While the Light Lasts

Remember the Titans #3: Rafael Nadal

2010-10-11T09:42:00.008+05:30

This article is a part of the Remember the Titans series. To know more about the series, go through the introductory post by clicking here.

Some people are born great. Some people have greatness thrust upon them. Some slog all their lives to be called great - more a matter of perseverance than genius. Rafael Nadal, by himself, establishes a new category - where you first flirt with greatness, then have the occasional night-stand with it, and finally, wed it and make it yours forever. Most of the legends in the world of sports wear greatness like a prized shawl; Nadal wears it like a gladiator's armor - close to his chest and visible for the whole world to gawk at. In 2010, Nadal has taken bold steps towards the altar of tennis. The very people who once doubted the completeness of his game now stand with their lips zipped and minds zapped by the prowess that the Spaniard has shown. Gone are the times when Nadal featured as a constant challenger to the throne that was Roger Federer's. Today, he proudly sits on that throne - still well within the mammoth shadow that Federer continues to cast - but constantly making efforts to grow out of it.

That Nadal was cut out for sports was apparent at a very tender age itself. He left football to concentrate on tennis and his prodigal talent began to draw eyes even while he was in his early teens. Nadal was always impatiently ambitious - continually striving to improve, his gaze ever set on the monumental target he desired to achieve. The prophets of tennis must have known that here was a champion-in-the-making, when Nadal outclassed the-then world no.1 Roger Federer in his first ever match in a series of classic clashes at the Miami Masters way back in 2004. It served as a breakthrough performance for Nadal and soon enough, the world began to talk about him, if only in whispers. In 2005, Nadal found his beloved turf - Clay. His dominance over the surface multiplied in the coming years and the way he demolished some of his opponents, including Federer, was scary - earning him the nickname 'The King of Clay'. But, true to his measure, Nadal wasn't satisfied with just lording over clay. Critics did say that his game was only cut out for clay and he would never portend as a serious contender to Federer on the faster surfaces. But then, like his appearance at that time, Nadal's game too defied the usual conventions.

Federer played tennis like an art. Nadal started playing it like a battle. His game was highly physical and with time, he also developed odd ways to hover over the psychology of his opponents. As soon as he stepped onto the court, he pumped his fists in the air, thumped his chest and broke into short, speedy runs all over the court - each of the actions showcasing his supreme confidence and physical agility. The very outlook of the man was enough to send shudders through the person who held the racquet across the court who invariably wondered whether he would survive the onslaught or just wear out to Nadal's incessant aggression. With Nadal, you had to fight for every point. Relentless, machine-like and without even a single lapse in concentration - he could go on for hours, playing with the same zeal and briskness as he played in the first ten minutes of the match. Of course, it was still Federer who bossed tennis - a legend already made and recognized in contrast to Nadal, who was still learning the finer aspects of the game. But, inexplicably Federer always seemed to succumb to Nadal even when there was quite a wide difference in the skills they possessed. They say you make and arm your own enemy. Nadal had come to possess almost everything that Federer lacked - or rather was shy of showing. A strong backhand, a fiery return, brashness, disregard for what the records hinted, absolute aggression - Federer's gentleness kept him chained at all those places where Nadal's ambition liberated him.

The last three years have seen Nadal metamorphosing into a legend. In 2008, when he first snatched the Wimbledon from the iron-claws of Federer and subsequently the number one ranking from him, it was clear that the uni-polar tennis world that belonged to Federer was now in disarray as Nadal too, intended to tame it. Federer however, bounced back in 2009 - and aided and abetted by Nadal's injury problems - completed his career grand slam to seize the throne of tennis - but only temporarily. This year has truly been Nadal's best till date. With three grand slams in his kitty - a bulging total of nine - and a roster of other ATP Masters titles - whose count now stands at a record eighteen - Nadal has indeed made 2010 as his year of induction into the list of all-time greats of tennis. He has now shed the boyish image of his early years and translated into an impressive brand ambassador of tennis. He is now, like Federer, loved, liked and respected by his fans as well as his critics. His passion, his dedication, his commitment and above all, his amazing attitude towards his game - all are finally, being recognized and respected by people. He is still ferocious on the court, but dignified outside it. His range of shots have raised eyebrows and even forced some to rewrite their game-books of tennis. He has mastered every surface, every condition, every opponent - a reward for being the brightest pupil of tennis that the world has ever seen. While Federer and others take on the moments of glory as they come, Nadal carefully plans and synthesizes them. The level of tennis that Federer had established meant that only a super-human could hope to achieve that - and Nadal has done just that and attempting to do even more. Obviously, we'll have to wait and see how long and how much does the momentum established by Nadal last. He is still so young - the youngest to achieve so many of the feats he has already achieved.

Like all great players, Nadal not only brings a new dimension to the game he plays, but also transcends the boundaries of sport to become a person worth emulating in real life. His name has come to mean discipline and he has shown that a focussed effort can achieve what even a gift from destiny can't. Nadal has held the bulls of fear by their horns and simply turned them around to set them upon his opponents. He is that rare example of a youth with the maturity of a veteran. So what else would it take for Nadal to conquer even bigger ground in tennis? What else would it take for Nadal to stake an even greater claim on the pedestals of tennis? What else would it take for Nadal to get a whole tennis era named after him? Hope, faith and luck - we might say. But with Nadal, this magical trio simply fails to have its fabled significance. With Nadal, the only thing that controls and decides his destiny is within him. And we wish it serves him well.

90's Child

2010-05-19T08:49:00.003+05:30

Alright. This one's not my original. It's an interesting compilation I came across on Facebook. The last decade of the last century of the last millennium was probably a wonderful time to pass your childhood in. The list reproduced below is an ode to that golden period. The points I found true about myself have been highlighted using bold-face. If you indeed are a 90's child, I am sure you will find it really interesting to go through the list...

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You Know You Grew Up in India in the 90s When…

1) You know the words to ‘In-pin-safety-pin’ and ‘akkad-bakkad’ by heart

2) Cricket is almost a religion for you, and you idolize at least one of Rahul Dravid/Sachin Tendulkar/Saurav Ganguly

3) You have read at least some Chacha Chaudhary or Tinkle comics

4) You’ve watched Shaktimaan on TV at least once in your life. And you can immediately recognize the character when you see him.

5) You have some ‘NRI’ relatives.

6) You couldn’t wait for it to be December so you could have the Toblerone chocolates your NRI relatives brought you

7) You watched Cartoon Network, and then the late night movies on TNT that came after Cartoon Network ended.

8) You watched corny dubbed versions of Small Wonder, Silver Spoon, and I Dream of Jeanie

9) You were THRILLED when McDonald’s opened in your neighborhood (or even eight kilometers away)

10) A visit to Pizza Hut used to mean a special treat

11) You have seen Kuch Kuch Hota Hai and Hum Aapke Hain Kaun at least 5 times each

12) You still remember the theme song of Hum Paanch. (Hum Paanch, Pam Pam Pam Paanch!)

13) You have played hours upon hour of running and catching, chor-police, lagori, saankli, ‘Doctor, doctor, help us!’, ‘Lock and key’

14) Dog ‘in’ the bone was your favorite co-ed game.

15) Much of your free time in school was spent playing UNO.

16) You collected trump cards of wrestlers, cricketers, and airplanes, and did not quite understand why your younger siblings were obsessed with Pokemon and the other Japanese trends that followed.

17) Your summer vacations were often synonymous with visiting your grandparents or cousins

18) Your parents, at some point, told you ‘Dark Room’ was a bad game to play. But you still loved playing it.

19) Bole mere lips, I love uncle Chips!

20) You know the song ‘Made in India’ by Alisha Chinai

21) You have seen many many many episodes of ‘Antakshari’ on Zee TV and know the only thing constant in the show is Annu Kapoor.

22) Many evenings have been spent watching little kids gyrate vulgarly on Boogie Woogie on Sony.

23) You were the coolest thing in class if you had a computer in your house while it was still the 90s.

24) You learnt LOGO and BASIC in school!

25) You couldn’t wait to start 4th standard so you could start writing with PENS instead of with pencils!

26) You often used terms and phrases like ‘two-say’, ‘same to you, back to you, with no returns’, and ‘shame shame, puppy shame, all the donkeys know your name.’

27) You most probably saw Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge at the cinema at least once. You also fantasized about singing songs in mustard fields as in the movie.

28) You have seen David Dhawan and Govinda movies and laughed at them.

29) You have said ‘haw’ or ‘yuck’ when you saw people kissing in English movies. (nowadays kids are used to it!)

30) Titanic was your FIRST favourite english movie.

31) You thought seeing English movies and speaking English made you the coolest thing ever.

32) You remember the Gujarat earthquake very clearly and could possibly tell everyone EXACTLY what you were doing when the earthquake occurred (yes, this happened in 2001, January 26, 2001, to be exact — but this group is about the things that Indian kids that GREW UP in the 90s remember and identify with).

33) Barbies for girls, and GI Joes for boys were the ultimate status symbols. You just wanted more more more and more. And how can I forget Hot Wheels, for both boys and girls?

34) You thought ‘imported’ clothes were definitely way better than ‘made in India’ clothes (never mind that a lot of clothes brought from overseas by NRI relatives were actually made in India, before ‘Made in China’ started appearing on EVERY existing thing)

35) "Jungle Jungle Baat Chali Hai Pata Chala Hai! Chaddi Pehen Ke Phool Khila Hai Phool Khila Hai!" You watched "The Jungle Book" every Sunday morning at 9.a.m" and just loved mowgli, bhalu and bagheera. A few years later, you watched Disney Hour, which had cartoons like Aladdin, Gummy Bears, Tail Spin, Uncle Scrooge!

36) At some point or other, cool was your favourite, and therefore, most overused word.

37) Captain Planet was your first introduction to environmental consciousness.

38) You have tried to convince people around you to not burst crackers on Diwali, and then gone straight back home and burst them yourself.

39) You have had endless packets of Parle Gluco G biscuits, and of Brittania Little Hearts biscuits.

40) You loved licking off the cream from the centre of Bourbon biscuits.

41) There were no Nike, Reebok, Adidas, Puma- Bata and Liberty was the way to go for your sports shoes.

42) You have probably consumed more Frooti in your lifetime than there is oil in Iraq.

43) You watched Baywatch on Star World when nobody was home even though (or because) your parents said you shouldn’t watch it.

44) You bought packets of potato chips for the specific purpose of collecting Tazos. And you had Tazos depicting everyone from Confucius to Daffy Duck to Daffy Duck dressed as Confucius.

45) For the longest time, the Maruti 800, the Premier Padmini, THE Fiat, and THE Ambassador were the only cars you saw on the road, and the Contessa was cool because it was bigger.

46) You would literally jump up in excitement if you ever chanced upon an imported car (Oh my gosh, is that really a MERCEDES?)!

47) You spent a good part of 1998 drooling over the Hyundai Santro and the Daewoo Matiz , debating which one was better.

48) You used to Fuzen gum. You also chewed Big (big) Babool and/or Boom Boom Boomer chewing gum. They were bright pink and disgusting tasting, but you loved them for the temporary tattoos.

49) Talking of temporary tattoos, you sometimes had contests with your classmates about who had more tattoos on their arm, leg, knee, hand, forehead, wherever.

50) You thought Mario and Contra were the coolest things ever invented, especially if you were a boy.

51) You knew that having the latest Hero or Atlas bicycle would make you the coolest kid on the block.

52) You can imitate Sushmita Sen’s winning gasp to perfection.

53) You have, at some point of time, worn GAP clothes (real or fake) like SRK in KKHH.

54) Seemingly senseless acronyms like SRK, DDLJ, DTPH, KKHH actually make sense to you..

55) You have at some point debated who was more beautiful- Aishwarya or Sushmita.

56) Baskin Robbins ice-cream was THE thing to have!

57) You know what Campa Cola is. And you also knew that Coca Cola was THE drink.

58) You would watch WWF keenly every evening/afternoon and loved Bret Hart "Hitman"! really thought Undertaker had seven lives and he made an “actual” appearance in the Akshay Kumar- starrer Khiladiyon ka Khiladi.

