be discontinued. Before the all important tri-series in Australia, however, you would have to wonder if New Zealand's premier batsmen are better off having some time in the middle - particularly Stephen Fleming and Nathan Astle. The batting failures during the Champions Trophy were attributed to lack of match practice, so I'd much rather see a settled batting lineup for the time being. New Zealand go into the fourth game of the series with a 2-1 lead, with the additional bonus of Ross Taylor and Mark Gillespie proving their worth, at least on favourable surfaces. They could well end up winning 4-1, but I would have thought the objective of this series was to find out their best combination or unit, going into the Australia series rather than juggling the players about. You really can't afford to use elimination games against Australia and England to figure out who your best XI is, even if certain key players are missing. James Marshall scores a half-century as opener but is not required for the upcoming games, while Craig McMillan has suddenly been handed a lifeline and a ticket to Australia. Mind you, McMillan looks a better bet than Marshall, but his inclusion feels a bit unjustified. Bracewell has conveniently decided he will be slotted into Brendon McCullum's role at number7, but this again smells of the inflexibility which as I mentioned could be a side-effect of the Rotation policy. Surely there must be a better position for McMillan? It also means there is a certain sameness to the bowling. Mason has done well in conditions that suit him but I don't see him troubling the Australians - having him, Adams and Franklin in the same lineup is a bit of a worry. Jeetan Patel hasn't been given a game and it looks like Chris Martin will not figure in the selector's plans at all. All this places too much responsibility on Shane Bond, although there seems to be some cover for him at least.

New Zealand have two more games against Sri lanka to get into their stride, but they are in danger of a potential mess during the tri-series if they don't identify their best side on form. The Rotation policy may be here to stay, but Bracwell must be careful it doesn't inhibit any flexibility on his part during the all important build up to the World Cup.

Ash to Ash: Thoughts on Smoking

2007-01-02T01:10:00.000-08:00

The title of the post is itself a bit contradictory as I have hardly any 'thoughts' or anything to say on the subject. If I was slotted in one of those Group Discussion Rounds which have become the norm in most job or b-school selection procedures, and the topic was simply 'Smoking', chances are I'd draw a blank. What actually pricks me though, is my apparent indifference to the whole smoking thing. I guess this post was an attempt to look within and find out why I've never even slid a cigarette through my lips. But some exercises are futile, and I just don't have an answer.

Indifference is all I can recall during school and it seems to have stayed with me. I remember being selected along with a few others to present a set of essays on cancer, with a particular accent on the dangers of cigarette smoking. Seemingly, the more dramatic you made it sound the more points you got. What material we came up with would probably be enough to dissuade the biggest addict, but it certainly didn't make any deep meaningful socially-moral impression on me; nor did it bring out any curiosity and cocky scepticism. In another episode, one of my classmates was discovered to have a cigarette pack in his bag, which he claimed had been planted on him. He became a chain smoker much later on, and people remembering the incident wonder whether he had in fact started off all those years ago. I really couldn't have cared less; and still don't. Which is a little scary, if I think about it.

People often wonder why I've never tried smoking even once in my life, as if I'm missing out on a thrill (of trying something for the first time), or just being a 'good boy'. And it's quite amusing, because I don't have a rational explanation for it. To me, it's almost as if smoking doesn't exist and (to borrow a line) is like a road accident - something that seems to happen only to other people. If that was a poor analogy in arrogant bad taste, it shows how lost I am for an explanation. What could be the real reason? It could be because I wasn't in a friend circle of smokers, but then again I had enough friends in college who did smoke. Why I declined everytime I was offered a cigarette i don't know, but I have no regrets. Perhaps I had passed the impressionable age, but looking back practically everyone started off in college. I didn't consider it taboo either - I'm guessing there are more unpleasant ways to ruin one's health - and don't find the idea disgusting or anything. And I'm really not bothered by smoke and smokers around me. In my year of work at CTS, I frequently accompanied colleagues to the smoking zone (which was actually quite a nice area) and wasn't put off in the least by the haze around me. Seems like I've done a fair bit of passive smoking!

(To top it all, cigarettes have been lying all over the house since God knows when. Curiosity, far from getting the better off me, never even knocked once. It's as if we had this peaceful coexistence pact running, the cigarettes and I, so that we weren't even aware that the other was around. So I was never drawn to the pack, and the pack didn't 'call out to me' either - and a lot of sentimental smokers apparently like to believe the cigarette calls out to them.)

Since I can't arrive at any explanation, the only conclusion is indifference, as I've stated above. And that's exactly the itch I needed to scratch when keying in all this, pointless as it was. It begs the question, 'Am I better off not caring at all?' I guess it doesn't matter anymore.

R.I.P Leon Ireland

2006-12-23T15:58:00.000-08:00

Putting up two posts in three days about some concerts I attended many moons ago makes the blog feel jaded. The moment I heard about the death of Leon Ireland, lead vocalist of the Chennai rock band Moksha, I knew I just had to put up this post anyway. In similar vein to the Deep Purple post, Moksha's performance at St.John's Medical College, Bangalore on the 10th of November 2001 was the first ever college rock show I attended. I had a blast and no rock show I've attended since has ever come close (Friends of mine from RV EEE might point to the Imbalance show at the end of Vidyut 2004. A good show but it paled in comparison to the one I'm describing in this post). In spite of myself, I want this post to be unpretentious and humble like Moksha and Leon were; just a simple thank you to Leon for putting on an awesome concert that night and letting me have the time of my life.

No major build up, no great expectations this time. Guys in the first phase of college life these days are remarkably well informed about local bands and nuggets of info like who plays which covers best, who plays the best pure death/thrash, who DJs at which pub, etc. By comparison, for an avid (rock) music listener, I was an innocent little ignoramous when I joined college. Fests and rock shows didn't mean anything to me but I was more than happy to tag along with 'the herd' on Saturday, 10/11/2001 for the Autumn Muse rock show featuring Threnody and Moksha. There was a goodish crowd with the usual suspects - black t-shirts, couples, wannabe death-metallers etc. We arrived just in time to see Threnody finish their bit with Metallica's Whiplash. That had the crowd moving a bit. Then Moksha arrived. Hope they're good, I said to myself. What do they play? They warmed up with an own-comp. I don't quite remember but I think it was Dine with the Devil. Then came a blistering succession of songs delivered with such tightness and energy which literally blew me off my feet. It's passe for most Indian rock/college rock bands to play covers of 80s hard rock bands these days, and even more passe for the (self-respcting) 'rock' crowd to like that kind of music. That wasn't the case with Moksha and it rocked. When they went ahead with a full-throttle take on Motley Crue's 'Kickstart My Heart', I was in the seventh heaven of delight. I jumped and crashed my head around without a hint of self-consciousness, screaming out the lyrics for all I was worth. I've no idea what the rest of the crowd was doing. The people immediately surrounding us (the herd) must've eyed me with the disdain reserved for posers. (Motley Crue? Who the hell listens to a lame-ass band from the glam era whose locks of hair had ten times more depth than their music? With a few reservations, my general policy is, 'If it rocks hard and true with a neat melody, bring it on! ). This was followed by Whitesnake's 'Slide it in' and Extreme's 'Suzy'. Such a track list was a big 'huh?' for the purist and newbie alike. I loved it. 'Do you guys like Van Halen?' yelled Leon. 'I think I heard someone scream "Eruption" said Christy, "Nah, I couldn't pull off that one. Sorry Eddie. It'll have to be PANAMAA!" More frenzy from me, as I continued to revel in the innocence of my first rock show. I was as excited as a fox let loose in a hen-house. Next came "....And this song's from a group that calls itself 'icy daicy'" and he started off "You shook me all night long." Then came the powerful Maiden medley, which included Wrathchild, Be Quick or Be dead and Can I Play with madness, as far as I can remember. I have never, ever heard better Maiden covers in my life. (Moksha's trademark sound is very Maiden-ish indeed, but they sure know what they're good at, and play it amazingly well!) What followed was the most memorable moment of that show , which'll always remain etched in my memory. The crowd yelled for a Sabbath cover, then a Dream Theater cover, and finally the chants of 'Floyd! Floyd' came about.The rest of the herd, who don't share my liking for hard rock, joined in eagerly. "You guys have just cost me a big dinner!" quipped Leon, "I had a bet with Christy here that the audience wouldn't ask for Floyd. I hate you guys!" And they started off with that inexplicably haunting, dreamy, overplayed yet overpowering college rock show staple, 'Comfortably Numb'. It felt really...er, numb (for genuine lack of a better word). Seven of us, singing at the tops of our voices. That was the heady moment for the day! After some Dio, Metallica and Judas Priest covers, my friends had enough of this noisy overload of unfamiliar compositions, and decided it was time to go. I reluctantly went along, neck almost broken and throat absolutely worn out from screaming myself silly. The herd said they'd never see me go wild ever before. They needed to take me to a rock concert every month now, for the apparent novelty of seeing me go wild.

Regrettably, that would be the only time I saw Moksha in concert. There was a show in PESIT sometime during May 2002, which i couldn't attend due to some stupid internal or the other. Then in May 2004, there was a show in palace Grounds featuring Pentagram, Zebediah Plush and Moksha for which I showed up with major expectations. Plush were solid that night. Then, the rain came and washed away the possibility of Moksha performing. Later I heard Willy, drummer boy and senior in College who shifted to Chennai, had joined the band so i had faint hopes of seeing them again. With the unfortunate new sof Leon's is death, and the fact that I'm in the states, the John's show and its associated nostalgia is all I'm left with.

I can't claim to be a Moksha fanatic, though I've listened to and enjoyed some of their stuff, especially 'Dine with the devil' and 'Chasing my life'. However, that show five years ago at St.John's remains one of my fondest memories of college life, a night of pure uncomplicated genuine fun and, the most enjoyable rock show I've been to (not theat I've been to a great many). And I really repsect the band for whatever little they've done for the rock scene in India, for appearing on the Maiden Tribute Album and all that. And of course, for transforming the scene in Chennai, my birthplace and a city otherwise not especially renowned its contribution to Rock Music. No doubt Leon will receive more fitting tributes than this one from people who attended more than just one of Moksha's shows. Nevertheless, I've posted mine as an appreciation for the time I had at that concert. Here's hoping the show goes on yet.

The Unwritten Diaries: Deep Purple Revisited

2006-12-21T00:31:00.000-08:00

Well, Deep Purple made their second visit to Bangalore in the last five years on Sunday. I heard it was a good concert and all that, and really wished I was there. Of special mention, my sister was at the show and at around nine in the night (which would be 9:30 am US central time) she gave me a call from her mobile when they were in the middle of "Highway Star" so that I would get to hear it, as she had promised. But of course, I was sleeping like a log at the time. I was conscious of the call for a second, then the next moment I ignored the phone and effortlessly returned to my sleep. However, her efforts were not wasted after all. In all the din around her all she could do was shout "Can you hear me?" a couple of times. She obviously thought I was on the line, as it appeared that way on her cell. So, when I finally dragged myself out of bed and checked my phone, I found a new voice message. I played it, heard her voice and then the familiar Jon Lord keyboard run followed by "Nobody gonna take my car...". It came out pretty clearly, and cost my sister quite a bit of currency on her cell in process. At the same time, it brought the memories back to me all at once. Love you Kets!

As a Bangalore resident I have been fortunate enough to attend quite a few concerts over the last few years, including Roger Waters, Joe Satriani and AR Rahman (for a really good account of our Rahman experience, check out my friend Akar's blog, entry dated October 27th 2005 http://tastepeatka.spaces.live.com/?_c11_blogpart_blogpart=blogview&_c=blogpart&partqs=
amonth%3d10%26ayear%3d2005). However, the Deep Purple concert of 2001 will always have a special place in my memory bank. It wasn't the first live show I attended - that was actually a Michael Learns to Rock show in 1996 (which was admittedly good, but that's a different story). By 2001 I was a more conscious music lover so this was for all practical purposes my first real concert experience. This seems like a good time to consult the unwritten diary in my head, and rewind to April Fools' day, 2001: Deep Purple's show in Bangalore, and the events that preceded it.

