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.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Battling Insomnia
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.
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.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
To ponder, or not to ponder: Ten things I'll probably never understand
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Pronounced "Su-haas"
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.
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.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
No more fear and loathing in Austin, Texas
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Lost in a dream, nothing's what it seems
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?
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?
Saturday, November 10, 2007
A decade of two Martina Hingises
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.
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.
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