59) When all backpacks (or ’schoolbags’) and water bottles and tiffin boxes had strange cartoon characters that were hybrid versions of seven or eight different characters, and you still bought them, because a green man wih a water pistol, boots, a jet-pack, Johnny bravo hair, a rajasthani mustache, gloves, and underwear (long johns) over his pants, called ‘Mr. X’ was OBVIOUSLY a status symbol.

60) You remember the Nirma tikia jingle.

61) You remember the Nirma girl.

62) You remember the ‘doodh doodh piyo glass full doodh’ ad and also the ‘laal kaala peela, gulabi hara neela classic hai badia bristles wala’ and 'roz khao ande' ads.

63) You grew up reading, if you read at all, some or all of Nancy Drews, Enid Blyton books, Hardy Boys, Babysitters Club, Animorphs, Goosebumps, Sweet Valley series, Judy Blumes, and Tintin, or Archie comics. Because naturally, reading foreign authors made you much cooler than reading Tinkle.

64) Towards the late 90s (1998-99) at least some of us started our Harry Potter obsessions!

65) You absolutely HAD to go to Essel World if you were with cousins! “Essel World mein rahoonga main, ghar nahin nahin jaaonga main!” (I never went but always dreamed of going there!)

66) You watched the Bournvita Quiz contest on TV pretty religiously. The smarter ones amongst you actually took part in it and had your entire school and your entire extended families watch you on it!

67) Maggi 2 Minute Noodles = ultimate snack (and tiffin, lunch, dinner)!

68) If you grew up in the early 90s, you recall the nation’s obsession with Mahabharata on TV

69) In the later 90s, you religiously followed Hip Hip Hooray on Zee. Maybe Just Mohabbat on Sony too

70) You remember parzan dastur sayin "JALEBI!!!!" in the Dhara Ad

71) You eagerly awaited Friendship Day, so you could give friendship bands to all your friends, and get bands from them in return. Then, of course, those with the most bands loved to show them off.

72) Backstreet Boys' "Quit Playing Games" was one of the first english songs that you LOVED!

73) Andaz Apna Apna is and most probably will always be your favourite comedy flick!! "Aila Jhakaas!!!"

74) Cordless phones were uber-cool.

75) You know what Name, Place, Animal, Thing is!

76) This list made you smile.

***

My score : 65! [Naturally, a few variations of whatever's written above are permitted]

Hail, the 90's Child!

A License to Kill

2010-04-25T08:56:00.007+05:30

Can any reason ever justify an intentional breach of the sanctity of life? Can a person who has taken the Hippocratic Oath accede to be an agent of Death? Can anything be worse than watching your dear ones laid bare on the anvil of pain even as you find your hands locked with helplessness? Can any amount of remorse cloud the knowledge that you have left a fellow being in the most abyssmal variation of life that the world has to offer? If you find yourself incapable of answering either of these questions conclusively with a 'Yes' or 'No', don't feel embarrassed. For strangely, there are no 'correct' answers to such questions. The matter of 'mercy-killing' or in technical terms - 'Euthanasia' is still suspended in a perpetual oscillatory motion held by uncompromising forces powered collectively by science and ethics. The idea of euthanasia is not new - the concept of aiding a long suffering individual, with no real chances of survival to die in a painless manner has been suggested decades ago. Ever since, the matter has been shrouded by the veils of multiple legislations and drapes sewn from the yarns of medical philosophy. The stakes are so high that it would be futile to even attempt to clinch the argument in a short piece of text. The best we can do would therefore be to just examine and assess - at times, objectively and at times, passionately - this monumental question-mark that hovers over the medical fraternity.

The first thing to understand, if ever you are to believe in euthanasia, is that Death is not to be feared. The reason we fear death is the same reason that we fear darkness - we don't quite know what lies beyond it. Yes, if it comes unexpectedly, death indeed is the pinnacle of all tragedies. But, in a debate of mercy-killing, death needs to be seen in a completely different light. And because, they are both the two sides of the same coin, any attempt to unravel the intricacies of death must also circumscribe the realm of life. Agreed - life is pious and as mere creations of the Almighty, we have little right to meddle with it. But, once the long path of life has been traversed, isn't death the ultimate transition to something even more meaningful? And if that transition can be made more smooth and less tortuous, wouldn't it make sense to actually do it?Death has never been the greatest loss of life - the greatest loss has been what dies inside us even while we live. And if that loss answers to the claim of being that of the purpose or the desire to live - it would be a tragedy to live with such a loss. Wanting to die and still not being able to do so is far worse than death. Euthanasia is controversial since it pits the plight and suffering of an individual hung in a pathetic imitation of life and willing to embrace death against the legal, medical and social implications of having the right to end such a life. Euthanasia has been erroneously perceived as a stand-off between science and humanity when in reality, it simply endeavours to take the form of a handshake between science and humanity. Just picture some candidates of euthanasia and you will find your heart bleeding tears. A listless human body - in an irreversible coma - lungs run by a respirator and the cells fuelled by an array of feeding tubes and bottles and the heart and the brain being continuously mapped on gigantic screens. An old man - the pride of his life being rotted by the incurable psychological disease grasping him - rendering him a caricature of his age. A impoverished pheasant - in the terminal stages of a deadly cancer - a veritable human hourglass. What science can be dispassionate enough to turn a blind eye to this suffering? A suffering that tortures not only the patient but also those close to him for having to see him in such a state and yet not having the power to interrupt it. If death can curtail all this suffering, why with-hold it? The secret of a successful life has always been how to die - the time, the place, the manner. Euthanasia is for those unfortunate people who have not the fortune of choosing their death over life - even when it is the better of the two options. The controversy is of course whether the medical personnel, responsible for safeguarding life - can actually include its 'antidote' - Death - in their domain. The other arguments in favour of euthanasia are founded more on logic than on compassion. Patients, who have reached a point of no-return, are naturally an economic burden for their families and the society. Rarity is always high-priced. As death draws near and the last dregs of life are all that are left to be drunk, medical care becomes exorbitantly expensive. The intensive care units, the million-dollar life-support equipments, the team of specialized over-seers and the requisite high standards of medical care - its a suction pump that is capable of exhausting the entire pool of family resources and throwing them into the vicious cycle of debts. And in countries like India, where the health care system is already stressed out and working over-time, it seems only reasonable to permit those beyond all chances of survival to make room for those who can still survive by a healing touch. Euthanasia, therefore - though a radical concept - can not be out-rightly discounted.

And now, we join the team of dissenters. The fundamental premise that works against euthanasia is that man is still not so intellectually advanced as to take the matters of life and death into his own hands. Its only when he achieves a universal consciousness - a state beyond worldly gains and petty motives - that he can decide what is right for him and what is right for other men. Euthanasia has two giant rivals - Law and Medicine. Both of them, being the age-old guardians of the sanctity of human life. The very legal and social norms that prohibit intentional killing - may it be as per the victim's will or against it - are the cornerstones of our existence - ideals that guarantee that life will always be valued and everybody will be protected impartially. Life within us, however low it flickers, is still a divine flame and it would be nothing less that the worst of sins to attempt to extinguish it. Either you consider life to be sacred or you consider it to be of no account. There can be no middle path - the one which euthanasia advocates - calling life sacred in some cases and a torment in others. At whatever age and in whatever stage, life should always be treated with dignity. If life becomes unbearable, instead of shaking hands with death, consorted medical efforts should go in making that life less miserable and helping the patients and those who hold him dear in coping with the pain such a life delivers. Euthanasia is not wrong - but it is extremely dangerous. No amount of regulations and no amount of precautions can prevent it from being used to bring about death even where it's not wanted. Laws can always be circumvented and morals can always be abused. The human race is still not ready to use euthanasia the way it is meant to be used. Whereas euthanasia being a grave violation of the laws of God is certainly the chief argument against it, there are some arguments which can be supported on a scientific column. Medicine is not yet a complete science. And since, it deals with something as complicated as the human body, it is never ever likely to be so. And where science can not give assurances, one can never reject the possibility of miracles. There have been so many recorded cases of patients coming out of comas after a dozen years of vegetative existence. There have been people reduced to mere masses of nerves and vessels, recuperating and leading an abject, but a sufficiently promising life. Even if life persists as the thinnest of flames, hope would always be ready to fan it into a fierce fire. As men and as medical professionals, we have no right to rob people of hope. We have no right to deny miracles. We have no right to take back from people what God has given them. Mercy killing, though justifiable in a lenient world, is never going to be practiceable.

After reading all this - you might ask - 'What was your point?'. Darned good question. And as in the matter of euthanasia, I have no real answers here too. I still don't know which way I am inclined to think. Ultimately it will depend on which of the human emotions you value more - pity or hope. Ultimately it will depend on which of the two you would respect more - the sacred stature of human life or the horrid suffering that can make a mincemeat of that stature. Ultimately it will depend on whether you can read the patient's expressionless face - the wail that announces his suffering, the sardonic smile that marks his realisation of how little life now means to him, the aghast look as he understands how close he is to death, the hope that he still harbours wishing that God gives him one final chance to redeem himself. Euthanasia is a matter of life and death. Is it justified? Should it be legalized? Would it be executed in true spirit? With the stakes so high, I am afraid to answer. With the stakes so high, it is perhaps best not to answer...

PS: The existing legal and medical implications and definitions are conspicuously missing from this write-up simply because, I wanted to avoid the flow of thoughts getting hindered. However, a list of sites from where the reader can actually understand what euthanasia means, how it is to be practised, and what several countries and their constitutions have to say about it will be put up here shortly.

Remember the Titans #2 : Roger Federer

2010-03-11T09:45:00.005+05:30

This article is a part of the Remember the Titans series. To know more about the series, go through the introductory post by clicking here.

Sports can be wild. And sports can be beautiful too. They rarely come together but when they do, it conjures - well, there's no other word for it - magic. Given the status of cricket in India, I wouldn't dare to challenge the popularity of the game but I still believe that as a sport to watch, there can be no better choice than tennis. Apart from the gargantuan amount of physical endurance and agility it requires, tennis is also about being sublime and tactful - at times, players take on gladiatorial avatars, battling it out with such intensity that it defies human limits. And if tennis is to be talked and written about, who's better to illustrate the cover page then tennis' equivalent to Sachin Tendulkar - only more gifted, complete and iconic - Roger Federer. This article will go in rewind - the period now to the period then. For the biggest assertions need to be got out of the way lest they weigh heavily on my writing later. I will find detractors, but not many, if I say that as of today, Roger Federer is on the road to becoming the most dominant professional athlete EVER - in any sport, in any discipline. I can hear the voices of dissent and cries of other names - Muhammad Ali, Pele, the redoubtable Tiger Woods and even tennis' own Rod Laver and Pete Sampras. But understand this - the dominance I talk about is not just about being the best and the greatest in the sport you play - its about influencing the game and influencing all who play and watch it, its about taking the game and taking professionalism to new levels, its about making victories look easy and defeats look graceful, its about the awe other players see you with and the cheers you draw from the crowd in any place you play. That's dominance - when the sport itself seems to revolve around you. Federer has achieved all of that, and more.

With sixteen grand slams and eyes set on a lot many more, Federer is unparalleled as far as numbers go in tennis. He will soon go past Sampras in the count of number of weeks at the top. He already has a benumbing number of consecutive finals and semi-finals - 18 of the last 19 finals and each one of the last 23 semi-finals. He is at a stage when it might be a good idea to put his name in the list of synonyms for the word 'champion' in the thesaurus. Federer's game is like a poetry - balanced, beautiful and appearing to mean something much more than what we actually see. It is in many aspects, absolutely flawless. For years after the era of Sampras and Agassi was past, Federer was left all alone, sans any real rivals. All eras are earmarked by great rivalries - something for which tennis is very widely known - Bjorg-McEnroe, Connors-Llendl, Sampras-Agassi - but there seemed to be no one willing and competent enough to engage into the same with Federer. After years, he finally has a pack of some challengers and some pretenders - Murray, Nadal, Djokovic, Del Potro and a few others are all fine players and on their day, have dismantled the champion a few times. Of course the huge stature of Federer still looms large over the tennis circuit but its becoming increasingly difficult to really predict who's going to win tournaments - especially non-Slam ones. Nevertheless, the saga of Federer still continues and he still has to waltz further with history and keep dates with destiny. And we will be more than glad to watch it with starry eyes.