The first time I heard Deep Purple was in Class XI. Mohan and Suhas Noronha used to bring a lot of their stuff (ie. cassettes) to school, and the Anthems compilation tape I borrowed from had Purple's "Smoke on the Water" on it. Sometime after this, I heard Highway Star, identified it instantly as a tune from an old Philips ad which ends with "Why did you turn it off?It was so nice.." Later, in Class XII, Noronha recorded a copy of 30:The Best of Deep Purple for himself. I borrowed it on a couple of occasions and remember being hooked on "Strange Kind of Woman", partly because Channel V was playing a contrived video of it as the soundtrack to the Om Puri Film "East is East". I liked the stuff I heard a lot, but was simultaneously discovering so many artists so I was in no way a huge fan or devotee of the band as yet. Enter 2001 and the class XII boards were fast approaching. On January 31st, in a comfortable little break between the end of the prelims and the start of my study hols, I took out the 125 bucks I had saved up with great difficulty, and headed for a music store down the road. On a whim, I decided to buy the 30: Best of Deep Purple tape as a study break companion for the next few weeks. By now I had grown to appreciate these guys and the music they made. Little did I know I would be seeing them very soon!

The schedule for the ISC Boards, which began on march 1st, was quite crazy. I had taken up Computer Science as my fifth subject in the science stream. While the Biology guys were done by the 19th of March, there was a week's gap between that day (the day of the Physics exam) and the day Comp paper. This would be followed by the Comp Pracs paper - on the 30th of March. So we were having to deal with a critical set of exams for an entire month, which was pretty exhausting mentally. In the middle of this period of the longest days of our lives came a real bolt from the blue. Bangalore Times, the notorious supplement, carried a small feature about Deep Purple coming to Bangalore on the first of April. Their show would raise funds for the victims of the quake that had occured in Gujarat early in the year. Schoolboys we still were, but the cynicism had already crept in. We initially dismissed it as an April Fool joke, noting that it was so characteristic of BT to try and pull a fast one on the readers. Deep Purple? The Band? The guys who wrote Smoke on the Water? It couldn't be. Then, joy arrived as the low profile coverage of this event-to-be soon gave way to some space in the papers and on TV. BPL was to sponsor it, and they put on an ad for the event, with a suitably purpled background claming "The Gods of Rock are coming....Be there, get blessed."It was too good to be true. Finally we had a legendary band coming to Bangalore and the timing couldn't have been better - 2 days after the boards ended. I chatted non stop with it about Mohan, Suhas Noronha and Kary, none of use were missing out on it. We each had separate plans though. I would be going along with my sister, cousins Kartoon, Chitz, Bharat and Anant. Chitz had come down from Hyd along with a friend of hers, Vini and was providing the transport. Kartoon had purchased the now seemingly mandatory copy of 30: Best of Deep Purple (which was hurriedly reissued at 150 bucks with a lyrics booklet and selling like crazy once the announcement had been made). I, by now the knowledgeable music fan, was happy to play mentor and guide him through the track list. These days, he plays mentor and tries to guide me through his favourite Death and Black Metal bands, but finds an unappreciative ear. Anyway, the event was now upon us and high excitement was in the air. April fools' day had arrived. The tickets were a mere 250 bucks. There were still lingering doubts whether we were bakras or not for an April fool joke. Until I saw the band onstage, I vowed, I would not believe...

We drove up to Palace Grounds and reached the place at 5:30. I recall being intimidated by the sheer mass of people there, for a relatively small venue. We made a wise decision to come early, the lines were long and slow moving. For all the time it took to reach the concert area, it was an amazing experience, just taking in the atmosphere around me. Having never been to a concert of this scale before, despite supposedly being a rock fan now, I got a look at the weird mixture of people you see at your typical rock show for the first time. Apart from familiar faces (Fittingly I met Noronha there; he too was with cousins), they were all there: The college crowd with black Maiden and Metallica tshirts, flashier guys with dark glasses accompanied by their damsels, the hip party set who were suitably (under) dressed for the April heat, some seasoned veterans in old faded Deep purple shirts, and also some pseudo-porki types who thought they were at some kind of dance show. I even remember a character who had painted the band member's names with the DP symbol on his plain white tshirt. All the while, we were slowly marching to the promised land (the concert area) and it felt wild. It felt like a pilgrimage of sorts. That was a short taste of what woodstock must've been like.

Finally we made it in. Stalls were all around selling rolls , pepsi and some souvenirs, bandanas and the like. No booze/cigarettes were officially allowed but most people managed to smuggle them in anyway. I remember a promotional flier handed out there, talking about Deep Purple and the arguments between fans over Purple vs Sabbath vs Zeppelin. I have a lot to say on that, but not in this post. As the sun slowly gave way, we had the opening act Thermal and a quarter on stage. Bruce Lee Mani and the boys did a pretty good job actually - I still remember them delivering "Brigade Street" with panache. Mani then prefaced the next song with "That was the upside of the city...now for the downside of the city" and waded into a dragging composition. TAAQ were in fine form, but they had clearly overstayed their welcome for the day, and the crowd was getting restless. As TAAQ meandered towards their finish, the doubts remained. Were Purple actually in town?

Then, it happened. A quick rearranging of instruments, a small soundcheck and the Gods surfaced. Murmurs from crowd all around. Then, i the most matter of fact way possible, without saying a word, the band launched into the opening riff which I (and, no doubt a good proportion of the crowd) recognised as "Woman from tokyo". Deafening roars followed - I shall never forget the screams of approval from the crowd. The next thing I knew me and Kartoon were 8 miles high in the air, hand raised, screaming in unison "Maaa Woman from Tok-ee-yow....!!!" It was as exhilarating as it could get.

For such an old band, they were in top form and ably assisted by the knowledgeable crowd. Some blistering moments followed with "Speed King", "Hush", and "Black Night". Ian Gillian was at his operatic best, and Jon Lord's keyboard runs were simply divine. The shoes of Ritchie Blackmore must have been tough to fill, but Steve Morse showed us he's a fine guitarist in his own right when he spat out a five minute medley comprising of ACDC's Back in Black and a couple of other tunes I couldn't identify. Meanwhile I was reveling in the innocence of my first show. All around me were couples on the ground making out (some of them right by my feet), and there was plenty of dope being passed around. It was a minor culture shock, I guess. But these sights and sounds have simply become part of the overall concert experience and the memories. So the junta had made it their woodstock after all.

When the instantly recognisable opening riff of "Smoke on the water" was sounded, the crowd fairly erupted. A while later, the band decided to call it quits, wished us a good night and told us what a tremendous audience we had been. Wait a second, we thought, wasn't this a bit premature? No 'Strange Kind of Woman'? No 'Child in Time'? And, no HIGHWAY STAR! Then, the chant came forth. Highway Star! Highway Star! The Gods obliged, and they duly came back for the encore. For one last time that night, we screamed our lungs out "I'm a Highway Staaaarrr...!" And the show ended as abruptly as it had begun. The stage was cleared in no time. As we trudged back, each of us individually sandwiched somewhere in the middle of the delirious crowd, we felt like we were in some kind of Zombie March. With great difficulty we got the car out and left palace grounds, tired out but totally satisfied. The Gods had indeed come, and we had been blessed.

A few somethings in a day of nothings: Dec 14th

2006-12-15T22:19:00.000-08:00

MOMENT OF THE DAY: Stepping out. To a gust of wind whose force I have never felt the likes of before. The first time I've experienced sub-zero temperatures in 11 years and the wind made me feel all the more numb. So this is what the Black Caps deal with in Wellington all the time?

ADVICE FOR THE DAY: "Stock yourself with movies, it'll be a long cold winter." - Nitin

BITCH OF THE DAY: Exams, and my apparent inability to come to terms with them.

WOTLA MOMENT OF THE DAY: Actually following cricinfo's online commentary, rather their ball-by-ball description of the Ashes play. It's a mixed bag, but you get to hear gems like "Boony wants a beer (crowd roar)." A nice throwback to the radio commentary days.

MOOD OF THE DAY: Anger. The unaccountable kind. This is what studying sometimes does to you, making you angry for no reason. Anger at what? At not making the most of the last year at home? At looking at the book and going blank? At not finding a suitable retort when most needed? For wishing I was anything but what I am? I need an outlet for this, but there's none in sight. If I had my way, everyone around me would turn into imps, I'd be armed with a Plasma Rifle and BFG 9000 and switch to ultra violence mode. IDKFA forever! But the laws of conservation prevail, and it's back to the books.

SONG OF THE DAY: Burning For You - Blue Oyster Cult. Really haunting song, this one. Might as well be "Burning for Bangalore", in my current situation.

Paint it, Black:

2006-12-05T15:42:00.001-08:00

Paint it, Black: Sinclair Returns

2006-12-05T15:42:00.000-08:00

(PREFACE: My entries on the blog so far fall into two definite categories: Some rather uninspired write-ups on University Life or something like it at Austin, and some slightly more inspired stuff on the Black Caps. I'm tempted to put them in separate blogs. For the time being, PAINT IT, BLACK will be my column dedicated to the goings-on in New Zealand Cricket.)

The naming of the squad for the first test against the Lankans saw the much anticipated return of Mathew Sinclair. It's hard to imagine that he made his debut seven years ago, double hundred and all, but has played only 24 tests since. His recall will be met with predictable reactions from the sceptics, who feel he isn't good enough for international cricket, but this could be a new lease of cricketing life for him. Will he be able to put his chequered past behind him, though?

His career has been a roller coaster ride since the 214, to put it mildly. Kiwi cricket's been starved of classy prolific batsmen for a long time now, so that innings invited huge celebration and the hope that he would be the next Martin Crowe. It was an innings of fearless strokeplay, especially his cutting and pulling, against the admittedly dispirited Windies. Disaster immediately followed, in the Trans-Tasman series at home. Australia were at their unstoppable best, he was cut down to size, and the limitations in his technique cruelly exposed. It's fair to say Lee and McGrath did to him exactly what Ambrose and Walsh did to Graeme Hick in his first series. The scars seemed to surface in every subsequent clash with the Aussies. The next season suggested he had come out of the Australian series a stronger player: the highlights being a gritty 150 in a low scoring test at Port Elizabeth, and his second double century against the Pakistanis at home. All this while, he was in and out of the one day squad, but capped the season with two hundreds in a tri nation tournament at Sharjah which earned praise from no less than Sunil Gavaskar. He had apparently established himself as Nathan Astle's opening partner, secured his test and ODI places, and demonstrated his class. That was as good as it got. The following season was the start of the slide for him.

The rematch series with the Aussies in Australia was a memorable one for the side given they came so close to pulling off an upset, but it wasn't a happy one for Sinclair. He was again undone by McGrath and co. despite getting off to starts, and lost his test place soon after. Ironically at the time, he seemed to have been typecast as a tests-only player and was not really considered for one-dayers, though he did play as a wicketkeeper batsmen for a couple of games in Sharjah when the think-tank was trying out available options following the retirement of Adam Parore. While the critics questioned his ability and temperament at the top level, the selectors clarified that he had NOT been discarded, but simply forced out of the playing XI since the competition for middle order spots was heavy. In the lead up to the 2003 World cup, he was a fringe selection for test match sides - always in the squad but never able to break in - yet he appeared to have cemented his place in the ODI squad as a number three, with some semi-consistent performances. During the 2003 World Cup, he was again a victim of bizarre selection policies. The New Zealand top order was largely out of sorts, and inexplicably the selectors preferred Lou Vincent and Craig McMillan ahead of him, wrongly in hindsight. A series of failures followed in Sri Lanka, when he returned to the test side. He was duly axed once more, and spent the next year and a half on the sidelines.