The first time I heard of Federer's name was when he defeated Pete Sampras - the player I revered then - in his own backyard, the Wimbledon, in the fourth round. Television screens all over the world began flashing his pictures - the young, handsome Swiss with those queer banded hair. Not many realized it was a significant moment in tennis history. It was a young gun snatching the flag of tennis supremacy from an old warhorse. A champion was humbled, and another had broken out of the cocoon. In the brief period that lapsed between Sampras leaving the scene of tennis and Federer stamping his authority all over it, three players emerged in a race for the numero uno spot. You can't blame them for not knowing that their happiness would be short-lived and soon they will outclassed by someone very, very special. Hewitt, Safin and Roddick - each coming from a land which had traditionally dominated tennis - would soon be overwhelmed by a man coming from Switzerland - a place marked in the smallest font on tennis maps. And ever since he has arrived, there's been no hurdle, no hiccup, no looking back for Roger Federer. A decade past, he is still tennis' most potent force. Irresistible and invincible.

Federer has improved with each passing year. He began pocketing slams and within no time at all, people were already talking about Sampras and his most sacred record. Tennis rarely sees complete players and it had been quite a few years since there had been one before Federer came. Sampras had a typical American game - a strong serve and an incredible volley. Agassi was acclaimed for his baseline play and rocket return of serve. Some like Goran Ivanisevic could fire aces at will. Federer, unlike these players was a player who was developed not vertically at one point of the tennis skill spectrum but horizontally across its entirety. He used the entire court, the entire baseline and the entire range of shots - he sliced, he punched, he lobbed, he served with panache and hit amazing winners with ease. Like Sampras, he always seemed to do just enough to outdo his opponent. Wimbledon and US Open were his for five successive years. The Australian Open crown was snatched in 2005 by a rejuvenated Marat Safin but Federer retrieved it in 2006. It was only triumph at Roland Garros that eluded him. However, unlike Sampras, who was always vulnerable on clay and lost very frequently to lesser known players in early rounds, Federer's performed extraordinarily even on clay. It was only his misfortune that by the time he had begun his race for Grand Slams, another player had anchored himself firmly on the throne of Roland Garros. Clay has always been quite different from other surfaces - the game slows down, and different skills are sought for mastering it. The kingdom of clay had appeared to shun Federer and elect its own king - Rafael Nadal.

Here finally was a rivalry that gave us what was missing in this era of tennis. Though Federer still dominated the other Slams and surfaces, Nadal repeatedly made a mockery out of him on clay. And then came 2008 - a bumpy ride for Roger. Mind it, he still reached all the four semi-finals, three finals and won one grand slam but over the years he had set such astronomically high standards for himself that even all this was not enough to satiate him or his fans. He lost to a determined Djokovic in the season's first slam at Melbourne and in straight sets to Nadal in the French Open but he was still not disturbed as he stepped onto his favourite surface at Wimbledon. But, here a defining moment was just waiting to happen. In an epic five-setter (which by the way, has an entire post devoted to itself on this very blog), Nadal beat Federer - and within weeks, took away the number one ranking from him. Was this the end of the champion? Would the ever-so-calm persona of Federer ever forget this terrible mental wound? Although he won the US Open later, he once again lost to Nadal at the next slam - another five-setter. And for the first time, the world saw tears pouring out of the eyes that never even blinked at historic moments. People thought Federer had become weaker, but there could be no bigger mistake - the tears and those losses only made him stronger. It showed, as I have said in an earlier post that Federer was not a God as people has started believing him to be. He was better than God - he was human. And he knew what those tears were for. He had just let everything out in those tears - his frustration, his uncertainties, his weaknesses. Federer knew this was the last time his confidence was to be shaken. And we all know how he just swallowed the rest of 2009. No doubt, he was aided by the defeat of Nadal in France and his absence at Wimbledon, but Federer had his eyes only on the altar of greatness that was beckoning to him. He won the French. He won the Wimbledon. He nearly won the US Open but found Del Potro in top form in the finals. He won the Australian Open 2010 - the first slam of the new decade. He has now steered clear of Sampras' record and is setting new limits of his own. He is remodelling tennis and its history. He is a both a loving husband and a proud father now. He is the darling of the crowd. He is the most recognizable face of tennis. He has the whole media licking out of his fingers. One wonders what is left to be achieved and what keeps Federer going then...

To understand the answer, you must first understand Roger Federer as a man and as a phenomenon, not just as a tennis player. Federer is no longer playing for this generation - he is simply laying ground for the coming generation. Higher the ground, he feels, the better they will be able to serve tennis. He is in such a communion with his tennis that he can't fail even if he wants to. He may seem fallible at times and have the occasional bad game - but you can be sure, that he will bounce back. Federer is just one of those people who have greatness flowing in their veins - there has to be a delibrate dialysis if you want to seperate the two. Like Tendulkar, Federer is not only about tennis. More than the greatest tennis player, he is the greatest man ever to have played tennis. Some people would find no difference between the two. Some people would probably be more awed by the former qualification. But, for the others like me, the difference is the reason why we believe in the man called Roger Federer.

Remember the Titans #1 : Sachin Tendulkar

2010-03-10T13:09:00.010+05:30

This article is a part of the Remember the Titans series. To know about the series, go through the introductory post by clicking here.

If ever I will be writing an article, which I am confident is the common voice of millions other than me and not just my ramblings on random issues - it is this. I have heard and read that certain poisons and psychological disorders induce a person to fabricate new words of his own - a queer form of neologism. I wish I could do it right now for the very thought of describing the feats of the individual who becomes the first 'titan' of this series is scary. Words would fail me and memories would betray me because the sheer mass of contribution this little man from Mumbai has made for his country and his sport is still being measured by people with the largest scales they can hold in their hands.

One of the reasons I can never thank God enough is that He put me in an era that concurs with the greatest part of Tendulkar's achievements. The genius of Tendulkar would lord over three generations. Mine, the one above me and the one that's coming after me. Tendulkar has done enough to achieve the zenith of greatness by his cricketing abilities alone. But, that is only the most conspicuous and probably the least important reason why people adore him to an extent that it borders to worship. Tendulkar as a person is much, much more. He is the greatest icon ever of hope - a simple non-extinguishable flame that has kept a million lanterns lit and brightened up the lives of billions who live by their light. No individual, both in this country and in the world of cricket, has had to handle as much as this little man had to. What should he listen to when he steps onto the ground every single time - his own heart thumping wildly, the glass-shattering roar of the stadium crowd or the hopeful prayers that people all over the country mutter as the stocky man carrying one of the heaviest bats looks skyward before taking guard? Eventually, he trained his ears to listen to each of those and yet establish within his mind the kind of silence and concentration that sages used to attempt sitting in deep caves of old mountains. And then as they say - let his bat do the talking.

The personality of Sachin Tendulkar is one that should be taught in classrooms as a lesson of self-management. So many times has he been given out wrongly, at times by visibly atrocious decisions. So many times have his centuries gone in vain as the rest of the team failed to rally around him. So many times he has come agonizingly close to triple figures and then fallen prey to an ordinary ball. So many times has he had to endure the criticisms that pour in after a short spate of low scores. Lesser mortals would have succumbed to even half the magnitude of this tumultuous assault. Tendulkar, miraculously is still standing as the face of Indian cricket after 21 long years. So many paeans have been sung about his strokeplay, his aggression, his technical soundness...even his wily spin - but very few people have acknowledged the most wondrous of Tendulkar's many achievements - his longevity. He has himself said several times recently, as have many others, that his body is not what it used to be. But, Tendulkar is such an intelligent cricketer that with gradual modification he has achieved an equilibrium between what he demands from his body and what it permits him to do. His game now is one that requires less agility and less power, but it draws heavily from his skill and experience. The most recent of his magnificent knocks - 175 against Australia and 200* against South Africa - facing some the world's most fierce bowlers saw an exhibition of the widest range of shots any single innings could ever have featured. Inspite of being under the media spotlight incessantly for so many years, Tendulkar still remains one of the most humble and well-mannered cricketers you could ever come across. With the achievements under his belt and the huge talents at this disposal, he has every right to show what people usually term 'attitude'. And yet, the chemistry he shares with the current captain and the new crop of players retains the same excitement and mutual, healthy respect that he shared with the likes of Azharuddin and Kapil Dev. More than learning how to play cricket one can learn from him how to handle cricket once you have mastered the art of playing it. Long shadows though his stature casts on the national front, Tendulkar has always made sure that the game and the team is valued more than him. Just sample this statement he made at the presentation ceremony after his record 200* knock - ''I dedicate this knock to all the people of India, who have supported me throughout over the last 20 years. I was timing the ball well, and I felt that anywhere between 340 to 350 was a good target. I thought Karthik, Yusuf and Dhoni supported me well. I thought that a 200 would be possible once I crossed 175 in the 42nd over. I am enjoying my cricket at the moment. There have been a few bad decisions I have made as a batsman, but as long as the passion is there I will carry on. It feels good that I lasted the 50 overs, it was a good test of my fitness and I would like to do this once again.''

Tendulkar has quite candidly said that he is uncomfortable with the comparisions made between him and the legends of yesteryears like the great Donald Bradman, Sunny Gavaskar and Vivian Richards. But, his lakhs of fans and followers are hell-bent on proving that he is THE best. While nothing can be said with certainty on the topic, no one can ever argue that Tendulkar has written his name across literally every record when it comes to batting. In the national team as a 16-year old and put up on debut against a hostile Pakistani bowling attack, the unique blend of resilience and aggression that Tendulkar showed back then had already laid down his credentials as a batting prodigy. He has never been chucked out of the team ever since - perhaps the only player who has had that fortune. The last decade of the last century belonged completely to Sachin Tendulkar. Bowlers trembled at his name and he won every duel that he was forced to participate him. What other player could give nightmares to Shane Warne and occasionally make the swing of Akram and the pace of Allan Donald look pedestrian? Gradually, the team began to rely heavily on him - more than it should have. A blitzkrieg was expected from him every time he stepped onto the crease. The opposition spent nights mulling over strategies to unsettle him and find any flaws in his near-perfect batting. But, Tendulkar was not one who could be beaten by technology or strategy. To beat him you had to be the near-perfect bowler bowling the near-perfect ball. After a bout of successive injuries, many wrote off Tendulkar as a spent force. Not those who knew him closely. And true to his nature, Tendulkar bounced back, better than ever - and nearly won India the 2003 World Cup. And seven years after that, he still mesmerizes the scorers and the spectators alike. Tendulkar has achieved a level where the only person he can compete with is himself. And that is what makes him the most-loved and the most-respected cricketer in the world today.

A day will come...and its not very far too...when Sachin Tendulkar will bid adieu to cricket. I can't still imagine cricket without Sachin Tendulkar. For many, he remains the only reason to watch cricket. Oh, lets not say it will be a dark day for cricket. New players have taken the game to new levels. We must not be unjust to the talents that cricketers like Dhoni and Michael Clarke possess. The show will go on - Sachin's records, however monumental they may seem now, will eventually be broken at some point in time - many many years later maybe. But, will a cricketer emerge who will be the object of such affection, such devotion and such attention as this man? Will we ever get to see so many breaths held to watch the swerve of a single bat? Will a cricketer indeed reach a position when people will start questioning whether he is a human at all? Even Sachin, modest as he is ever, will find these questions hard to evade...