His last run with the National side pretty much sums up his career. He was asked to open alongside Mark Richardson in Bangladesh (as a replacement for the injured Michael Papps) at the start of the 2004-05 season and made a decent fist of it, adding two half centuries in the ODIs to go with his test return. Despite the weak opposition, that was a creditable return as most of the top order struggled on the slow wickets against the home spinners. Then, in completely opposite conditions, he was asked to contine as an opener - against the Aussies. Scores of 69,0,0,2 showed that makeshift openers simply do not work, least of all against Australia. I personally feel had he been given an opportunity in the middle order, he might have put his perceived Aussie-phobia straight. He seemed to be performing reasonably well in ODIs, but when Australia returned in February 2005 he made scores of 0 and 15 and was released by the selectors once again. The test team was plagued by injuries, yet the selectors ignored his claims. Now, on the basis of irresistable domestic performances (and a generally insipid NZ batting lineup), he gets his latest chance to do justice to his undoubted potential.

To put it all in perspective, for someone with his talent he's been treated unfairly by the last couple of selection panels. When set, he's a delight to watch and he's got an appetite for big scores all too rare among his peers. I'd like to think his best cricketing years have been mostly wasted away on the sidelines. At 31, his technical faults are unlikely to be improved upon and will keep the bowlers interested. However, given that players of lesser ability have been persevered with for longer, it must hurt that he hasn't been given an extended run in the side. He was not handled well during what should have been his best years, and must take it upon himself to establish himself in the side once and for all. Whether his return will be a damp squib or a triumphant one remains to be seen. With McMillan and Vincent out of favour, and Marshall and Fulton failing to deliver in the recent past, the door remains open.

Cheap Times, Cheap Thrills

2006-11-28T21:20:00.000-08:00

Exam time looms near. Just when I should be stepping up a gear, I find the urge to blog more than usual and post something other than New Zealand match reports. My overall handling of the work ethic here reminds me of a blurb from an Archie comic:

ARCHIE's MOM: My Archie's like a car...always on the go.
JUGHEAD's MOM: My Juggie's like a car too....only he's always in neutral.

My latest musing is that life is quite trite and unnecessarily expensive at the moment, compared to my undergrad days. You, the college goer, must have looked back on school days and thought "Shit...there was a whole lot you could do with 2/5/10 bucks back then...those were such fun filled days." Think on those lines and you'll get my drift. Now I spend about 10 to 15 dollars a day on food and other things (as well as unmentionable amounts on textbooks, etc), which feels like wasteful extravagance when I look back at the RV phase (the 'tax free' days as I'd like to call them). Trouble is, I'm not sure whether that phase has completely passed and I'm supposed to move on, or I'm stuck in some state of flux between that phase and the next one, whatever it is. So it's time for nostalgia once more, a list of random things I miss about college life back then. Since very few things are free, I shall preface the list by saying the best things in life are cheap. Beneath these layers of assumed sophistication, I'm still a cheap guy.

1. BIRDWATCHING
THEN: I think we were really lucky to be in the Electrical Department. Not because it attracted an exceptionally interesting crowd, but it had some architectural significance. We would position oursleves conveniently atop the parapet adjacent to that classroom (103 was it?) and survey the expanse below for potential eye-candy. The forerunners of this mostly fulfilling exercise were two good friends, whom I shall call Bajaj Chaurasia and Sincerely Darker (the major characters in my soon-to-be released fiction series, "The Chronicles of Bajaj: Misadventures of a Simple Mind"). October, it was acknowledged, was the season. That was when the junies came in. Bajaj was the database: his in-depth expertise and knowledge of any details concerning the individual specimens we sighted was peerless. Darker was the able spy, and I chipped in with useful strategic advice and imaginative inputs of my own. All this ensured reasonable ROI without ever having to reach into our own wallets. Unambitious, we were. Anything beyond? Never struggled for it, never achieved it.

NOW: The endless mass of distant white faces + lack of well-informed peers + the unwillingness to move my ass means it becomes a tiring exercise in UT Austin.

2. THE CANTEEN
THEN: Our RV Canteen was low on variety but high on dependablilty. Idli-dosa-vada, however, is something my stomach is fine with any time of the day - breakfast, lunch or post-lunch. The real bonus was when the sambar would be steaming hot - you could feel the satisfactory effects in your bloodstream. No fuss at all, and for a price range of 3 to 20 rupees you could feed yourself well enough. We graduated to DL as the years went by and our craving for variety took over. The ability to extract treats was something of a sport...a battle of wits and a means for one-upmanship. Having been on the receiving end a few times, it felt a bit like having the rug pulled from under your feet and landing you flat on your face (minus the physical injury of course). As a couple of classmates would have it, "All in the game".

NOW: Spending five bucks (dollars) per meal on a sandwich/burger with a zillion toppings to choose from somehow doesn't cut it. Extra for a drink is a bigger turn off, fortunately the water is universally good. Treats? The last I remember I gave one to some kids who came knocking at the door on Halloween night.

3. XEROX
THEN: The lifeline of every aspiring engineer. I must've spent a good chunk of time whiling away in xerox shops while some material (which would ensure I cleared the internal the next day) was being duplicated. I find the act of lounging about in the cheap, dingy atmosphere of xerox shops mildly stimulating in the same way some non-smokers feel oddly at home in a smoking zone. Xeroxing in bulk was pretty expensive, but it was always a vital investment. Besides all xerox shops in the vicinity were well mapped so you were spoiled for choice: 30p, 60p or Re1 xerox - take your pick. Add to this the cost-cutting 'mini' xerox (2 pages on a sheet), and the nefarious, last-resort 'micro' xerox, and you had quite a few options to work with as the situation demanded. On the subject of xerox, I think a shop that calls itself 'Krishna Xerox' in Malleswaram deserves a mention. I'm sure most modern Bangalore engineers would agree.

NOW: In an entire semester, I've done one bit of xeroxing. I had to purchase a card for that, credit it with a certain amount, insert the card and what not before I could use the 'copier'. A fine way to take the piss out of one of life's simple pleasures.

4. THE COLLEGE BUS
THEN: This entry is the odd one out in the list because the bus fees for a semester was expensive to the point of being a ripoff, something like two grand or more. They say the RV bus 'never gets full' and there seemed to be some truth in it - the bus would be overcrowded with people packed like sardines in a tin, and yet there was always room for a few more at the next stop. The drivers (probably taking a cue from us jobless college goers) decided bring some fun into their exceedingly mundane lives and travel at breakneck speeds, not giving two hoots (pun intended) for the rest of the traffic. Schumi deserves honourable mention here. In later sems, Schumi and co. had the added luxury of the radio at their disposal, subjecting us to 100 plus dB of acoustic torture . These travelling conditions as well as the long distance to college and back seemed to bring out the character in everybody. If it got too much, I found myself reaching for my walkman and playing a tape at full blast. Those cassettes helped pass by many a tiresome hour, and I miss them like crazy.

NOW: At least something's free these days. Being a UT student, I don' t have to pay any fare for the shuttle service and the metro buses all over the city. Given that my place is five minutes away from campus by bus, it doesn't really count.

5. QUIZZING
THEN: Sometimes the college routine got to you. If, like me, you had no life and your classmates weren't big on the idea of cutting class for a movie, you needed other excuses to get away. Back then, quizzes used to take place quite regularly in the IEM audi and provided a much needed diversion from the monotony of the classroom. Quizzes and fests in other colleges were even better: you could actually claim attendance on the basis of 'representing the college'. Quizzing apart, i really miss the concept of those fests. Travelling all the way to a rival college, comparing the crowd, canteen and everything else there to what we had in RV. These events were chronicled in some detail by me in a log I called 'Joyrneys of a quizcorper'.

NOW: Quizzing, I found, takes on a whole new meaning here. I enrolled for an Antenna theory course numbered 325K, missed the first class and trudged in for the second. I found everyone silently scribbling on sheets of paper which i learned was the weekly 'quiz', held during the first ten minutes of every Thursday's class. After three failed attempts at scoring even a point on these quizzes I duly dropped the course.

'Tis the season to be hungry

2006-11-23T14:03:00.000-08:00

The frequency of national holidays back in India was a source of much comfort and mirth. It afforded some balance to our crazily structured way of life as students and junior employees. There are few sights as understated yet pleasing to the senses as looking through a calendar or diary, and seeing more red dates than there should be. For me, it's a moot point that the last five years seem like one long vacation in hindsight. The lack of national/public holidays here is palpable, so it's no wonder that the Thanksgiving break is probably the high point of this Semester. Plans are chalked up well in advance, with friends and family as the case may be.

The picture of thanksgiving in my head has been built from scenes in the movies with families getting together at a dinner table and carving out a turkey. Sitting at my Aunt's place in Dallas, I finally remember thay I have no idea what the concept of Thanksgiving is all about and decide to look up wikipedia. Not that I was overly bothered about the significance of major festivals in India, but I tried to make it a point to be aware, somewhat. Wikipedia has become a sort of convenience store where you window shop for any odd details which prick your curiosity for no apparent reason. It says, "Thanksgiving, or Thanksgiving Day, is an annual one-day holiday to give thanks, for the things one has at the close of the harvest season. In the United States, Thanksgiving is celebrated on the fourth Thursday of November". It's essentially the story of how White settlers were able to survive in the new world, helped by native Indians in Virginia in the early 17th century. The encounters between the two groups were apparently comemmorated through Feast Days.

This holiday break means more wasting around for me although I will be seeing family. Best of all, I get to pig out a bit since Kalu mami is actually preparing some turkey. One of the rare family members who cooks meat at home, she explains that cooking turkey is an art - it must be marinated overnight, injected with cajun sauce (yes, a syringe is actually used!) and roasted for three hours the next day. At around 175 degrees, it's done. I take a look Not only is this a novelty, but the timing couldn't have been better as I was eating sporadically over the last week in Austin, largely subsisting on junk food and starchy rice dinners. I take a look at the oven and and the sight of the turkey immediately stirs up juices inside - hence the title of this post. The turkey, as Jim Carrey would have it, seems to say "I'll juice you up!" (My lifelong diet of stupid Jim Carrey movies has led me to believe he has a line for every occasion). In the meantime, the Thanksgiving football game, which is an annual tradition, is on TV. My uncle and aunt, who have turned ardent Dallas Cowboys fans in the last 20 years, urge me to grab a beer and learn a bit about the finer points of the game. I successfully grab a beer. The NFL and all 'football' seems another typically American concept, with a lots of action, lots of cheerleading, media involement and elaborate strategy over seemingly nothing. It'll take more than a while to get used to this, although I've comfortably got used to the taste of Heineken which I tried for the first time in Austin. You have to admire the way they keep up tradition though. Maybe it's time the BCCI went back to staging the Chennai test match during Pongal or the Eden Garden's test on New Year's day, as was the norm apparently during the 60s. But sentiment appears to have no place in the overly commercial and money driven world of Indian cricket. But that'll have to be the subject of another post.

Not much else to say, except the greyhound ride from Austin to Dallas was a bit more eventful than usual. With about half an hour to go, there was some confusion over the line I was standing in and I moved over to the correct one. Now, there are different lines for different buses and they seemed to be intersecting in a crazy way, so I had to ask around a bit before I could feel satisfied I was in the right one. With two minutes to go, a man standing a couple of feet behind me was ranting away to a couple of guys behind him and he suddenly went "...waiting here for too damn long. And who's this guy in front of me? Where did he come from? Came outta nowhere.." He then addressed me in a distinctive local drawl, "Hey you..where did you come from? Looks like you've taken my place...you better get your ass right to the end of the line there." I explained, quite clearly I thought, that there was some confusion as to which line was for which bus, I was directed to where I was, and if he had a problem he should have told me at that moment, not half an hour later when we were all ready to board the bus. He replied, in a smug voice, "Don't gimme your Arabic or whatever it is, you better get right back there. I know a Muslim when I see 'em" I was determined not to move, considering it was boarding time and doubly so because this guy was clearly not worth replying to. There was no way I was giving up my place in the line. As he continued making abrasive remarks, I said something to the effect of "That was English, not Arabic..too bad if you couldn't understand, and I'm not a Muslim so you obviously have no idea what you're talking about". Desparate to win this encounter, he retorted "I hope you get to sit next to me. A good three hours, I'll terrorize your Muslim ass so bad...give you a proper Christian terrorizing you'll never forget." "Whatever" I looked him int he eye and said, which caused a few laughs in the line. On he went, saying something about getting a seat next to me. We didn't end up sitting next to each other, which left me wondering whether I had escaped being subjected to the torturing rants of a fanatic, or had actually missed a chance to put this guy in his place since he had no apparent grounds for complaining, and thus asserting myself for once. The nonchalant reaction of the crowd was enough to convince me that I handled things well enough though. And he didn't say a word on the bus.

Where have all the hippies gone?

2006-11-19T22:08:00.000-08:00

To B or not to B? That’d probably be what your average Grad Student at the Department of Electrical and Computer Engineering at UT Austin would say, if you asked him (or her) what his greatest fear was at the moment. Getting a ‘B’ Grade in a course isn’t merely a bad thing; it’s taboo. The general rule being, if a course offers any potential of landing you up with a B, avoid it at all costs. The B will stick out like a sore thumb on your marksheet. Just to exaggerate the point, I can almost imagine the partly hypothetical situation where I land up with a B (which isn’t the hypothetical part), and the reaction of the general public (the students) would be a curious mix of sympathy and a ‘how the hell did you disgrace yourself?’ sort of thing. If I sit and survey my academic scene right now, I’m well on the way to a couple of Bs. I’m on a Highway to Hell. The whole B phobia is making me sick. Couple this fear with relative grading et al, and you may understand what a bloody battleground this place is.

In my sudden burst of inspiration and wisdom, I’ve decided that what the world needs is more love and less grades. (duh) The army of long haired people armed with guitars and marijuana sure fought for the right cause (and created some great music too), whatever their lifestyle may have been. Ah Woodstock! Where did you go? Where have all the hippies gone? Don’t tell me they confine themselves to full moon raves at Israel or Goa? To those that exist: Bring your message of love, peace and all that happy shit to a seminar in the Department, for God’s sake, and let them know B Grade is an OK concept; or more to the point, there ain’t no Grade. I’m sitting here by the laptop, telling Bulla that this is our Vietnam. We’re soon to be POWs. Just like the 60s veterans of that lost war have been scarred to the point of being able to do nothing but recount their brushes with Viet Cong, I jokingly wonder, in a parody of this situation, whether all we’ll be able to do in the long run is recall our academic struggles through this degree. If Pete Seeger was writing ‘Where have all the flowers gone’ with my rant in mind, he would probably condense the song into one stanza, something like:

Where have all the hippies gone?

Long time passing,

Where have all the hippies gone?

Long time ago.

Where have all the hippies gone?

Anjuna calling them, everyone

When will they ever learn?

PS: The penultimate line was simply keyed in. I've no idea whether Anjuna is still a hippie rendezvous.

Back to the Drawing Board?: NZ vs Australia

2006-11-10T10:26:00.000-08:00

Another belated post, another belated match review. By this time the Aussies have wrapped things up as far as the Champions Trophy is concerned, reminding everyone that they're streets ahead of the rest of the pack. An amazing bench strength is central to their success, and it was one thing the kiwis simply didn't have at the Champions Trophy. A lot has been read into the collapse of the top order last Wednesday, but again it was a 'performance' rather than 'personnel' issue.

In future clashes, the Aussies will no doubt point to their 16 wins in the last 18 encounters between the two sides, but the fact was the kiwis played with enough intensity to have the Aussies on the hop for most of the game. I'd like to believe the defeat was a case of repeating some stupid mistakes. The bowlers gave the side more than a decent chance by restricting the Aussies to 240, including just 52 of the last 10 overs - something unheard of for NZ in recent years. Kyle Mills turned giant-killer overnight, finally taking some load off Shane Bond's already sore back. However, as in World Cup 2003, the batsmen froze when the had a real opportunity. To their credit, the lower-middle order - Oram and Daniel Luca Vettori (what a legend, mate) refused to die and gave the Aussies a scare. But it muts be a bit embarrasing when your chase has to be led by your allrounder and your primary spin bowler. Fleming fell to a somewhat obvious trap, Astle (who looks out of sorts at number 3) was cleaned up before he could get his feet moving while Marshall, Vincent and Fulton were sitting ducks. The dismissals of the last three (especially Vincent and Marshall) were the culmination of a series of largely brainless cricket on their part. Despite the repeated failures of Marshall and Vincent, I still believe they must be persisted with because they have much to offer to the side if they play their natural game. For the moment, Marshall seems obsessed with horizontal-nothing shots as opposed to proper cricketing ones, and Vincent is paying the price for forcing himself to think like a pinch hitter. Much has been made of Peter Fulton's ability, or lack of it, at the top level. On the evidence of his form early in the year, he is good enough and should receive more chances. I don't buy the fact that Ross Taylor is a permanent solution to the middle order, but in those circumstances with both Marshall and Fulton struggling, it would've made sense to bring him in. Overall, the series was a good one for Fleming, in terms of personal performance and handling the side. But, not for the first time, John Bracwell's line of thinking was exposed. Does anyone remember the name Mark Gillespie? I guess not.

There was no disgrace in defeat for the kiwis, especially considering Australia pretty much rolled over everyone else after a false start. But the lack of grit in the top order remains a worry, especially with the World Cup a few months away. Given that New Zealand are part of the VB series in January, Fleming will have plenty of opportunities to get back at the Aussies, in the knowledge that his side can compete. But unless the squad leaves the injury blues behind, and Bracewell gets some sense knocked into his head, those clashes could well demoralise the side in the lead up to the big tournament.

Aussies, here we come: NZ vs Pakistan

2006-10-31T11:56:00.000-08:00

A belated post, this should have been written a week back when the kiwis hearteningly came good in the crunch game and beat Pakistan by 51 runs. The semi final game against the Aussies is close on the heels of this entry, and I'm strapped for time and energy at the moment, so this'll be a short post.

The win against Pakistan served to illustrate just how reliant New Zealand are on a group of core (and unfortunately, injury-prone) players, namely Bond, Styris, Oram and Vettori. Of course, Stephen Fleming marked his record breaking 194th game as skipper with a vital 80, but the side was totally transformed thanks to the contributions of Styris (86) , the allround efforts of Oram and Shane Bond's comeback spell. Bond was wayward to begin with, but the fact that he returned to snare Yousuf Youhana and Abdul razzaq showed he is indispensible. Genuine pace is a great commodity which is why he'll have to hit his straps against the Aussies once more, for NZ to come through.

Recent history indicates that Australia remain the dominant neighbour in Trans-Tasman clashes. But the main difference between the two sides is the bench strength: while Australia are spoiled for choice going into the game, NZ have to sweat on the fitness of the core group of players I mentioned. Indeed, it looks like Styris isn't going to make the cut after all which leaves the middle order vulnerable. Whether or not Ross Taylor is allowed to play, I doubt he'll be selected, leaving Marshall and Fulton the enviable task of finding form against the Aussies. On a good day, New Zealand's best XI will prove a match for the Aussies so I'll still hold my breath. NZ just don't have the replacements ready once the key players are unfit though, which seems to tilt the balance in favour of Australia.

Fleming & co have seen an awful lot of Australia in recent years, so he might just be able to work on their predictability. As always, the kiwis' best chance lies in attacking from the word go, as they did back in 2002. I'd say their defeats were more a mental thing than anything else. They seem to be playing good cricket at the moment, so it's a case of striking while the iron is hot. Here's hoping the Champions Trophy Aussie Jinx lives on.

Batting woes resurface: NZ vs Sri Lanka

2006-10-21T21:01:00.000-07:00

The result of the clash may not have been that surprising in itself, given that Sri Lanka are an in form team and New Zealand are returning after a long layoff. But two sub par totals batting first, whatever the pitches may be, will give Fleming and Bracewell plenty to think about before the sink-or-swim game against Pakistan.

By giving more credit than was required to the pitch, and Murali, NZ almost ensured they started on the backfoot before the game began. Fleming's comment that 'occupying the crease and grinding' would be the way to go was certainly a curious one, and not the most positive approach. Murali, we know: he was in his element, but according to reports the batsmen appeared to play him on reputation and thus right into his hands. On reading the scorecard and reports, the NZ innings appeared to be a recurring theme. The top/middle order couldn't hold fort once Fleming was dismissed early, although Astle at least attempted to slug it out, in an effort to emulate Fleming's innings in the South Africa game. His dismissal for 42 probably illustrates why, despite being one of the premier ODI batsmen over the last decade, he will never be mentioned in the same breath as Inzamam or Ponting, let alone Lara and Tendulkar.

For a lineup with a reputation for resilience, the rest of the batting caved in too easily. Lou Vincent was again predictably dismissed heaving across the line (Mike has a lot to say on the subject), while Brendon McCullum's penchant for innovation seems to be getting the better of him too often as he fell this time to a reverse sweep. Having kept the faith in Hamish Marshall for so long during his run drought, Bracewell will probably give him a final chance to put things right next Wednesday. Marshall, though, continues to walk on thin ice and at the very least should be shunted down to number 6 where he's more likely to make a run at the moment. All things considered, Fleming would do well to drop himself to the middle order to add some stability to it, allowing Astle to return to the opening slot. With practically everyone looking out of sorts, the thought cannot have escaped him.

The batting woes overshadow the bowling worries for the moment, and New Zealand go into the Pakistan clash knowing they have to raise their game tremendously, though they will secretly be relieved at the absence of Shoaib and Asif. Sri lanka meanwhile, also have a do or die clash to look forward to and, on recent form, should start out overwhelming favourites against the South Africans.

Round three to Fleming as the Proteas roll over

2006-10-16T16:37:00.000-07:00

Mike apparently got it right when he said (in mikeoncricket.blogspot.com) that the toss would be crucial - and the seamers would play a huge role under lights. Graeme Smith would have done well to have read Mike's preview of the game, but keeping in mind his team's run of success chasing totals (as well as the Sri Lanka-West Indies clash), it wasn't a difficult decision for him. Fleming (tounge firmly in cheek, I imagine) said it was a "good toss to lose". The kiwi top order doesn't look really inspiring at the moment, with some familiar dismissals (Vincent trying one shot too many - to Pollock, and Marshall playing on with an angled bat). However, thanks to the bowlers, they live to fight another day.

The Fleming-Smith rivalry seems to overshadow the contests between these sides at the moment, and today's outcome was a reporter's delight, though it was certainly great to see Smith put in his place. I have my own objections with Fleming and Vincent opening, and Astle at three but Bracewell & co are pretty inflexible and this looks to be the kiwis' preferred batting order right through till the World Cup. Kyle Mills for once stepped up to be counted and actually ran through a formidable South African top order. Crossing my fingers the kiwis perform with equal discipline in the field against the Lankans, who can do no wrong at the moment. Wit conditions like these, Friday's clash should see Sri lanka in their element and New Zealand's series win over them earlier in the year won't be of much consequence. Not much New Zealand can do differently against them, I guess, except stick to the basics. And get those feet moving early against Chaminda Vaas.

South Africa aren't out of the picture yet though the playing conditions appear to be distinctly against them. And I guess Herschelle Gibbs could have done without the revisiting the past here - his duck will not have gone unnoticed. Looks like the happenings off the field seem more engaging on it, what with Shoaib and Asif flunking a dope test a while back. Oh well, it's the Pakistanis anyway.