Introduction : Remember the Titans

2010-03-10T10:15:00.005+05:30

Some people are born great and some people have greatness thrust upon them. Nowhere can this be illustrated more clearly than in the arena of sports. I will be honest - I do not have the requisite levels of proficiency in even a single sport. I did play cricket and the odd game of football as a kid but once academics and other co-curricular activities began eating into my time, I abandoned sports. Abandoning is not actually quite the correct terminology, for you will come across very few born spectators of sports like me. I can watch a whole test match without moving a muscle and I can rattle off the names of over six scores of contemporary tennis players without pausing for breath. Being a sports enthusiast isn't an experience you can imagine or narrate - its something you have got to feel. Either you are one and you know what I am talking about or you are not and you are still wondering where this post is going. On the scales of glamour and glory, I would still bet on sports weighing down the dreamland of cinema...for cinema is painstakingly orchestrated whereas sports is rich in spontaneity. The 'Remember the Titans' series will celebrate this glory of sports - its power to suddenly make you aware of your skin as a separate organ, the phenomenal celebrations of narrow victories and the heart-rending agony of close defeats, the arrival of a moment when a million eyes are glued over a single line waiting for a ball to make it on one side or the other, the sight of a time-tortured body suspended over two feet in air, the raucous cries of a reverent crowd, the speed of players weaving into each other on a wet turf...simply put, this series is my tribute to sports and sportsmen who have given me some of the most memorable moments of life.

Each article in the series will feature a single sportsperson. Let one thing be clear - this series should not be taken as a definitive list of the greatest servants of sport. It is a personal list and will be heavily influenced by my own tastes and preferences in sport. For instance, the likes of Muhammad Ali and Carl Lewis, though towering figures in their own right, would never make it to this list because I watch neither boxing nor follow any particular discipline of track and field events. Sports popular in Indian households - cricket, tennis, soccer and to some extent, hockey - would thus be the chief reservoirs from which this list will flow out. Facts of course will be facts. Important they are but they don't matter for the moment. The articles will neither be a biographical account nor a mere recitation of the fellow's stupendous achievements. It will have a personal touch - something that is a must to work up magic. Opinions and reflections may then be exaggerated or downplayed accordingly.

God has given us four tools to fabricate greatness with - mind, body, heart and soul. Successful sportspersons usually make a successful use of the first two and enthrall the audiences. But, the ones truly great play their game using the last two as well which is why their names get honoured with hitherto unheard praises by the followers and custodians of history.

Bond Busted - Part Two

2010-03-09T16:25:00.005+05:30

NOTE - This is the second part of a sequence. Make sure you have read the first part. If you haven't click here.

Spandan. I don't really remember who it was who specifically suggested that name but I do remember the other names in the fray, the only other chief contender being Jashn. Unlike the story so far, Spandan was completely drenched in politics right from the word 'Go'. Initially, the usually forthcoming people from our batch were reluctant to handle the burden of organizing the annual function of the college. But they finally gave in to the tremendous pressure and the promises of being conferred the fabled 'power' by the seniors and took the mantle of organizing the biggest event in our college.

It was clear to me at a very early stage that people were going to be punished for what they had done in the near and the not-too-distant past. It was the whole saga of ego clashes all over again - only this time the blows that would be inflicted were meant to be final and fatal. Broadly, two groups were appearing to emerge and a third one which consisted of the fringe players simply content to watch the proceedings without any ado. Before their counterparts could even count the days to the D-day on their fingers, one of the two major groups - heavily backed by its patron seniors had seized the organization of the function by its horns. And once they had done that, the politics began to surface. We have these certain gentlemen - from amongst students only - who go into a deep slumber during most parts of the year, some of them managing to handle academics and the others showing their disregard for it - but suddenly resurface like a mythical Mummy in the pre-function period. And the plans and strategies they chalk out! It would even put the much-maligned, much-abused stalwarts in the two Houses of Parliament to shame. The Moon would have been sufficiently entertained had it kept its eyes on the two hostels at Rajkot in the months of March and April last year for almost all the homework and teamwork for the function - mostly grand plans to achieve supremacy and bring the 'opposition' to its knees - was carried out under its mist-laden light at the door steps of the hostels. The lines from a recent movie iterate what I was already thinking back then. People are people - they can never be outrightly termed good or bad. When people do good deeds they become good people and when they do otherwise they become bad people. What unfolded in our batch did so because people began branding others' good and bad and began judging their deeds by their reputations instead of the other way round. The cycle began to go in reverse of the direction in which it was meant to go and the anatomy of a huge rift in the batch was thus securely structured. In retrospect, just think - Did it really matter which way the pendulum swung? Did it really matter whose name appeared in the two square inches of paper plastered at three places on the globe? Did it really matter who took the stage and who fashioned the cricket pitch, if at the end of it all everyone could have enjoyed it? Was the small function of our small college a big enough event to spark off such controversies and draft such animosities between us? Yes, one is not supposed to witness injustice with bowed heads. One is not supposed to let hooliganism dictate our duties. Occasions such as these are opportunities when one can stand up and be counted as one who will be remembered. You fully deserve to ask for your rights and question their relevance. But, honestly and frankly, if not to others at least answer yourself - was it such motives which guided our actions back then? Were we trying to develop our strengths or were we simply sniffing around for the rival's weaknesses? Was talent being rewarded or was silence being punished? Why then could a dozen seniors exterminate all remains of unity from our batch and axe a plant which had still not even started bearing fruits? Today, each of these questions can be emphatically answered unless of course you still chose to turn a blind eye on our mistakes. And the answers fail to vindicate not a single one of us. It was a shame that people clustered together only to serve their personal gains. Naturally, any person worth his weight in salt is expected to be a little selfish but the extent of this flawed character that we all exhibited is way beyond the realms of reasonable pardon. Hands that had not even pointed in the same direction till now were now being shook with claims of friendship. Heads which were once full of abuses to hurl at others were now hustled together discussing the next 'move'. It was like rotating a kaleidoscope - new patterns with every turn. It was like a chess game without rules - even the pawns could topple the king on their day. It was like auctioning for something you had no idea about - you just wanted to outbid your rival even if it meant paying a fortune for worthless gravel. Back then, I would have gladly beheaded half the college and justify my act like Lord Parsurama. But now, I realize that the function, however stupid and insignificant it seems in hindsight, at that time gave everything that human nature craves for. In the Editorial of the college magazine, I have written a flourishing account of Spandan. If an eraser that spared nothing but the truth was used over it, those two pages would be left completely blank. Drawing parallels from Pathology, what had happened till Spandan was like a reversible injury, but the function tilted the balance and made it irreversible - and apoptosis and necrosis of the batch became a foregone conclusion.

An optimist may still view the function as a fortunate occurrence. It did bring out the best and worst in everybody and in the mirrors of ambition everyone was shown for what they really were. Like minded people came together. Even if it meant going from bad to worse, it at least gave the batch a stamp of permanence and put an end to the whole rigmarole of relations sweetening and souring by the hour. With fewer people left together, there was better understanding between them all and a rare sight of happy faces did indeed dominate the later part of the year. No one has still cleared the rumble of the function and shards still pierce the feet if you try to traverse on those areas. A useless set of DVDs and a mini-magazine apart, the only things that we have left from Spandan are memories - ranging from very good to very bad - and even those will fade as life goes on.

If you have been using only your eyes so far, I would recommend you enlist the services of your mind and heart...and your soul too if it agrees to come. Look at the clock. Look at the calender. Look at the lines in your palm. Aren't they suggesting something? If your mind and heart have looked too, you will find that they are suggesting the arrival of a watershed moment. Only two years remain - two years when excepting the hostel and the hospital we will be seeing little of each other. If things stand as they are, no one can still deny you from becoming a good doctor. But, if you feel the need to change and actually do so - you will learn the art of healing too. In the tongue of Pathology I spoke before, the damage caused is irreversible. But, pathology is a science and science is but a humble servant of Life. Life can never be bad enough if you know how to apply the healing touch. Try and examine the limits of your individuality and one day you will realize that it is infact limitless - an entity that meanders into the infinitum. Understand this and you will also realize that all individualities are complete only when they blend into each other. Years down the lane, if you chance across your batch-mate, I am sure you wouldn't want your eyes being forced to look down and pretend that nothing has happened. Why...some of us might even make it big and provide some bed time tales and tea time boasts for the others to tell their children and grand-children about. Try to heal and try to unite. There's a place in your heart and I know its filled with love. It will take just a few well-spent minutes of reflection to locate it and another few to unlatch it. Just live amidst the miracles that happen then.

Another function is probably coming now - and this time we are not the ones performing...but I am sure many hands will be itching to wear the puppeting gloves. I am talking to the minds and hearts that control those hands - Stop. You have done enough damage in our batch. Let fate chart out its course in the batches beneath us. Spit the poison and sip the nectar. I assure you - its far too delicious...

Epilogue -

Whew. That was long...and pretentious too, I suspect. When you choose to employ a slightly lofty vocabulary, words don't always pour out of the heart. Nevertheless, I suppose in the broad sense the message is conveyed. I don't expect to make a huge impact - neither the readership nor the read is capable of being a part of such a thing. It needs a tremendous force in text and people who can be guided by that force. But, I would be happy if the write-up is just taken seriously and a line of thought started in the right direction subsequent and as a result of it. An overhaul of the mindset is the first thing to be done - tiny steps taken now and then sleepwalking back again over the coming months would be purposeless. Any discussions regarding this article in person will not be very enthusiastically entertained. I am better with words sent through fingers than those sent through the lips.

Bond Busted - Part One

2010-03-09T11:28:00.007+05:30

Prologue -

As a few of you are privy to the fact, this topic was to take the form of poetry. However, with all due respect, knowing the levels of comprehension of this language amidst the target readership to be pretty ordinary, I decided to abort poetry and write this up in prose - a form more coherent and precise. I know it would still require a consorted mental effort on the part of those reading it to understand it completely but where's the fun in writing without employing tedious words and reading without your mouth open and forehead all sweaty? Besides, the richness of the vocabulary gives me a very effective cover hiding underneath which I can take guarded shots at several people. The thick and the uninitiated will be confounded and the ones embroiled in the business will exhibit queer pupil reactions at frequent intervals. By the end of this article, the status will be somewhat like - 'Samajne waale samaj gaye hain, jo na samjhe woh anadi hai'...

Caution - It is very likely that if you don't belong to my college, that you would be able to make neither head nor tail of this write-up. I strongly recommend that you don't waste your time going through it.

BOND BUSTED

The tagline on the top of this page claims quite callously - 'Words and ideas can change the world'. Inspite of having about 60 posts already under my blogging belt, this will probably be the first time I am putting the tagline into action. The success of this post will not be measured by the compliments or hits I receive, or the number of ten-letter words I use in it - it will be measured by the changes it actualizes and the thought processes it provokes in the target reader's mind. Its the kind of success difficult to both achieve and evaluate but with my hands free at the moment and mind desperate to unleash its arsenal, I thought this would be the best and only time I can pen this down.

It all began on the first day of August 2007. Empty but sharp minds packaged in an wide assortment of bodies and coming from an equally wide assortment of places were brought together under a roof called the 'PDU Medical College'. The course they were to pursue was an elite one called the MBBS - medicine for the layman. No one knew what was to happen in the next four and a half years that they were to be together. The safety of their parents' docks were long gone - their boats had now entered unchartered waters which by common opinion, looked pretty frightening. But brave sailors they were...and they set forth with gutso onto what has been so far an enchanting journey...

I could go on for pages and pages if I want to - but as the title of this page suggests, this post will only deal with the reason why the batch called Bond didn't in fact - bond. The solitary purpose would be to bring out the fragilities that made our batch so brittle that it busted in the brief period of 29 months. What acted as the ignition and what acted as the fuel in the demonic act that has led to the social fabric of this batch being in flames? Why is it that daggers fly where flowers of friendship should be blooming? Why is it that some heads start boiling at the very name of some others? I confess beforehand that what you read from here on will be highly sensationalized and embedded in the moulds of customary literary exaggeration - but try to look beyond the words and catch the meaning hidden within them. Only then will the purpose of this text be served.