The Black Caps: Champions Trophy Preview

2006-10-08T18:08:00.000-07:00

You could consider Shane Bond a good outside bet to be named man of the series in this edition of the Champion's trophy, for when he's on song he's destructive. Of course, two things are likely to stand in the way of that: his recurring fitness and health problems, and the tendency of the ever-reliable New Zealand top order to capitulate and undo any good work on his part. The 2003 World Cup clash with the Aussies, where he took 6-23 but still ended up on the losing side, is the best example.

There's little you can say that's incisive in a preview of the Champion's Trophy, especially for the Kiwis. First of all, thanks to the existence of the longhorn Cricket Club and its screenings, I hope I'll get to watch at least one game (even in the knowledge that it won't involve the kiwis) . The equation laid out for them is simple enough - win at least two of three games against South Africa, Pakistan, and the qualifier from the intitial stages (Sri Lanka or the West Indies, if things go according to script).

Except for Mark Gillespie, of whom i have no idea about, the Kiwi squad is predictable. While it's probably the best pool of players we've got (and I say 'we' as a pseudo-member of the Beige Brigade), I maintain there should have been room for Ross Taylor. He would have brought in the surprise element, but i guess the selectors feel they have all holes covered in the top order which includes an under-pressure Hamish Marshall. There's really only one currency in the subcontinent, and that's quick runs, which is why Taylor should have been there. Opposition bowlers have seen enough of Fleming, Astle, Vincent, Marshall and Styris though if at least two of them strike a sudden rich vein of form it really won't matter. Peter Fulton provides the promise element for the moment, and in an effort to sound optimistic he should be able to replicate his great form earlier in the year once more. The bowling looks less convinving, and needs to stay injury free. Daniel Vettori remains central to Fleming's plans, but I'd like to see Fleming use him differently. Perhaps as first change, and then a spell at the death? Gillespie was supposedly drafted in with a view to solve New Zealand's problems bowling at the death. However, my view on bowling at the death is that if your bowlers are good enough they'll manage. To put it another way, the best 'death' bowlers you have are most often simply your best bowlers - Glenn McGrath and Shane Warne, as used by Mark Taylor for example. I'd say Bond and Vettori are still the best men for the job, even if they've not been particularly good at it. Bringing in a rookie and expecting him to address this task straightaway is a tough ask. The rest of the bowlers have their own (injury) problems, apart from being none too penetrative. Even so, we might be going in with one medium pacer too many. To put my finger on it, the selection of James Franklin, in these conditions at least, is somewhat redundant but I could still be wrong. However, if I was in Fleming's shoes I'd still be tempted to play two spinners (Dan and Jeetan Patel) for all three games.

The fact that it's not a knockout scenario means that the Black Caps will get second chances unlike the previous two editions where they were creamed by the Aussies. I actually feel the South African game will present an easier challenge than the other two. Personally, I think this is the most boring South African side ever assembled since 1992 so it's a little hard to digest that we lost 4-0 to them last year. I suppose Fleming has his plans right this time for Graeme Smith, Justin Kemp & co. though i can safely imagine it won't include verbal barrage. Sri Lanka and West Indies were both overcome easily at home last summer, but this time the conditions are definitely on their side. As for the Pakistanis, they'd like to think playing in the subcontinent would make it that much easier for them in this group and I'd put them as favourites to top the pool, actually. The point of interest for me is whether the kiwis have finally figured out a way to stifle their big hitters, Razzaq in particular. Knowling the extensive use of previous knowledge that goes into kiwi preparations, Fleming will be wary, but he'll also be looking at exploiting their ability to self-destruct.

It's a tough ask on paper but if collective experience has any value New Zealand should progress to the semis at least. From then on anything can happen, but for once the format of the Champios trophy makes it a valuable build off to the World Cup. In the meantime it's quite exasparating not to have live coverage of the Kiwi's Games.

Searching for that "study" mood

2006-09-30T19:41:00.000-07:00

I've noticed yet another interesting thing in the course of my first month of grad school in Austin: here, it's not uncool to study. More accurately, it's not uncool to be seen with your head buried in a textbook. I see it all around me, every day. The guy with the Nowitzki Jersey and the chiseled physique (who'd rather be on the basketball court at that moment) is wrestling with Real Analysis sums . The babe in the next table, whom on appearance you'd associate more with sixth street hopping than an engineering department, cuts her call because she has to complete her homework. This kind of observation seems pretty pointless (a bit like looking on in disbelief at your Tamil Brahmin friend who's helping himself to the meat) but anyone who's familiar with the engineering college scene in India knows the stereotypes and cliches. "Last Minute Study" and "Dress Code", to name a couple. So what am I getting at? The cynic would probably say I don't have a life, I've got nothing better to do than study all day, and now I can actually justify it! Wrong. (Well at least the first part's right - I don't have a life). It's just made me conscious that four years of engineering back home, with its 'beating the system' mentality, has just about finished off my capacity to study seriously. Hard work and organised studying are unfortunately a way of life in gradschool. However hard I try, I just can't recapture the study mood (which i probably last felt back in class XII). I've tried all the stuff that worked back home: coffee (the lousy black variety), ice cream breaks, acronym shortcuts (and other laughable strategies that helped me get through some scary subjects), and have given up. It'll work itself out somehow. It's a throwback to school days, 10th and 12th especially, when aspiring to get a shining report card, if not top the class, was almost fashionable (in a perverse sort of way). Of course, in grad school, your marks are way more significant: they pretty much decide your career. It's still amusing to look back at school when, underneath all the tax-free comments like "What a punter...ready to smash this test are you.." or "Shut up man...you've been belting...you'll tho bloody max this exam..", there was this undercurrent of serious, cut-throat competition. Driven by the enthusiasm you'd only find in highschoolers, it even went to the extent of who could solve sums quicker in class, thus clamouring for the math teacher's attention. The class was an academic battleground. (As an aside, it's pretty scary to think that all this was more than six years back) I had a pretty passive attitude to all this. This was mostly because of my prediliction for subjects like English, Geography and History which were deemed unfashionable by the 'science types'. After all, I was more fascinated by the origin of places with exotic names like Tierra Del Fuego or the Rift Valley than applying Pythogoras' theorem. My passive attitude changed just a little bit towards the end of high school when I realised I was totally at sea in dealing with some of the subjects. From an exam point of view, everything I touched turned to ashes. The irony of it all is that most of the "science types" have got themselves out of the academic rut and are in sales or consulting, while I've just begun my MS in Electrical and Computer Engineering. I won't even bother with further contemplation. The current problem is how to get back on track. I suspect I need the presence of some brazen pricks who'll set a high precedent on scoring high marks and so on, just to stir that old "I'll show 'em" feeling in me. However, this isn't highschool and there's no time for all that. For the moment, procrastination and wotla seem to be my only constant companions.

Unnatural Act

2006-09-13T12:38:00.000-07:00

Why am I here, and for how long? It's been exactly a month since I parted ways with Bangalore, so it seemed an apt time to key in something here. I don't feel greatly out of place here in Austin: indeed, my routine of waking up groggy, spending long hours on work and the rest of the day on wotla-ing, isn't really different from my routine in CTS a short while back (when I was on the project). I haven't had to make any major adjustments to my lifestyle which, for me, is a good thing. I still feel a little funny about being away from Bangalore, though.

Being in the states for at least two years feels like a break in the chain. Not that I'm especially homesick. I was never a conscious believer in karma, but my (subconscious) feeling about Bangalore was that I was somehow destined to be there for a very, very long time. Maybe I was there for too long and it was time to go someplace else. The chain ran something like this: after class 12, I applied to a number of colleges outside Bangalore but somehow knew I was going to remain there, and I did. When I got placed in CTS, despite the knowledge that we would probably be sent to Chennai for the training, there was the looming suspicion that I would end up in Bangalore after all, and it proved to be true. I wasn't complaining at all, though and spent a mostly relaxed year in Cognizant Bangalore. You may live in a city for many years and desparately want a change of scene, but you could also look at it another way. Every city is like a person, and you need time to get to know it better. In the last few years, I can't put my finger on it but I discovered a lot more of Banaglore and enjoyed it as well. Although I knew I most probably would be off to the states in a while, I somehow didn't shake off the karma theory. The city grew on me like old wine. (Yes, Bangalore has changed for the worse in many ways. While the rest of the population grumbles about it, you can still savour it for what it has to offer.) So, leaving for the states seemed somewhat abortive. The abortion analogy seems (crudely) apt: By killing the unborn child, you're commiting an unnatural act, impeding the course of nature. By leaving Bangalore, I broke the natural course of growing up wholly in that city (yes, I may be 22 but I'm still growing up). It's a crazy (and perhaps, needless) thought, but it feels almost like a sacrilege defying the Bangalore karma theory. A bit like killing the unborn child!

While I can't quite get over my pet belief, things are pretty good here. Austin has a bangalore-like charm, filled with pleasant people and nice weather (apart from the last part of summer which was way too hot). Settling in wasn't a problem at all, I'm getting by with a little help from my friends (read: roomies). The major adjustment has to be the academics, which are very homework-intensive. The Texans are an interesting set of people, proud of themselves and their state. I find quite a few parallels between them and the people form Punjab back home. Both are hardy warrior races, who overcame hardships and hostile conditions to turn their respective lands into prosperous states. They're both aggressive, enterprising, and lively sets of people. Every texan is said to own a gun, and every Sikh regards the Kripan as a symbol of spirituality. Texans share a common border and an overlapping culture with Mexico. The Punjab shares a definite and vital history with it's namesake across the Wagah border. And so on.

On an entirely different note, Prof Pearce comes up with these weird digressions to break the monotony of his field theory lecture. he consideres partial differential equations to be as vital to engineering as Shakespeare is to Literature. He brings up the humanities vs sciences debate thus: "These guys discuss Shakespeare over a cup of coffee when the day is done. How does Green's theorem sound over coffee, huh? And those guys have the nerve to say our field is narrow. After all, the average engineering student knows more about arts than the average humanities student knows about science and engineering! You might want to keep that in mind if you get invited to one of those parties, where the humanities people say "we" don't belong. When that happens, you might wanna shoot back 'When was the last time you solved a partial differential equation?!!' " A real Revenge of the Nerds moment, indeed.

In the hope of a black summer

2006-09-05T11:11:00.000-07:00

On the Saturday before my departure to the states, Red Devil and Twisted Jean dropped in for lunch and also dropped off one of the best gifts I've received in a long while. To my surprise, the two had paid more than a cursory visit to the BeigeBrigade website http://www.beigebrigade.co.nz/gallery/ which I had talked about in some memoirs long ago, actually written to Paul Ford and Mike Lane and ordered the goshawful brown and tan shirt which was the original uniform of the Kiwi oneday side in the early 80s. So finally, I'm the proud owner of one of those disgustingly brilliant figure hugging, nipple gripping shirts and a memeber of the Beige Brigade! With it, however, comes the knowledge that I won't be able to catch up with most New Zealand games over the next couple of seasons. That is, unless the ICAs here in Austindecide to screen a few token games. This post is basically to wish the Kiwis all the best for the coming season, for which I, their biggest fan, won't be around. I'm also trying to grab some perspective from the previous season. Some musings, more from a one-day point of view:

OVERALL:From a fans' prerspective, last season was disappointing because it seemed to suggest the same problems which have plagued Kiwi cricket repeatedly are here to stay. By this I also mean a refusal to learn from experience and past mistakes (especially on the part of the batsmen). As always, the main batsmen seem to freeze in a crisis, the attack depends too heavily on Shane Bond's fitness for penetration, and bowling at the death remains a nightmare or an issue. The bowling problems of course haven't been helped by the injuries to key players. In this regard, it's worth pondering Adam Parore's view that Bond is perhaps better off saving himself for one dayers alone, just as Geoff Allott did in the last year of his short career. It's all very well for a fan like me to say "If only we had Shane Bond", but Bond's absence has become the norm, rather than the exception, so the team and John Bracewell should have figured out a way to deal with it. I've never been a great admirer of Bracewell's center-stage methods, and would prefer Stephen Fleming to have a greater say in selection and strategy. How Bracwell shapes the team for the World Cup will surely be interesting, whatever he comes up with.