For most part of the first year, I was an ostrich. My head was buried in the sand and foliage of the trio of Anatomy, Physiology and Biochemistry - falsely assuming that by avoiding seeing the doings of others, my own doings will be correspondingly ignored. The assumption was short-lived and later, I had delved into the 'happenings' of the batch - with lesser gutso than many but sufficient enough to know what's going on. And what went on had turned nasty right from the very start. Why can't a person look upon another as a fellow man - individual and unique - beyond all scales of comparision? Why are people - within minutes of coming in contact with - categorized into superiors, inferiors and equals? You can't be close to one and all but it certainly is a good idea to be civil and courteous to all as long as they don't harm you. In the fertile soil of these false notions - and with the hybrid manure of regional bias, caste categorization and after a short while, academic segmentation - were the first seeds of disunity sown. Watered by seniors and batchmates alike, the crop has already grown, been harvested and poisoned everyone save a few.

In the first year, I vaguely remember the notions held then. Our college was quite orthodox in character - the two genders took the form of a mixture and not a compound, as chemistry students would prefer to distinguish. The first forays into the science of gender amalgamation were probably made with our batch. It would be unreasonable to comment on whether these forays were right or wrong - but in my opinion, they were certainly too premature. And even that would have been okay had there not been high-handedness from one end and countering envy from the other. The swords were drawn and the swordsmen forced to take sides at a duel between two very enterprising people at the boys' hostel. To make an already interesting face-off more interesting the more domineering of the girls got involved. From the very next day, the more observant amongst us could make out subtle changes in the hierarchy of the class. People 'warmed up' to some and became 'cold' to others. Requests for phone numbers were rejected and the subsequent issues blown up. Some were shown a cold shoulder for a frivolous attempt at forging so-called friendships. But, the college was not the major scene of action - it was the hostel and the hot spots of Rajkot city. Hearts had begun to flutter...a few had already taken off in early flight and those few quite predictably were destined to crash. And then there were the parties! Oh, and what a big issue they made. A section of people, many of them having fluttering hearts, got all glitzy and went off to parties. The other ones, largely because they could do nothing else, scoffed at them and arranged their own pathetic imitations of enjoyment. A few of the fluttering hearts - the lucky ones and the wise ones - soared and then crashed. The rest directly crashed. As of now, I am not aware of any of those fluttering hearts still in flight. The section which partied had their own problems - even within them people began scheming - some to get to play the ringmaster and others to bring those ill-fated fluttering hearts to somehow click and be a success. The divas, the damsels, the dudes, the vamps and the lambs - and mark my words, all had a fair representation - soon decided that partying was even worse than smoking for health and stopped. The intensive cardiac care units - which exclusively looked after the ailing hearts that had fluttered and then crashed - were permanently shuttered. The breeze of romance was over-powered by the gale of academics as the internal exams swooped in. The party people parted - and that section regretfully is still in parts. The other section had by then managed to convince themselves that they were the mighty ones. With a mindset not very different from the Valentine Day's saffron patrol brigade, they embarked on their own journey of infatuations and insinuations. But their glee at the dispersion of their flashy counterparts was short-lived as problems began frequenting them too. With their narrow minds already cluttered with envy, their inflating egos could hardly be accommodated and they too went by the-then usual routine of self-destruction. As days progressed, the situation improved. The disbanded and the disheartened sought and found sympathy from each other. In their golden run to self-destruction, they had already organized a grandiose tour to proximal destinations and angered a sadist teacher quite famous for wreaking havoc on students. Havoc it was indeed - and people trembled when the Physiology class became an exhibition of manslaughter. But time made that a routine too. All was well - or at least as well as the situation permitted.

The venue of the next act - Baroda. My hometown and where Gujarat's largest medical students' celebration meet is held in April under the name of 'Vibrant' by the city's medical college. A sizeable consignment from our college, including me eager to rush home, landed in Baroda. The spirit of celebration and the tension-free atmosphere had hypnotized all. As the motley group from Rajkot wandered together - in auditoriums and gardens, malls and mountains - they began to seal their differences. The intensive cardiac care units became temporarily operational again - and the romantic and the infatuated saw a silver lining once again. People were allowed to be indiscreet and rude. In a frivolous truth-and-dare game, many bold advances were made. I was absent from most of the scene of action but the happenings did reach my ears. Back to Rajkot, the class sunk back into torpor once again. A few egos clashed every now and then. There were already a few people who could be readily pin-pointed as the 'usual culprits' - those not amenable to socializing and whose ballooning egos got often busted by roughshod handling. As we will see later, these earth-bound misfits would be playing a major role in the next round of college politics.

Till the end of first year, we were onto ourselves. In the second year, we saw a fresh fleet of angels and demons descending on our lands - a species called 'Seniors'. Most of us were chronologically shocked, disoriented, pupeteered, reoriented and then thrust into the nasty world of college politics. They said it was about power - the power to stand your ground, the power to decide and choose, the power to fix and unfurl your own flag in a heterogenous terrain. What you do would decide who you are. We were impressed - maybe even awed. I didn't understand then and I still haven't figured out now - what one is to do with that power. Looking long distance it doesn't even seem to qualify as a power. But we were asked to develop it and we tried our level best. We had two opportunities to exhibit how far we had succeeded - the Freshers' Party was the battle and the Annual Function was the war. In the brief respite between the two, we had a honeymoon - another class trip to Rajasthan. What happened in the trip was a sophisticated version of what happened in the first year - like Sanjay Leela Bhansali's glamourous and glorious version of the same age-old story of Devdas. Some people made new friends. Some renewed old friendships. Some friendships progressed to the darned status of fluttering hearts. Preceding the trip was a week full of 'Day Celebrations'. Most of them were enjoyable - the political influence was very low. Of course, concepts like the Chocolate Day are designed to poke and jab the already established relations into something more exciting but all in all, nothing unexpected happened. The trip and what preceded it did bring a lot many people out of shell and they began to take a renewed interest in what was happening in the class. Thus, for all practical purposes all it did was to raise the stakes for the war that was come.

And much worse than a war it was...the disaster we had fondly christened one fine morning as 'Spandan'....

***Part 1 ends here***

For the second part of this sequence, click here.

Till the Right Tick

2009-10-26T15:19:00.005+05:30

Every self-help book in the world would probably have these words (or something very similar) trashed away somewhere in its usually useless pages - "Every morning, God fills up your day with 24 hours, 1440 minutes, 86400 seconds - use it well. It's never going to come back". Yes - you didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure that out - but then I guess these 'motivational' authors do really believe that the whole world's permanently enrolled in some gigantic kindergarten.

Earth-days have always been 24 hours long. (at least in the living memories of anyone who is reading this and is not a ghost!) But have you noticed how seemingly, the days seem to be getting shorter as you grow up? How every morning reminds you of the colossal amount of work that is to be done? How often you wish to just smash that time-piece on your desk, hoping that it would miraculously suspend the world in some timeless animation? The truth is that we have become so incredibly ambitious, so ridiculously over-zealous, so unconvincingly diligent - that the little patience we as a species are born with has slowly trickled away into the ever-thirsty sands of panic. Our whole approach to life is so overtly aggressive that no wonder the better things that Destiny plans for us are backing away in plump fright. We have so thoroughly mastered the art of hurrying and scurrying that every hour of the day has become a ghastly 'Rush Hour' for us. Mark Twain once called 'Time and Tide wait for none' - arguably the words most frequently put between quotation marks in this language - a 'highly pompous and self-satisfied proverb that was true for a billion years'. But, in our times perhaps the correct thing to say would be that 'Man waits neither for Time nor for Tide'. And quite unfortunately so.

Have you heard how the most ruthless of the predator felines hunt down their prey? They wait. They go into hiding and with a stealth unmoved by the belches in their bellies, simply wait for their prey to come into the right position. And then, at the opportune moment, they spring into action and 'go for the kill'. Had they launched into attack at the first sight of their victim, they would have been fairly and squarely beaten by its superior swiftness and nimbleness. Courage is not always about standing up and grabbing your fate by its horns. It is, more frequently than not, all about lying low - going down but not out - and then, when even the most adventurous of the bookies don't give you a chance, jumping up and sealing your triumph. Its a skill very difficult to inculcate - not because it needs greater merit - but because it needs greater motivation. The rewards, in immediate retrospection, are completely inglorious. But, in the longer run, it fetches you more dividends than you could ever have bargained for. The number of times that a moment of patience has managed to ward off a great disaster is only superseded by the number of times a moment of impatience has ruined a successful campaign. Just ask an Indian batsman how many times he has lost his wicket just because he has 'played it too early'? Just ask an Indian fielder how many times he has dropped a sitter just because he foolishly lunged for the ball instead of waiting it to come and sit pretty in his fingers.

Of course, there are those desperate times when you have to show urgency. There are moments when sitting back will allow men less capable than you to zoom ahead. There are races where it is wiser to be the hare rather than the tortoise. It is upon you to decide how to deal with the situation at hand - with promptness or with patience. The chief thing is just to know that the latter of the two options does exist and there is no disgrace in exercising it. Opportunity knocks doors - but only closed ones. There is no point in keeping yours open all the time.

******

For everything there is a season -
And a time for every matter under heaven.
A time to be born, and a time to die
A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted
A time to kill, and a time to heal
A time to break down, and a time to build up
A time to weep, and a time to laugh
A time to mourn, and a time to dance
A time to throw away stones, and a time to gather them
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain
A time to seek, and a time to lose
A time to keep, and a time to throw away
A time to tear, and a time to sew
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak
A time to love, and a time to hate,
A time for war, and a time for peace.

Apollo's Ire

2009-08-18T23:45:00.003+05:30

A good doctor treats a disease. A great doctor treats a patient. The medical education system, which I am a part of, is probably suffieciently equipped to churn out good doctors. But, rarely does this framework go beyond the realms of scientific teachings and cultivate a batch of great doctors. Free medical services do not give you the license to compromise on the quality of healthcare - something which professionals associated with government hospitals all over the country need to be reminded. When you become a doctor and undertake the Hippocratic Oath, you embark on a voyage in the sea of humanity. Storms in the forms of diseases have to be weathered and newer and better routes to good health need to be constantly chartered. Sadly, the money-making tendencies and the lack of a moral dimension to medical practice has brought about a partial, if not complete, erosion of these extremely essential social ingredients of medical profession.

I have watched with my own eyes, a patient first become a clinical history, then an examination, a diagnosis, a chart, a case number and eventually a shabbily stored hospital record. I have seen a sick man stand in line for six hours, waiting and still waiting, to be shuffled through an inefficient system of impatient receptionists, an overworked nursing staff and a breed of doctors who couldn't care less. I have seen patients in a pathetic state being robbed of whatever little comfort and dignity they carried when they entered the hospital premises. I have seen them languishing in their beds by the day, oblivious to the hustle-bustle in the wards. I have heard them howling in the nights with noone to alleviate their pain. I have watched a patient being told bluntly that he had cancer - irrevocable and invariably fatal - and then shoved out of the clinician's room to ponder over his impending end. I have seen twenty abdomens being examined in thirty minutes without so much as a glance at the fear writ large on the face of the patients. I have seen the facial muscles of an old man's wife twitch as two junior residents mutter gross jargon with sardonic smiles over her husband's ailing body.

I am ashamed that such inhuman actions are perpetrated under the guise of State-sponsored charity. I am ashamed that the sick of the society are seen as liabilities and obligations. I am ashamed that we have become so insensitive and academically carried away that we are more interested in the disease rather than the diseased. The worrying rise in the incidence of nosocomial (hospital acquired) cross-infections is another indication that all is not well with our public tertiary health services. Patients instead of getting treated, often go out in a worse situation than ever before. They are overloaded with empirical pharmacological agents and acted upon as experiments for the young and the ignorant. Mind you - the situation is this bad only in the civil hospitals. Their private counterparts literally pamper their patients even if it is eventually only to fill their own pockets. The time has come to infuse humanity back into medicine. The time has come to understand that your patient is someone's father, brother, husband or son and if not even that - atleast he is a fellow human being, created and loved by God, just as you are. The time has come to win back the faith of the Gods and carry out in earnest the job entrusted to us. It might be a mere professional routine to us but for someone else it is a matter between life and death...

The Jester

2009-08-18T11:38:00.007+05:30

If laughter, as they said, was the best medicine,

he, with his humour, was one of the finest doctors.

Being sad, and yet making the world think otherwise,

also placed him in the ranks of the finest actors.

Legendary was his wit, contagious was his charm...

Thousands flocked to hear every word he spoke.

Fits of laughter and a cacophony of giggles followed,

every time he adroitly cracked a classy joke.

His countless patrons loved and adored him,

for none but him could so lighten their spirits.

He basked in glory and swam in showered silver,

as jesters from far and near failed to match his wits.

Being sharp, he knew where a man's funny bone lay,

and was adept at brewing new brands of comedy.

He became an obelisk of cheer for the crestfallen,

and they assiduously sought him as a voodoo remedy.

All was well, till his heart was pure...

and no innuendo of insult tainted his tales.

But that sweet poison called fame soon made him giddy,

and flattery began tickling him with its sculpted nails.

His ego soon catapulted to worrying heights,

and rancid narcissism swiftly took over his mind.

With a critic's eye did he now see the entire world -

no longer was his humour guileless and refined.

Insinuations and insults became the new flavour,

of this new and hideous form that his humour took.

Half the world he called imbeciles; and the other half idiots,

and darted towards their failings like a hungry rook.

He began to engage in mimicry - the diet of buffoons,

and turned each of the high and mighty into a caricature.

He lost all respect quicker than it had been earned,

and a tragic fall was superimposed over his stature.

The very people who till then were fans of his wit,

now locked him under a discerningly cold gaze.

Up in lashing flames went that celebrated charm -

a sinster wave of resentment now numbered his days.

And when he died - both a man-hater and a hated man,

Oft calling the world rogue, and oft being called knave.

The very man, who had lived to make people laugh,

had not a single soul to shed tears over his barren grave.

- NISHANK MEHTA

17.08.2009

Saffron, White and Green

2009-08-15T16:57:00.006+05:30

Today, on independent India's 63rd birthday, let us not talk about where we are lagging. Let us not whip the lousy bureaucrats or the stinking hypocrites who tarnish our country. Let us not spin an incomprehensible tale about two Indias - one fresh and fervent and the other inactive and indolent. Let today's narration register my feelings of pride -

The pride I feel when I am called an Indian. The pride I feel when India is considered as a member of the league of global superpowers. The pride I feel when the happenings at Dalal Street evoke serious reactions in Wall Street. The pride I feel when an exuberant Dhoni hoists a silver cup and a dejected Ponting stares into nothingness. The pride I feel when a Saina and a Sania wield two different racquets with the same compassion. The pride I feel when Sachin Tendulkar's face at 35 shows the same delight when he reaches triple figures as it showed when it was 18. The pride I feel when an Indian jawan patrols over impossible terrains to protect his motherland. The pride I feel when the musical genius of Rehman effortlessly renders 'Jaya He' with Pandit Jasraj and 'Jai Ho' for Danny Boyle. The pride I feel when an Indian beauty mesmerizes shutterbugs in Cannes and Venice. The pride I feel when our cine-legends get to marvel their wax effigies in London. The pride I feel when an Indian kid beats his American counterparts in their own language at the Spelling-Bee competitions. The pride I feel when despite years of communal strife, Hindus still flock Ajmer and Muslims still pay homages at Banaras. The pride I feel when Ratan Tata silences his detractors by giving the people of India the first and the only Common Man's Car. The pride I feel when India flexes its military muscle in the field displays at the Republic Day celebrations in Delhi. The pride I feel when rubbishing all modern cultural influences, an Indian youth still doesn't fail to touch the feet of his elders. The pride I feel when I see the entire healthcare system of the nation collectively persevering to battle pandemics and epidemics all round the clock. The pride I feel when books of Chetan Bhagat and Salman Rushdie sell like hotcakes at the local book-stores. The pride I feel when Mumbai and other blast-hit cities show unparalleled courage and concord to make the shards of terrorism blunter with each attack. The pride I feel when a group of fourth-graders discuss Pachauri and global warming with authority and interest. The pride I feel when I see the sky decorated with a thousand colours on Uttarayan and a shower of lights on Deepawali. The pride I feel when a billion aspirations take flight at the break of every dawn and quite a number of them manage to soar till enviable heights. The pride I feel when the lullabies of the night put those billion avian aspirations to sleep with the knowledge of having inched closer to their destinations. The pride I feel when the tri-colour unfurls over the roof of a building. The pride I feel when soul-stirring patriotic songs pour out of All-India Radio transmitters. The pride I feel when I call India my love, my home, my motherland. The pride I feel....a pride we all ought to feel.

Happy birthday, independent India. May your Gods bless you.

NOTE: That was indeed quite a long list of prides. Knowing the cynical fools that we are, the list of shames would probably be even longer. But, we have until the next fifteenth of August to talk about that!

Sign Out

2009-08-14T11:23:00.002+05:30

Too long and too silently have I suffered,

from this punishment that the world calls life.

The only thing that can bring my battered soul solace,

is the glistening, but sharp, blade of the knife.

Why did they invite me to enjoy the world's spoils,

when they knew that each bit of it was poisoned and cursed?

Why did they pretend to embellish my wretched destiny,

while secretly it was only their fortunes they nursed?

Why was I even shown luring mirages of success,

when all that was intended for me was ruin and wreckage?

Why was it that I never got to write my own story,

and the one they had written opened directly at the last page?

They answered my blind loyalty with shameless betrayal,

and dissolved my faith in a steaming cauldron of deceit.

At my slightest slip, they came swooping down upon me,

like eerie vultures descending on a piece of leftover meat.

Too long I stayed illusioned by their Machiavellian tactics,

and consorted in their brazen acts of transgression.

But, now I can play the masochistic puppet no longer -

too famished am I now to battle this depression.

The world is always free to hate and despise me,

for the road I am to take is laid with a defeatist's tar.

But let those chance few who loved me, know

that but for them I wouldn't even have made it this far.

The world hasn't been completely unkind to me,

and I do have some sweet memories to carry yonder.

There were indeed a few alleys of unraided happiness,

and in them will my surrendered soul seek to wander.

And now, this paper will patiently wait on the side-table,

to announce my decision to take the long journey back.

And the last line this unfortunate hand will ever write,

will be a thin crimson one across my neck...

- NISHANK MEHTA

14.08.2009

NOTE : While writing this poem, I suddenly realized what a wide scope the theme of a suicide's last words provided. I could easily lend the poem an emotional hue, or paint the picture of a martyr to some lost cause, or evoke pity for a man whom the world failed to understand. Eventually, I refuted each of these ideas and chose to represent the victim as a freak and a loser that most suicides actually are. I featured it as an act of weakness, a tame submission to the demanding world, an act that smelt of disregard for the sanctity of life and a complete disbelief in divine intervention in the form of what Gandhiji called 'Nirbal ke Balraam'. There are suicides which could be justified in an extended stretch of imagination and social logic - but, usually they only deserve to be condemned. I will be happier if the reader is repulsed by this poem than if he actually likes it.

The Blade of the Rose

2009-05-30T09:02:00.006+05:30

In a world desecrated by loathing and lust,

she stands as civilization's last beacon of hope.

In an unfair race run by rancorous men,

with profound dignity and grace does she gallop.

Perseceuted and manipulated for countless ages,

she went through it all with a humiliating muteness.

Peeved by the barbaric brutality of the stronger sex,

she was forcefully tamed and rendered speechless.

God blessed her with such a breathtaking beauty,

that ships sailed and wars were fought in her name.

But then she was turned into a toy for amorous men,

and played about with them dictating the rules of the game.

As a mother, she housed you for nine months in her womb,

and then showered you with a love so ferociously pure.

As a wife, she blindly supported all that you undertook,

and then stood by you through all that you had to endure.

As a sister, she tied her prayers to your wrist,

and let you become the luckier of the two siblings.

As a daughter, she did for you all that a son could,

but still failed to garner the best of your feelings.

Today, she has proven that she has all that it takes

to confront the wicked world and find her place in it.

And yet, we still grudge her that lawful equality,

and prevent her dark life from ever getting lit.

Her every breath has been a veiled cry of anguish,

as she yearned for a chance to give her dreams a chase.

But now she is indeed making her presence felt,

and getting ready to bid adieu to those accursed days.

Yes! She is rising...like some phoenix of heathen lore -

Rising beyond the injustice that had crippled her all these years.

She is finally breaking free from the cocoon of coercion,

and learning to conquer the very worst of her fears.

She is waking up from that paralyzing ignorance,

that had eased her into a wretched life of submission.

No longer will she be subservient to his lechery -

nothing will now deter her from defining her ambition.

Do not seek to resist this rebellion...

Do not snatch back this moment of triumph from her.

Do not make her go through hell once again...

Do not deny her the right to progress and prosper.

- NISHANK MEHTA

30.05.2009

This blog proudly supports the Government of India's 'Beti Bachao' Andolan. Although this poem is techinically not about saving the girl child, it does deal with the issue of woman empowerment which, I believe, is the root matter to be dealt with. An enhancement in the status of women will automatically mean a safer and happier future for the girl child.

No More Excuses

2009-05-22T00:04:00.004+05:30

Within a few hours from now, the new cabinet will be unveiled. A new morning will dawn upon India's political landscape. This poem announces that dawn and expresses hope that a bright future follows it...

Newly instated men at the helm!

and stewards of our country's mothership...

Kudos on winning the ballot game yet again,

and flogging the opposition with the political whip.

Now that you have tasted the sweetness of victory,

please don't forget what you owe to the nation.

Hesitate no more to water your motherland with sweat,

please don't spend the next five years in hibernation.

Don't shatter our fragile dreams with hollow promises

Don't fan our hopes with worthless Five-Year Plans

Don't stretch the already-torn communal fabric further

and then with cries of secularism, place us all in a trance.

Admonish and punish all those naughty babus,

who use their offices to fill their pockets with gold.

You have an eager billion-strong workforce at your disposal,

so channel it wisely and let our gargantuan might unfold.

Tackle the twin troubles of poverty and unemployment -

bring them out of statistical records and cabinet discussions.

If you sound the gong of prosperity in the star-lit cities,

let the villages too feel and revel in its percussions.

Don't make us prairie chickens for those satanic terrorists,

and turn up hours later with a poker face and words of regret.

Don't let those thwarted hooligans butcher us in our homes,

and give us a past we are never likely to forget.

Don't play queer games for ministerial posts and portfolios,

just give whatever job you get your best shot.

Don't peddle your conscience for a couple of bags of cash

and tie the national concerns in an impossible knot.

Just try and practice half of what you preach...

Just try and stay true to half of what you endorse...

That should be enough to place the nation on the path of glory,

and give a feel of good life to India's unfortunate crores.

Try not to mix up party politics with governance,

Try not to let orthodox political axioms dictate your choices.

Don't turn the parliamentary houses into gladiatorial arenas -

give the enlightened minds a platform to sound their voices.

While you are busy watching 'Bull' fights at Dalal Street,

the poor Indian farmer is toiling to earn his daily bread.

While you are cutting petty deals with foreign diplomats,

a sobbing village in Kashmir is quietly tidying up its dead.

Even as you are mindlessly tweaking the reservation quotas,

the orphaned Indian youth is seeking a new parent in Uncle Sam.

Even as you shamelessly deny the vandalism of mosques and temples,

an innocent child is being recruited in the army of Rahim or Ram.

We do not demand for a state of blessed utopia,

nor do we expect you to conjure up miracles overnight.

All we ask for is a sincere attempt to govern us well,

and an honest confession when things are not going right.

We know the task is too wretched and monumental,

and the system too jilted to accept any new ideologies.

But then that is what could seperate you from your predecessors,

and make the custodians of history write you lofty eulogies.