THE BATTING:One thing that emerged from the roller coaster ride last season is the realisation that the guard is changing. Most of the players who were regulars in the side at the turn of the century are finding that time is not on their side any more. Despite being a reasonably successful outfit, the selectors have come to understand that the senior pros are just not tough enough or reliable in a crisis as they should be and thus the makeup of the side is evolving. The side did reach some spectacular highs over the last five years (such as the VB series in 2002), but another period of transition is here. Chris Cairns was surprisingly dropped, then brought back, and he finally decided to retire after the Sri Lanka series (though I felt he was still good for the World Cup). Chris Harris has been deemed surplus and looks unlikely to return, while Craig McMillan was shown the door after repeated failures. The form of Nathan Astle and Scott Styris is closely monitored to the extent that neither is assured of being a certainty in the lineup. The sheer competition for places in the middle order means that Harris and McMillan probably won't figure in the World Cup, while Styris will keep his place by virtue of being one of the better one day bowlers in the country (fitness permitting). Astle was dropped for a couple of games and it seemed to bring out the best in him. But, despite his past record, he will know that time isn't on his side anymore and he must reaffirm himself against strong bowling attacks before the World Cup. The suspicion that he's been found out by opposition bowlers still lingers.

On the other hand, the selectors introduced a number of new faces in the top and middle order. Peter Fulton, Jamie How, Ross Taylor, a reborn Lou Vincent and the hitherto uncapped Jesse Ryder provide the stiff competition for middle order spots in the coming season, which previous regulars like Matthew Sinclair and Hamish Marshall will also be eyeing. These guys acheived varying degrees of success last season. While the first three are untried abroad, they offer hope that some explosive quality may yet be brought to the side given the eternal inconsistency of the side's batting. In this respect, the coming season promises to be an exciting one. What the middle order does need is a rock, a firm stable player which New Zealand haven't found since the exit of Roger Twose. Hamish Marshall was on the way to cementing that spot when the horrors of the last season caught up with him. Despite his poor form, I was happy that Bracewell decided to stick with him. Marshall is potentially of great value to the side and has a decent record behind him. He needs to repay the selector's faith sooner rather than later. Perseverance is the key, but the crowded middle order means he won't be an automatic starter any more.

THE BOWLING: On the whole, the bowling remains a bigger worry. Unless Fleming, Bracewell and co come up with a well planned strategy and place enough confidence in the bowlers to execute it, we'll see New Zealand continuing to lose tight games. And of course there's the worry of finding a strike bowler to partner (or replace) Bond as the case may be. For now, Kyle Mills, Chris Martin, James Franklin, Michael Mason and Jacob Oram (plus a certain DL Vettori) make up the list. Not the most penetrative lineup, but Fleming is good at working his resources around. No doubt, like Martin Crowe earlier, he has some plan in mind which will be unfolded at the World Cup. What about Daryl Tuffey, who was the premier strike bowler a while ago, before the Aussies and injuries laid him low? Not to forget Ian Butler, the one bowler who seemed to be nearly as quick as Bond but generally ignored by the selectors who seem to prefer a wholly medium pace attack. The inclusion of another spinner, Jeetan Patel may yet give Fleming more options to work with. The hope is for a largely injury-free season, come what may.

THE MEN IN CHARGE: His batting heroics in South Africa apart, Fleming was largely off the spotlight, a sea change from the Dennis Aberhart era where he was in complete control. Here, John Bracwell made it clear who the boss really is and he continues in his bizzare vein, infuriating us supporters at times. If Bracewell's man management skills shone in the case of Marshall, then they positively fizzled out in the case of McMillan. While Macca was largely responsible for his own downfall, he was shunted up and down the order, and labelled a "floating hitter" by the coach. That's a pretty damning indictment of a batsman with more than 170 games under his belt. If, after nine years of international cricket, Macca isn't sure of what his role in the side is, there is something seriously wrong. I personally believe he is best suited to number six, where class bowlers don't have an early go at his shaky technique. The smaller grounds of the Caribbean are ideal for a destructive boundary hitter like him. The reality is, however, he has fallen down the list and his experience counts for squat in the current setup. The latest story in this episode sees Macca left out of the champion's trophy probables squad, with Bracewell citing "poor fitness". Jesse Ryder also comes in for criticism but keeps his place in the list. Bracewell, like most eccentric coaches, probably has his own squad in mind well before the World Cup. He certainly doesn't give in to public pressure, and at times, logic. Perhaps it's time for Flem to re-assert himself as the real leader and put the team back on track as we know he can. Seeing Dan Vettori captain a few games was pretty interesting for the fans, and there's no doubt he's being groomed as the future captain.

I won't be able to catch most of the Kiwis' games unless there's some coverage of the Champions Trophy here in Austin. As always, my wishes are with the Black Caps and for a change of fortunes. Sad not to be where the action is, but I sure hope the caps will give me a black season to remember.

Sunday, bloody Sunday

2006-07-16T01:07:00.000-07:00

Sunday's a lifeline for us all. The day off from work, school, or college. A day for home, family, rest and peace. Catch up with whatever you can't do during the week. Make the most of it before another grinding week starts. Enjoy yourself, basically. We all experience Monday blues, but for me Sunday has always had this uncomfortable undertone to it. While it's a relief to have time off, it tends to give you this 'going nowhere', purposeless sort of feeling.

Sunday to me has always been like the neighbour we tolerate, but can never quite trust. We simply have to coexist with her because we have no choice; we can't do without her, we appreciate what she has to offer, but the unnamed feeling persists. It's a mystery because everyone else around you celebrates her; you nod your head but can never fully agree. Just as you lie waiting in resignation for what bombshells your neighbour may drop on you, Sunday is the perfect metaphor for the lull before (and after) the storm.

I guess my weird relationship with Sunday started by associating her with homework, or likening it to 'homework day'. Homework was usually the matter of spnding an hour or so in concentration. Try as I did, work would never get done the way I liked it. And it only served as a reminder Monday was coming up. Over the years, my attitude to Sunday has evolved from being a love-hate kind of thing to "well alright, her she comes again".

The 'lazy' aspect of Sunday which people really enjoy is overrated. I too love the idea of being able to wake up at10:30 in the morning just for once in the week. However, i do that on Saturdays as well (apart from the time we have work or college then) and I either get the feeling of freshness, or a desire to return to my comfortable sleep. With Sunday, you feel like getting up but can't drag yourself out of bed. You wrestle with this so much, that by the time you're up you've given yourself a headache. For the rest of the day, it's either depressingly hot or depressingly cold, as if to neutralize the pleasing effects of Saturday's weather. Whatever you feel like catching up on simply won't happen. Everything gets postponed. Life seems to come to a standstill - but only for you. Everyone around you seems to be enjoying a holiday for what it is. Sunday afternoons seem to give you an inexplicable rumble in the stomach. The 'long dark tea times of the soul' as Douglas Adams said.

Sunday isn't all that bad. For example, it's the all sports day of the week. However, when I saw my favourite teams and players sinking to defeat on Sundays, it turned me against her yet again. It's a bit like how in the mid nineties, Indian cricket fans would dread watching those matches with Pakistan at sharjah on Fridays (the local holiday). However much they tried, azzu bhai's team could never win on a Friday. The moment a second match was held on a Monday, they won.

All said and done, a holiday's a holiday, so i can't live without Sunday. I guess it's a question of pushing yourself do do something, to take your mind off the emptiness, as you would do on a Monday or Tuesday. That's why I'm blogging on a Sunday without any apparent thoughts in my head.

Paying the penalty, and a strange exit

2006-07-11T22:01:00.000-07:00

There's not much I can really say about the world Cup final that hasn't been said. I'm still not convinced on the issue of using penalty kicks to settle a drawn final, though. Surely there must be a better way to resolve a game as big as the WC final? My mind goes back to what the Sportstar said after the 1994 final which also saw a penalty shoot out "Not the perfect solution, but the best we have". And I tend to agree, in a resigned sort of way. It would certainly be unfair to make them play another game. The toss of a coin, as suggested by one paper, is ridiculous. In the 1950 world cup, I noticed, they pitted the final four times against each other in a round- robin group, meaning instead of semifinals and a final, each team played each other once and the team which finished on the highest number of points at the end, won. As it turned out, the last game between Brazil and Uruguay was effectively a final match as the team which won would finsih on top, and thus get the title. I don't think such a method would go down with the fans too well today, though. Penalties are here to stay.

These days, the penalty shootout has become serious business. Arguably, it's a test of skill as much as nerves although most of us like to believe it's pure luck. Strategies have actually evolved to the point where we see Sven-Goran-Errikson bringing on Jamie Carragher late in the game specifically for the shootout. Likewise in the final, when Frank Ribery was substituted for for poor David Trezeguet. All the talk in the closing moments was about how "France are without their best penalty takers" namely Zidane and Henry. In the quarterfinals, Portugal's Ricardo produced a superhuman effort to block three England penalty kicks and the commentators went on about how he "revels in these situations". Goes to show that the shootout has not become merely an accepted, but a necessary part of strategy. To digress a bit, there was once an ICC experiment to decide abandoned ODI cricket matches on a 'shoot-out' meaning five bowlers on each side try to knock over the stumps with one delivery each, and the winner is the side which is able to hit the stumps more often. Seems an unthinkable, just as the penalty shootout was ages ago, but ten or twenty years down the line who knows?

In the last post I commented about Zidane and an otherwise unmemorable World Cup. After all that, it looks like the Cup will be well remembered after all, though not in a way that would please fans and critics alike. The headbutting issue has been done to death in the papers so I won't get into it. I'd just like to say I think Zidane was destined to go out in an unpredictable manner, yet another way of keeping his fans guessing. He tantalized football fans in general and his followers in particular with that audacious penalty kick. He kept them hopeful with his midfield runs and deft passing. He almost brought them all to his feet with that header. He had them asking "Why, oh why" with his inglorious exit. Like all flawed geniuses, you never knew quite what you would get, nothing would be neat and tidy or according to a perfect script. 'Script' is actually an appropriate word....his role in the final played like a movie. But truth is always stranger than fiction, as we (and Zidane) found out. It wasn't an altogether unhappy ending, he did win the golden ball. But, in a world that increasingly loves to paint in black and white, there was to be no ordinary or straightfoward exit for him. Simply haunting, this final was.

Absorbing, but few standouts

2006-07-06T22:45:00.000-07:00

I've really had to battle with sleep over the last couple of weeks. Given most of the crucial World Cup Games have taken place past midnight local time, I convinced myself that it's worth sacrificing several hours of sleep over it, a not-so-easy task considering I've had to work late for most part. As always, the Cup never fails to keep you glued. But, as the competition draws to a close (only the third palce playoff and final remain), I get the feeling it's not been an entirely satisfying viewing experience. Absorbing? Definitely. Exciting? Yes. Entertaining? Often. Memorable? Hmmmm....

Among the people here who've been following the proceedings, two kinds readily come to mind. The first is an ardent supporter of one or maybe two or more teams, and for him, of course, supporting 'his' team makes it all the more intense. The second kind doesn't care so much about taking sides as whether the game's good or not. I'm not sure whether I actually fall under any of these categories (though I do have a soft corner for a few teams; including the Dutch, who made a second-round exit), but the point is, apart from Ukraine, the final eight was made up largely of the Big Guns and that should have kept both those types of people happy. The first kind, because I haven't met too many Serbia or Ghana or USA supporters, and the second kind because it presented a mouth watering lineup of unpredictable games to savour. The elimination rounds of this WC edition were the most competitive ones in a long time. Yet, at the end of the semis, I feel there was something missing. For all the big matchups, there were few sparks to remember.

It's probably not fair to turn back the clock and run a comparison with previous WorldCups, but then this is (arguably) the biggest sporting tournament in the world. at the end of it, you'd have to ask: What will this world cup be remembered for? So many parallels have been drawn in the press with the 1982 edition in spain, so that seems an appropriate place to rewind and start the run-thru. In 1982 there was the coming of age of Paolo Rossi as a striker, single handedly snuffing out Brazil. In 1986 it was the brilliance of Maradona, left-foot and right-hand (was it his right? would like a clarification). In 1990 it was the battle of the two skippers, Matthaus and Maradona,even if the final was miserable, and an enterprising Italian side not able to drive 'home' the advantage. In 1994, attacking play returned and we celebrated the skills of some deadly strikers (Romario, stoichkov, Klinsmann and the unfortunate Roberto Baggio)....the mascot for that one had been fittingly named 'Striker'. In 1998 it was the coming of age of a superb French side, and the contrasting fortunes of zidane and Ronaldo. In 2002, Ronaldo set the record straight, as Brazillian magic was at its best since the days of Pele. It was also worth rememebring for unfancied but resourceful teams like Senegal, South Korea and Turkey making it to the quarters and beyond.

So what about 2006? It's down to the clash between rejuvenated French and the Italians who seem to be peaking at the right time. Whatever happens in that final, the reality is that the tournament has lacked the sort of spectacular moments which would be remembered for a long time to come. So far, the World Cup (to me) has largely been about two things. 1) The rebirth of Zizou, whose career could have been over in the first round itself. 2) The diappointing title-defence of holders Brazil. Most of the big games have been fairly scrappy, decided by the odd set-piece or a one-off breakaway goal. The Holland-Portugal match was a bar-room brawl which will not be easily forgotten, but it wasn't a gime you'd really like to recall either. Teams have seemed overawed and managers have been cautious, most notably when Jose Pekerman refused to bring on Lionel messi in the clash with Germany. There's been no shortage of high drama, and deserving winners and losers. But the overall quality of football was hasn't been as good as it could be. There hasn't been the sort of greatness, or feeling of higher moments, that you'd normally associate with the WC.

The elimination rounds were contesed by a motley bunch of teams and players often battling their own self-doubt. Spain, who had a marvelllous first round, made their customary early exit as they were tactically found out by the French in a dramatic shift of momentum. Holland perhaps paid the price for over-reliance on young blood, but they could just as easily have made it to the semis. Brazil appeared disinterested in the quarters - you'd have thought a rematch of the 98 final would be motivation enough - and deserved to be sent packing. The decision to play Ronaldinho up front with the lethargic Ronaldo seemed to deny them a trump card. The rest were either too old or not committed enough to the cause. Germany have had a fine world cup and were heroic in defeat against Italy. The Klose-Podolski combination worked wonders and their defence was typically resiliant when it amttered most, against Argentina. Hopefully, they'll provide some fireworks in the third place game. Portugal won few admirers for the manner in which they contested their last 3 games, full of diving and theatrics. Despite having such a talented lineup, they never looked like scoring frequently and simply did not play well enough against France and England. Both games were typically scrappy affairs. The less said about England, the better. Much has been made of rooney's sending off, and perhaps rightly so, but I looked at their quarterfinal exit as a case of being put out of their misery. They perhaps deserved a better fate than going out yet again on penalties, after valiantly keeping afloat with ten men on the field against portugal.

Argentina were probably the team which looked to have the sheer talent and (perhaps)greatness we like to remember World Cup winners by. Their 6-0 demolition job against serbia in the frst round was probably the high point of the World Cup, and Maxi Rodriguez's goal against Mexico left us with great expectations. In the quarters, however, they discovered the never say-die spirit of the Germans, which along with some questionable tactis from the coach was enough to send them packing.

Whether Italy deserved to be past the second round after the game against australia is a moot point. Superbly organised as always in defence, they've found a refreshingly attacking approach which Marcello Lippi had promised before the sart of the WC. They scored when it matted most, especially against czech Republic in the first round and that final fling in the semis (great to see Del piero come on and score). Cannavaro and Gattuso have just got better as the tournament has progressed. Francesco Totti appears to have made amends for his poor World Cup in 2002, which ended in him being sent off against the South Koreans. At the moments, they looks on top of their game and are surely favourites for the title. However, they too seem to be short of the class and the magic touch which world cup winning teams in the past have had. Unless Totti scores a hat-trick or something, their victory will be praised but not considered particularly impressive.

That leaves us with France, and for me, the one bright spark in this competition. While Zinedine Zidane has not been back to his best, he's turned the corner sufficiently enough to inspire his initially insipid teammates to lift their game. France were quite pathetic in the first round, and even in the victory against Togo, (for which zizou was suspended; it could have been his last game), both Henry and Trezeguet looked incapabl of finishing well. Since then, things have fallen into place. In the midfield, Patrick Vieira has proved a real asset, as has the speed and freshness of frank Ribery. Claude Makalele continues to perform game after game making him an indispensable part of this unit. France were also tactically ahead of Brazil and Spain, teams who were supposed to roll over them on current form.

If France were to win, it would be the perfect send off for one of the few remaining all-time greats in the game. It would also be fitting in a sense, that a team which started so poorly managed to regroup and fight their way through to the title, including a triumphant rematch with Brazil (Zidnane again proved to be a thorn in the brazilian's flesh). The magic of Zizou refuses to die at the moment, and I'll be extremely happy if he can recreate it one last time. So, while Italy look the stronger side, it's France I'll be rooting for all the way. Allez les bleus!

2006-06-25T23:42:00.000-07:00

Five Moments in Time - Part II

Putting down the remaining three moments posed a bit of a challenge. Why not expand it to six or seven, I asked myself, if it's so difficult to choose. But five will be five, no more, no less. As I've been spending late nights on germany 2006 over the last week or so, it seems appropriate to resume with one of my earlier football memories.

3. Stoichkov breaking the German Wall - USA 94

Now this is an odd one. Since USA '94 was my first taste of football on TV, I guess I'll always recall it with more fondness than usual. Again for reasons possibly similar to new Zealand 92, Bulgaria was the team which captured my imagination. Allied to this was an inexplicable desire to see the Germans (then the defending champions) knocked out. And so it happened. After the Germans took the lead early in the second half through a Matthaus penalty, the Bulgarians earn a vital free kick. That entire legion of German stars, Bremhe Moller Kohler Hassler Voller et al, make up a pretty formidable wall. In a few haunting seconds, that lethal left foot of Hristo Stoichkov sends the ball curling above the great wall, and beats Bodo Illgner for the equaliser. The balding Letchkov heads Bulgaria home later in the match. However at the time, the free kick equaliser to me seemed about as earth shattering as the breaking down of the Berlin Wall would have been.

Bulgaria's dream ended in the semis when Roberto Baggio and a French referee snuffed them out. Since then, it's been pretty hard being a Bulgarian fan. Whom do i support now? Not the Germans certainly, but the Italians perhaps? My loyalties for Germany 2006 were with the Dutch, who were eliminated last night in a bar-room brawl of a game against Portugal. Sometimes I think it would be a lot simpler supporting a heavyweight. Not being one myself, that would actually take some effort.

4. Ayrton Senna's death - San Marino 1994

Clarifications: a) I'm not an F1 freak. Of late, I've been watching about one race per season.
b) I did not see this race.

I saw the highlights (or lowlights, rather) much later, when Senna's death was all over the news. Around that time, I knew only five drivers existed. Senna, Prost, Damon Hill, Nigel Mansell (with the David Boon moustache; legends, them both), and a pretender I knew as Michael 'Shoemaker'. Beyond driving several many miles in a loop at lightning speed, i couldn't care less what the sport was about. But hearing about the death this guy sure as hell shocked me. Seeing the Brazillian football team dedicate their title to him later in the year just added to this chapter. There's not much else I can say about it; no major details to recall. It just hit me hard at the time, that's all.

5. A tie between a) Tendulkar's Perth century in 1992
b) Hearing West Indies' one run victory over Aus, Adelaide 1993 , on radio

These two occasions really fuelled my interest in test cricket. Obviously I began following cricket with the notion that ODIs were the more attractive form of the game. Along the way, I found out I was wrong quite often. I would still maintain the best ever Sachin century, even better than the losing cause against Pakistan at calcutta '99, was his Perth effort in '92. He had already scored a century earlier in the series at Sydney; that one paled in comparison to this effort on a bouncy WACA strip, putting the likes of Craig McDermott, Merv Hughes, Mike whitney and Paul Reiffel to the sword. Like Calcutta, and several other times, it was a losing cause. Attacking sport at its best; a short eighteen year old with the blue-and-red power labelled bat belting the quicks all around the wicket. At the end of it, i can vividly recall, big Merv comes up to Sachin, the newbie about half his size and half his age, and congratulates him. He says something along the lines of, 'I tried all I could to get you out, but I just couldn't.' Let's just say Australia would, in the years to come, see a lot more ofSachin than they'd bargain for.

The Adelaide test mentioned above was the first of the few matches I've heard on radio. Archaic as it may seem, there was of course no TV coverage of the games down under, so dad and I tuned in to ABC radio for the final day which saw Australia needing 186 to win. A totally different world, listening to the voices of McGilvray, Jim Maxwell and others on the radio, giving us the ball by ball description. Of course, it was thrilling test cricket all the way: Australia, up against Ambrose and Walsh, collapse to 7-75. Then a debutant called Justin Langer leads a brave fightback, making 54 and in the process being felled by an Ian bishop bouncer. Langer is the ninth out at 144 and things look wrapped up. McDermott and May then defy the Windies, inching their way closer to the target. As the runs required is reduced to ten, we sit in the balcony, holding our breaths, chewing our nails and all that blah which is otherwise associated with the artificial excitement of a one day game. Two runs to win. Have the Aussies engineered a great escape? 184 for 9. Walsh to McDermott.... he finds the edge....Murray holds the catch...it's all over...west Indies have won by a whisker....

A thrilling experience, hearing this one live on radio. Whoever likened oneday cricket to junkfood and test cricket to a full-on, four course genuine meal (I think it was Tony Greig) was dead right.

There are several others which could've made my list. Greg Louganis claiming the diving gold at the 1988 Olympics after hitting the springboard was, well, inspirational (In spite of which, I never learnt to swim). Jana Novotna weeping after her loss to Graf at Wimbledon '93, and even Hakeem Olajuwon taking the Houston Rockets to the NBA championship in 1995 (that was the start of my brief tryst with the NBA, which I stopped following after the Spurs won in 1999). And, if only I had been around to see Muhammad Ali reclaim the world heavyweight title in the Rumble in the Jungle clash....

That was another time. That was another moment.

2006-06-18T23:40:00.000-07:00

Five Moments In Time - Part I

"Now I'm not a fanatic about sports, but I'm no casual observer either....lemme tell ya I'm enough of a sports fan....." - George Carlin

This post is really a tribute to an RV senior of mine, Shomodipta Biswas aka Shom. Yesterday at Casa's, the topic somehow turned to 'earliest sporting memories' and he was telling us (Gowda, Ashanka and me) about his five earliest defining sporting memories, and how they..well...converted him. I've decided to put down my own reminiscences, but first a reflection of sorts on what it's all about.