- NISHANK MEHTA

21.05.2009

Turning Twenty

2009-05-10T23:30:00.004+05:30

In about 20 minutes from now, I am going to turn 20. I know there is nothing to feel proud, happy, worried or rather to feel anything about at this moment, but somehow as I wait for the short and long hands of the clock to unite at twelve, I can’t help but be overwhelmed by the pending occasion. My thought processes right now are so thoroughly wayward and inexplicably directionless that I wonder why I am even bothering to record it. In a similar state of mind, a few months ago, I had penned down this poem regarding the apprehensions and ambitions at the watershed year which was to bid a final adieu to my teenage. But, right now my head is so muddled up that poetry is totally out of question. So, what I will do is just shoot some random feelings that waltz around my mind as I await the eleventh of May with bated breath…

Two days back, I was loitering aimlessly down the street by my house when a pink ball rolled and stopped by my feet. A moment later, a kid called out ‘Uncle! Please ball aapo ne’ [Gujarati à English : Uncle – Please give the ball]. UNCLE? For the first time in my life, I felt like a grown-up.
In the back of my mind, I am aware that if I don’t shave for three weeks flat, I will end up looking like Sanjay Leela Bhansali. Another sign that I have attained higher levels of masculinity and adulthood. On the contrary, excepting the face, I hardly look 20. In the last fifteen months, I have lost as many kilograms of weight and my mother suspected I had found myself in the grip of tuberculosis. The medical reports say otherwise and so for the moment, I am safe.
One thing that I pride myself upon is my sense of humour – something I have gradually but surely sharpened over the past couple of years. It is very convenient to use it as a defence mechanism when you don’t want to lay your thoughts bare for others to surmise upon. Its also very comforting to know you have something to fall back on when you feel low and something to ride upon when you feel high.
My twentieth birthday according to the Hindu calendar fell eight days back and till the later half of the day, I didn’t even know that it was so. I spent that evening watching a Bhojpuri movie called ‘Nirahua Rikshawala’ [starring Dinesh Lal Jadav, Paggi Hegde and Sushil Singh. No – I do not recommend the movie]. And you thought I partied!
Sometimes when I see people of my age group I feel I am too intelligent and wise to be amongst them. At other times the same people make me feel insecure and shameful about how little I have managed to achieve in my life so far.
Considering the life expectancy of a male in India, I have already spent 30% of my life. But, have I done 30% of the things I wanted to do in my life?
When I think of God, I usually silently acknowledge His benevolence towards me. Its only when He shows His benevolence to others that I grudge Him.
On 11^th May 2000, India crossed the one billion mark in population. That is the only noteworthy event I know of which concurred on my birthday.
The tagline of Farhan Akhtar’s ‘Lakshya’ said ‘It took him 24 years and 18,000 feet to find himself’. I am already 20 and I wonder what figures in that tagline would have to change so that it could be true for me.

I know this has been a ridiculous post. But, the soonest you are going to read it will be on my birthday. So, just forgive this departure from my normal blog-self and send me a wish and God a prayer for my birthday….

Chendu Tak

2009-05-03T10:48:00.010+05:30

So much has already been said about the IPL that it seems like a matter of redundancy to discuss about it. Anyone and everyone claims to be an expert on the subject and I am sure whatever you may end up reading here will only give you a feeling of deja vu because someone would already have said it before. The IPL's success has made so many people join its bandwagon that it appears difficult to stay in the cricketing world and yet being immune to the infection that is the Indian Premier League.

However, I do intend to make a couple of observations that apparently nobody has made till date (and even if someone has, the source probably wasn't popular enough to claim a few minutes of television primetime). The rules and regulations governing the selection of the playing eleven in the IPL has conjured a new breed of players which I call the 'Chendu Tak' players. They are not only new faces but also new names which is quite surprising seeing that they directly get to compete at what is arguably the highest platform in the cricketing world. Whoever had heard of a Dinesh Salunke before he bowled in tandem with the great Shane Warne in the first edition of IPL? Who could have imagined that one day the name Jakati would flash across the nation's newspapers after he dismantled the opposition with a 4-wicket haul? Wasn't Ashoke Dinda a mere non-entity before he bowled his heart out for King Khan's team last year? These are not the only ones....Swapnil Asnodkar, Manpreet Gony, Dhawal Kulkarni, Sreevats Goswami, Pradeep Sangwan - all have only IPL to thank for their spirited survival in the world of cricket. The true brilliance of IPL doesn't lie in Sanath Jayasuriya knocking the ball all over the park or Virender Sehwag making the bowlers looks like helpless schoolboys - it lies in the recognition and appreciation of the hidden talent that the afore mentioned youngsters represent. Is it not talent when you are asked to bowl the last over for your team with a billion people watching you from their living rooms? Is it not talent when you fearlessly walk up the pitch and slam the likes of Akhtar and McGrath for a six? Is it not talent when you are asked to handle the same kind of pressure that Tendulkar and Lara have admirably borne for a decade and a half?

The name 'Chendu Tak' as such has a rather commonplace origin. When I saw the ball in inexperienced hands during a match featuring Mumbai Indians, I nastily commented that the MI team selected the players on a 'Chendu Tak' basis. Chendu Tak actually means throw the ball and in that selection procedure (which is completely a creation of my ever-fertile imagination), the stalwarts of the MI management toured the dinghy gymkhanas of Mumbai and simply asked the local boys playing there to aim the ball at the stumps. If a lad hit the middle stump at the first go - bingo! he was in the MI team for the IPL. Ofcourse, then it was just a sarcastic outburst at the advent of these hitherto unknown players making it to such a prestigious tournament. But after watching a few matches of IPL I realized that it was these 'Chendu Tak' players who were at the heart of IPL. It was they who anchored teams and chased dreams. It was they who gave many established players a scare with their daredevilry. It was they who gave the competition its unique edge. The IPL truly belonged to them and God-willing, it will always be.

PS: Seeing the crowds at the IPL, one wonders how much effort one needs to put in nowadays to appear on the television as a part of the crowd focus. Either you have to do something crazy or something special. Gone are the days when a simple banner of 'Thank You Doordarshan' or 'Arun Lal is GOD!!!' could get you a couple of minutes on the television....

I.M.P

2009-01-13T21:52:00.004+05:30

(IMP – short for Important. Pronounced as aaee-em-pee, usually in a deferential tone)

To any outsider, medical education is probably an impossible job. Mastering some 50 books with over a thousand pages each in addition to the burdensome clinical study is no mean task. But, men must adapt and though we work like dogs, genetically we are still men. And so, to make things easier and the goals reasonably attainable, the concept of ‘IMP’ was built up.

I have always believed in studying subjects in their entirety. When your association with a subject (academically) is only for a year or two as in the case of MBBS, it is only fair that you start the subject as a toddler and gradually attain mastery over it without missing a single step in the midst. Books are meant to be read as a whole and while the importance due to various topics might me different, there is nothing which can be absolutely left out. As a result, I was shocked and disgusted to see the prevalent system in medical colleges when I started my education in the first year. Ragging, senior-worship and treatment of big, fat books with light contempt – everything had its roots in the concept of ‘IMP’. As you probably read above, ‘IMP’ means ‘Important’. There are variants and graduations too – Most IMP, Most Most IMP, Just Read portions, Uni(versity…) 100% questions – there’s a whole world of medical student jargon in there. I suppose you must have got it by now – IMPs are those exclusive portions you need to get through before exams to pass, possibly with a good result too. IMPs are the topics in the syllabus which are to be revered and memorized to an extent that you should be able to utter them back pronto in sleep. IMPs are memos from the Gods of Medicine. And how do you get those precious IMPs? Seniors. Get those ‘experienced campaigners’ to ‘TICK’ the ‘IMP’ portions. And so, ask for any book from a medical student and you will find it smeared with graffiti by a senior with IMPs and 100%s dominating the pages. The rest of the book might as well be just blank pages.

I am personally dead against the practice of IMPs and Ticking. How in the name of heavens can you prophesize what’s going to come in exams? Unless of course, the professors who set the questions have an identical list of IMPs with them. When after years of failed attempts, Bejan Daruwalla still fools around with vague horoscopes and Rakesh Roshan scratches his bald head wondering why Krazzy 4 sank at the box office inspite of being named with a ‘K’ as the great numerologists of Bollywood instructed him to do, the least you can expect of the future is that its going to be totally unexpected. I say, what are you going to do when a patient comes with an ailment that was NOT IMP? Would you hang your head in shame and politely beg his pardon for not having any clue about that particular area of medicine? It sounds embarrassing even when put in text. But still, the truth is that IMPs do remain the popular option in medical colleges because what matters most in current times are examinations and not real-life simulations. My disregard for IMPs has led me to have an evil reputation in itself. Firstly, I am considered a senseless daredevil, trying to make things more difficult for himself. Secondly, now that I am a senior, I am black-listed as far as ‘ticking’ portions for the juniors is concerned. Standing 2^nd in the University and with a stout difference of marks between the guy ranked next in the hostel, I am considered to be a kind of person who reads every single thing for exams (if truth be said, I really do that!). And so, reflect the juniors, what sense would it make to go and get portions ticked from a guy who doesn’t even care what portions are to be ticked? Their thinking is not far from correct – there was this only instance when I counseled a junior and instructed him to read certain portions – he ended up with a score of 16/50, a disaster if not anything else. Medical education is not meant to be just rushed through for the sake of getting it done and over with – it is to be patiently pursued, if possible enjoyed, and thoroughly ruminated in order to make proper use of it. IMPs are short-cuts and as they say, there are no short-cuts to success. If you do want to read selectively, sieve through the topics with your own discretion. At least go through them once personally and ensure that there is not anything you need/want to know that you are leaving behind. When you are blessed with a functioning brain, use it. People, they say, are blind followers like sheep. Prove them wrong – just for this one time.

Sunday Bath

2009-01-13T17:14:00.003+05:30

It is difficult to imagine a person actually enjoying a bath if the place in that imagination happens to be either of the bathrooms of our hostel. Elsewhere in this blog, I have already dwelt in leisure on the peaceful co-existence that we share with our Arthropod pals in our toilet/bathroom block. Water availability is no less an issue to consider before you even contemplate taking a bath in Rajkot. It is not uncommon to find yourself stuck water-less amidst your bath with soap all over your face and everywhere underneath. The circumvention of such a comical situation, should it arise, is solely dependent on your innovation. With such conditions hanging over our heads, it is quite natural that we usually dread the time of the day when we are forced to pay a visit to either the bathroom or even worse, the toilets.

The best way to save some part of yourself from certain misery is to protect and shield that part so fiercely and heavily that trouble itself would find it tiresome to topple that part of you. To save myself from the ignominy of losing face against such appalling circumstances, what I have done is reserve Sunday as a day when bath is given the top priority and everything else, no matter however urgent and relevant it may be, takes a secondary standing. The Sunday Bath, for me, thus has come to be a sort of ritual – an exquisitely planned and executed 50-minute procedure, by the end of which I can lay claims to be amongst the cleanest people in the world at that point in time. Nothing – absolutely nothing – can provoke me into hurrying through this procedure and nobody can convince me into believing that it is no more than a purposeless indulgence. I am immune to all frivolities and fatalities of the world when I am shut up in that small cubicle lined by while tiles. Its not about the bath in itself – its about having a certain amount of time and space reserved for myself in which I am free to lay all thoughts aside without straining my conscience. Perhaps it draws from the idea of meditation except for the fact that its not as passive and is combined with an apparently trivial routine like bathing. But, I don’t leave at just breaking way from the outer world – I try to get the most of it. In the few weeks since I have started practicing this particular routine, I have made several improvisations and experiments to make it more relaxing and enjoyable. A few of these include singing without paying slightest regard to rhythm and melody, dancing some extravagant steps not meant for public view, exercising my way to the Mr.Universe title, mimicking anyone and everyone around me, fantasizing an encounter with a beautiful female masseur, delivering random speeches that always seem to begin with Mark Antony’s famous ‘Lend me your ears…’ – it is indeed a happy hour, see?

I don’t know how long I will be able to carry out this routine with as much sincerity and dexterity as I am giving it now – and quite frankly, I don’t care. Though for now it is all about the Sunday Bath, in truth this obviously means a lot more than that. It means that I have found a great way to survive amidst odds. Just revel in the little bit of freedom you are getting – let it be a world full of possibilities – make your survival a sensation in itself and not just a dogged resistance of an unrelenting character. Turn your limitations into your launch pads - mock your misfortune by enjoying it – and most importantly, learn to live a life where you may need to smell a rose out of a thorn…

Simple Pleasures

2008-11-10T20:56:00.005+05:30

Have you ever wound up your dreams by dawn
and watched the scarlet robes of the sun turn yellow?
Have you ever felt joy at another man's rise,
instead of envying him for being a lucky fellow?