It's about childhood recollections, particularly of those pre-STAR TV days. It's not really a 'those were the days' sort of thing. It's about loyalty from a young age. I mean, why do we support the teams we do, and why do we always remember the players we do? Shom gave us the gist of the answer yesterday, something like "Back then, you know nothing about the sport. But someone comes along and provides that special moment of magic, which wins you over." That moment becomes a part of you, an indelible stamp in your head. After all, it's an impressionable age, and it sticks with you forever. A bit like seeing your first Elizabeth Shue or Katy Mirza picture and being able to recognize them years down the line. I've been a supporter of the New Zealand Cricket team for fourteen years now (yes, even when they play India), and having seen umpteen lows and a few highs in that period, it sets me thinking about the whole loyalty from a young age thing. For example, thanks to the suitably aggresive marketing of ESPN STAR's telecast of the Premier League, English Football is suddenly 'in'. Enter Roman Abromovich, and Chelsea FC effectively buys rather than creates a star team (OK, they are a good side with a great manager, but..). And in the process many a football watcher suddenly discovers he's a die-hard Chelsea fan. He now can't stop defending Mourinho's comments in the press, or talking about the 4-5-1 formation. For me, however, it's never been about either the best team or the underdog. It's always been about who or what captured my imagination at some point in time. Someone to identify with.

The five I've selected are not necessarily my favourite sporting moments. They're simply a random set of five that somehow hit me hard, in a personal sort of way. They are not quite my earliest memories either, but they all go back a long way. I've decided to split them into two posts.

1. The Kiwis' dream run in the 1992 World Cup
Specific moments:The opening game at Eden Park against Aus - Martin Crowe getting his hundred, and Chris Harris' throw from the boundary to run out David Boon.
I had to put this at number one because it's made me a kiwi supporter for life. This was a tournament in which the Kiwi's could do no wrong, until Inzamam ul Haq happened. I started following cricket only a couple of months earlier, watching the Indian's getting thrashed in Oz. Here was the team that gave it back to the aussies, beating them comprehensively. As the tournament went on, Crowe pulled off some daring tactics which worked brilliantly on their irregular shaped grounds, and I was spellbound. As for this match, Crowe's hundred will always be my favourite captain's innings. Prior to the tournament, he was at war with the selectors and the media and public thought he shouldn't have been the skipper. Chris Harris is probably my most admired cricketer. I guess his quick fourteen in this match, not to mention the stunning direct hit from the boundary sums up why - a real oddball of a cricketer with a gutsy manner and a certain odd flair. An eccentric looking bowler who (at that time) sent down teasing medium paced leg cutters, he was simply one of the world's best fielders, even though that tournament is remembered more for Jonty Rhodes' fielding. He's now been told his career is practically done, but that's another story I'll blog about later. For the record, I watched only the conclusion of the NZ innings and the entire Aus innings in someone else's house since we didn't have STAR, and saw the entire highlights package in the evening.

I've stuck by New Zealand ever since. In the last decade, their numerous defeats at the hands of the Aussies have been particularly hard to swallow. However, it makes the victories taste sweeter. Following the kiwis has been a roller coaster ride, a bittersweet experience that seems to keep my loyalties even more firmly grounded.

2. Wimbledon '93 Final - Sampras beats Courier
My tennis initiation was 1991 when I saw Jim Courier taking on John McEnroe in some ATP tour match. The match, complete with McEnroe's outbursts, was won by Courier and I found myself rooting for him thereafter. It was then, a big disappointment for me when some fellow American called Pete Sampras (I just knew the name at the time) ended his Wimbledon dream with a 7-6 7-6 3-6 6-3 victory in the finals, exhibiting a perfect serve and volley game as flawless as his temperament. Now, Sampras lifting the Wimbledon trophy for the first time was essentially a defining moment as far as my tennis loyalties went, rather than the match itself. So I somewhat resented Sampras and his domination of the sport after that, and firmly put myself in the Courier-Agassi camp. But my anti-Pete stand was a bit unfair, in retrospect. Courier had been the world numero uno the previous year and his career went downhill after this. In the mid nineties, Sampras beat Courier in two epic five setters (Aus '95 and French '96), both of which had similar patterns; Sampras trails by two sets, breaks down when told "Do it for your coach", and heroically comes back to win in five. Again, it turned me against Pete. Courier had the matches all but wrapped up, and after all this courtside drama from pete, he finds the crowd cheering for his opponent and the match taken away from him. From then on, nothing that Pete Sampras achieved could ever endear me to him. I remember cheering out loud in '96 when he lost to Mark philippousis in the 3rd round of the australian, and in that Wimbledon Quarterfinal against Richard Krajicek. I was also a firm supporter of Agassi when he and Pete had their rivalry going on. But Pete could still do no wrong. To me he was like the annoying teacher's pet who stood first in class every time.

Pete was considered one of the game's 'gentlemen', the nice guy who still finished first, but I never did fully appreciate his value to the sport till the turn of the century maybe, when his apparent decline began. In 2002 when he seemed down and out, he still had enough gas in the tank for one last grand slam title (the US open). I'll remember him as the sportsman I once loved to hate, but he eventually won me over through his sheer guts and the quality of his game. I had a similar quirk against Steffi Graf at one point of time, but when spoilt brats like Martina Hingis took over, I found myself celebrating Steffi's comeback, culminating in that French open final of '99 where she beat Hingis.

(Tailpiece: Hingis has returned now, and I now find myself gunning for her. I really wonder why.)

Part II coming up soon.

2006-06-04T01:13:00.000-07:00

VISA Power...

This weekend has been a largely forgettable one..well almost. Somewhere between Thursday night and Friday morning, a long forgotten 'friend' called viral fever decided to visit me. I kind of sensed his presence, but apparently did not acknowledge it. Come Friday, and I was too busy working away in the cubicle, trying to get the JSPs to run on my system. I hadn't been forced to work this hard in months. The extreme air conditioning made 'him' feel totally at home. And so, at the end of the day, I dragged myself home in a shivering state, physically drained. I won't go much into what followed, let's just say I was down and out for most of the weekend. It hasn't been a complete waste though. I've been able to catch up on a bit of reading...I'm midway through Paddy's copy of three men in a Boat. And of course, I finally get to inaugurate my blog.

In two months I'll be joining the legions of Indian students heading off to the United states for a Master's program. Around this time of the year, everyone' s attention turns to the Visa Interview and the intricacies it involves. Thankfully I got mine over with on the 22nd of last month. Every other person has their own theories and advice on this final hurdle, which naturally leaves you a bit apprehensive before the big day. Not that my experience at the American Embassy is anything worth remembering, but I'll anyway rewind to Chennai, May 22nd (for lack of other subject matter to blog about).

I always get tense before interviews. In this case, after a lot of useless pondering, I was satisfied that all documents were in place, my acads were decent enough and they really had no reason to reject me. I left for Chennai in a more relaxed frame of mind. The flight landed at Kamraj Domestic around 6 in the evening, where I met my dad and left for the Alwarpet guest house in a taxi. There was the usual tinge of nostalgia I felt during the drive and on reaching my Amamma's old house (now functioning as a "Corporate Guest House"). There's a distinctive something about Chennai from whitewashed old buildings to wide roads, unmistakably heavy air and signs advertising "High Class Pure Veg. Restaurant". Normally, you either like it or loathe it. I choose to like it. Still, no one in their right mind would ever have anything nice to say about the weather there. Particularly in summer. Just when you think you've developed a tolerance for it, it comes back and hits you in the face, as I was to find out the next day.

I spent the rest of the evening organising my Documents. One of the inhabitants of the guest house was a Zimababwean called Melusi Moyo, who works in a software company in Harare. The company has a tie-up with 3i Technologies, and he suddenly had to leave for this obscure Indian city called Chennai on an assignment with 3i. Upon meeting him, I resorted to cliched topics for conversation from cricket to football (thankfully he follows both) and Victoria Falls and Wildlife. Actually he was pretty candid in his views about the crisis in Zimbabwe and the whole Mugabe thing (he called the BBC 'biased'), and shared his own views about life in India ('the food's great but the place is too hot') and his own experiences of trying to get an American Visa. He'd been rejected twice on some flimsy grounds when he was all set to go for his Master's years ago. But that's another story.

My appointment was scheduled for 1045 on Monday Morning, and the consulate was barely a 10 minute drive from the guesthouse. I reached the place around 1015, believing i had made it in good time. In a matter of seconds I realized I had done absolutely no groundwork on the place. Outside the (small) gate, stood a long queue of people holding their files above their heads apparently to provide some shade for themseleves. It's equally likely they were about to beat their heads in frustration. I joined the queue, which was moving at snail's pace. They seemed to be letting in people at the rate of one every ten minutes. While the security guard was busy driving away anxious parents, complaints poured out from everyone around me ('Can't they at least provide some shade? And what happens when it rains?'). I waited a good 45 minutes in the sweltering heat before they finally let us in. By now the queue, of course, had broken in two.

After a basic security check inside, the formalities began. Now, before you enter the actual American Embassy, where the interview takes place, you submit your documents at a processing counter in a semi open-air area which looks a bit like one of the fringe corridors of the Tirupathi balaji Temple. With only one fan, there was no escape from the heat. I was shunted in and out of 2 different queues and made to wait around three hours while they processed the docs. It just so happened they decided to take a really long time to return the docs to me...I saw people who had 12:00 appointments going in and coming out with smiling faces...before I even had a chance to proceed from that annoying room. The Tirupathi similarity pretty much ends with the queues. Over there the pilgrims scream their lungs out in anticipation of getting a glimpse of Lord Venkateshwara, here it was a long, mind-numbing wait with uncomfortable silence surrounding you. For no apparent reason, I started singing Simon & Garfunkel songs to myself. It was probably an instinctive way of not letting everyone else's tension get to me. As the long wait grew longer, I asked myself "Is this really the American Consulate?"

Finally my documents turned up and I was given the go-ahead...into the main Embassy. I had no idea what the time was since I didn't have a watch and had to leave my cellphone at home, but I must've spent around three hours there already. The Main Embassy was thankfully air-con (the Yanks would have surely melted otherwise). After I got my fingerprints taken I was told to sit...and wait. Here too, i was lost amidst a sea of people. The monotony was temporarily broken when the Charge d' Affairs of the Consulate (or simply 'the boss' as he prefers to be known as) came and gave us a five minute lecture on how to conduct one's self during the interview. The interview dosen't take place in a separate room, instead you have about ten counters each having an interviewer behind it, with about ten candidates in a row for each counter. The boss was doing his best to be funny, and good on him for effort at least. "You think it's a pain doing this interview thing for one day. These people do it everyday for four months nonstop. I try to tell 'em its a great job, but they just don't agree."

I eventually got fed up of waiting and got myself into one of the queues on the pretext of my 1045 appointment (it was already 230). It would be another forty five minutes before my interview began. Now every interviewer is equipped with a mike, to enable the applicant to hear him clearly. It also means once you're in the queue you can quite easily hear the interviews taking place. I'd have to say this bunch of Americans were among the rudest and nastiest people I've seen. They seemed to be probing every detail possible, particularly when it came to elderly couples planning to visit their children in the states. There seemed to be mass rejections all around. A very unpleasant atmosphere, on the whole. They almost rejected a techie from HP who had an assignment onsite (on the grounds that the nature of his work was not 'convincing' enough) and eventually granted him the Visa after making him compile a list of each and every project and platform he had ever worked on, signed in triplicate, et al. The student crowd was not spared either. One guy was rejected because of two backlogs he had early in his degree, while another was refused because he quit his job early and had been doing nothing for around six months.

For my part, I was simply tired and wanted to get it over with. Finally my turn came...and what an anti climax it turned out to be. The interviewer, a stout bald man who appeared to be in his forties, looked at the documents and murmured to himself "UT Austin...hmmm", and started the questioning. "When did you graduate?", "How long have you been working with CTS?", 'Why are you leaving your job?", "What do your parents do?" and a couple of other queries. After he took a quick look at the CA Statement and said "Your passport will be mailed to you in approximately three day's time, have a good day..."

And that was it. The interview took all of two minutes. Instead of reflecting on the fact that I finally got the Visa, I rushed out of the place immediately. I don't think I've ever been so glad to leave a place before..