Have you ever coaxed darkness to lend you its ears
and let stars be privy to your dearest secrets?
Have you ever welcomed rain with a dance of glee
instead of rushing to secure that clothesline it wets?

Have you ever fathered an honourable intention
and played a role in the triumph of truth over deceit?
Have you ever permitted instinct and emotion to guide you
instead of putting your trusted logic in the driver's seat?

Have you ever shed sanity and pranced like a clown
simply to bring that precious smile on a toddler's face?
Have you ever lent unconditional help to a seeking friend
and in return felt the warmth of his grateful embrace?

Have you ever bounced back from a sojourn at the bottom,
and silenced your critics with your stunning comeback?
Have you ever spotted your flaws and tailored them,
instead of devoutly documenting what others lack?

Have you ever felt God - as just plain, simple divinity,
and not as an effigy draped in saffron or green?
Have you ever tasted success without selling your soul
or jeopardising your claim to call yourself clean?

Simple pleasures these all - I am sure you will agree
well within the reach, but not quite within grasp.
And the gargantuan monster we have turned life into,
mocks us, bites us and stings us like a wasp.

Our incessant pursuit for the ever-eluding success
and our shameless ignorance for these undemanding delights
have left us stranded at a place where we can have none,
where day only shows up after a spate of endless nights.

Why have we made it all so complicated,
that its so difficult to find a reason to smile?
Where do we look for these simple pleasures,
in a world fueled by greed and guile?

Let us break away from this material enslavement...
Let us abandon our chase for undeserved fame...
Let us be content in equating our 'haves' with our 'wants'
and not make acing the quests of life our only aim.

- NISHANK MEHTA
8.11.08

Note : The name of this poem has been inspired by the brand name of a bath gel that my mom got from somewhere. Thus, the crux of this poem was effectively born while I was having a Sunday Bath.

Poetry - An Obituary

2008-11-08T17:20:00.006+05:30

Though not a regular poet by any stretch of imagination, the fact that the art of poetry is inching towards a painful death is a source of constant bother to me. Eras have passed as man has attained a remarkable mastery in almost every art form conceived in our world but poetry still remains the most magical and the most enigmatic of them all.

The power of poetry lies in its sheer range, its ubiquity and its delicate presentation of myriad issues. It can be hilarious enough to turn you over your chair in giggles and poignant enough to dissolve even the most unrelenting of hearts in tears of overwhelming emotion. Poetry, as an art, has no face, no language, no deity, no rules and no restrictions. Infact, if presented in true spirit, it can become the perfect tool to unstopper the gates of your heart and let its feelings sweep away all logic and prejudices. It can be smoother than silk and harsh enough to bring your senses back from their flight of imagination to the rocked terrains of reality. Perhaps it is the only form of literature which has still survived all contaminating assaults of modern culture and persisted as a versatile medium to reach out to parched souls.

Quite understandably, my introduction to poetry was in school. While there were Wordsworth and Ogden Nash who made our English textbooks a delightful read, there were Ramdhari Sinh 'Dinkar' and Maithilisharan Gupt who stamped the Hindi textbooks with their brilliance and left an indellible imprint on our then-impressionable minds. There is one thing though that still bothers me. Probably its a serious mistake on my part but somehow I have always associated poetry with rhyme schemes. For me, that is what works and gives it a unique persona distinct from prose, story or any other form of literature. As such, it has become very difficult for me to digest the contemporary forms of poetry as most of them seem to have a queer repulsion to rhyme schemes. But as Vladimir Mayahovsky has observed - "In our language, rhyme is a barrel. A barrel of dynamite. The line is a fuse. The line smoulders to the end and explodes, and the town is blown sky-high in a stanza."

It is unfortunate but also true that poetry is something that has moved out of mainstream imagination these days. In an era favouring instant gratification, poetry is too abstract a form to hold our attention. Poems, which held a special place in the school books we followed, now have a purely perfunctory presence in school syllabus. It has over the years become an art from dear only to the few who write it and the fewer who actually enjoy it. Though it has slipped from popular consciousness, I for one, strongly believe that it still has the same power to move people, to ignite fire in their souls, to impart a sense of hope in times of despair, to give a passionate voice to the frantic yelps of the common man, to glorify history and myth and spell it in gold for the coming generations, to be illuminating without being dogmatic, to be inspirational inspite of being pragmatic....believe me - it still has the ability to transform, to change, to shape the world we live in. As you probably read in this page's header - "No matter what anyone says, words and ideas can change the world....". And when we have such a potent weapon as poetry in our hands, why let it rust and wear?

WHACKY QUOTE :

"In science, one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that they never knew before. In poetry, the practice is almost the opposite."

- Anonymous on Poetry

Food for Thought

2008-11-08T16:34:00.003+05:30

With India being the land of festivals and Diwali indisputably being the most prominent amongst them, it is impossible to stay immune to the charismatic gaiety and celebrations that surround it. While I was still a child (a stage I usually demarcate from the rest of my life by the point in time that I stopped wearing V.I.P-Bret), crackers remained the chief attraction in the festival of 'lights'. But a mature mind and a greater appetite have forced Diwali food to occupy that prestigious position. Since I am not aware as to how Diwali is exactly celebrated in other parts of the country, I will stay safe by restricting my claims of truthfulness in this post to Gujarat only. In Gujarat, Diwali is all the more important, because the New Year falls in succession to Diwali and consequentially, the whole week is a time earmarked in most families for social visits. You wake up on Diwali day with the burden of a list of 'to-be-visited' houses in front of you, racing against time to complete the darned 'course'. Whereas there are a certain number of houses one is actually interested in visiting (a number which is continuously dwindling), most of them are mere social obligations. But neither paucity of time nor a lack of interest can deter us from our purpose, for it comes with an incentive which has a universal guarantee - FOOD.

I won't name the special dishes which are a part of Diwali food in Gujarat simply because I do not want to embarrass myself by trying to spell them and end up with funny-looking words which will be underlined by an irritating red line when I perform a spell check. But, it is enough to sat that there are many of them, most being sumptuous and a few being loathsome preparations. Moreover with Diwali food, the rules governing their consumption are completely different. It is imperative to follow them if you want to harbour any aspirations of standing tall and clean in the society.

1. Keep this rule in mind if you want to achieve the dual target of filling your stomachs as well as maintaining your dignity. Howsoever you may like the food, you are not allowed to eat it to your heart's content. Infact, it is highly advisable that you refrain from finishing off the entire plate - always leave something behind which shows that you are not after all interested in food only. As far as the goal of filling your stomachs in concerned, the best way is to employ the principle of selective permeability. Never let your tummy be a host to something that your taste buds do not approve of. This will ensure that you fill your stomach - but only with the food you actually like.

2. Come whatever may, never leave the sweet for the last. Most people would question the logic behind this rule. Let me answer them all. You can be well assured that after that plate of food a soft drink is expected to follow - and quite obviously it is bound to taste bland if the last thing which touched your tongue is a sweet, just a few minutes ago.

3. Remember that 'Mukhvaas' (angrezi mein bole to post-meal mouth-freshener) is a polite sign of dismissal and once you are handed that, you must realize that you have long overstayed your welcome at that place. You can probably still have that little toffee from the table, but it is expressly forbidden to partake anything else.

4. Always learn to grade houses and the food which is served within them. Over the years, with intelligence and experience, you will learn that certain houses will be associated in your mind with consistently high quality food while some, lying at the opposite end of the foodie spectrum will be known for their poor treatment to your hunger. Due to this, never let geographical proximity dictate your schedule and order of houses. Instead, group your visits in such a manner that your morning schedule includes a couple of houses from each category (the good ones and the bad ones) while your evening schedule too has equal representations from both categories. This will ensure that you neither overeat nor starve during any time of the day and will enable you to do justice to the kitchens of each and every house.

5. Just a suggestion which you probably follow anyway. Our social customs demand (quite correctly) that we bow and touch the feet of our elders. It is always better to perform this routine before taking food because afterwards, your tummys will be stuffed which will lead to discomfort while performing the necessary physical movement.

6. Now this one is a rule borne out of a personal experience. Our family (my parents, my bother and me) were at this place - the host was a politician and has a booming voice and a cheesy personality which instantly left you awestruck with him. While we were sitting and engaged in typical 'Diwali' talk, half a dozen dishes of delicacies were put before - steaming hot and eager to tumble down our alimentary canal. I had just stood up to begin my assault when the host thundered to his wife - (translated in English for the benefit of Non-Gujaratis) - "Are you crazy, woman? Giving this stuff to a family of doctors! They will never dream of touching it! Get them something healthy...something they wouldn't consider hazardous to their health...". Lo and Behold! within a few minutes all that was in front of us was a bowl of sprouted beans and a dish filled with dry fruits. This - when we could have had those awesome things! Then onwards, I solemnly resolved that I would never let my profession (in future - a doctor) to stand in way of my dietary pleasures. Never allow the world to stereotype you into that category of health-conscious people - that kind of reputation is dangerous and you are likely to miss out on several things if you live with it.

Ofcourse, these are only guidelines that will probably vary from person to person as per the social framework he/she lives in, but I suggest that you make such guideline for yourself which will help you make the most out of Diwali food. Organisation is a skill that comes naturally to only a few - but if diligently pursued and perfected, I don't see why your stomach can not have a better Diwali than the stomach of a management wizard.

180 not out

2008-10-31T11:44:00.004+05:30

I was never a sportsman in the true sense of the word. But, I was (and still am) a hardcore sports enthusiast with keen interest in a multitude of sports. As such, most of my trysts with sporting glory have been as a witness sitting opposite the television screen. I too have felt my heart beat at a worrying pace as Misbah-ul-Haq went for that audacious shot in the T20 World Cup final last summer. I too have felt a chill run down my spine as Zidane executed that infamous head butt. I too have felt my senses oscillate as Federer and Nadal battled it out in two consecutive Wimbledon finals to usher into the tennis world a rivalry that will be talked about for ages. Splendid sensations though these all were, they were always in celebration of some other person’s glory. They never had the personal touch that makes everlasting imprints on one’s mind. However, there was this one instance...when I was the One – standing at the pinnacle of sporting achievement, the man in the limelight, the actual performer as opposed to the spectator I have always been.

In a special issue of Sport Star a few years back, they had adroitly listed the most memorable Indian batting performances (one wonders if some of them were not actually ‘betting’ performances!). An eminent panel of cricketing greats had ranked them and had come to the conclusion that VVS Laxman’s epic 281 against Australia in the fairy-tale 2001 Kolkata Test Match was the best ever batting performance by an Indian. Now I do not wish to steal away any credit from Laxman – it was a legendary display of batting skills and the pivot around which we brought about one of the most dramatic upsets in Test Match history. I concede that even if Laxman had played only that single inning and hung up his boots, he would have gone down the annals of cricketing history as a great batsman. But, in the depths of my mind I knew that I had played a greater inning – an inning which was an amalgam of silken touch, controlled aggression, masterful strokeplay and unwavering resilience. I was on song then, the mellow rhythm of which had managed to hypnotize every single member of the opposition. It was rather unfortunate that baring the fielding side (4 players), only 5 other humans were spectators to that fine performance (3 of them constituted the rest of the batting side, one a neutral umpire and one a friend who had nothing better to do). Before talking you through that inning, I feel it would be logical to make you aware of the scenario in which it was scripted for it will probably make things less confusing. The venue was a piece of barren ground behind our classroom (and about the same size as it). The stumps were three lines (two were straight, one wasn’t) made on a wall in front of which the batsman stood. The boundary was the opposite wall (straight) and a couple of bushes in either direction. The ball was the usual one that we used in schools at that age – the ‘hanky’ ball (For those who have no idea what that means, do this: Take a large handkerchief. Fold it along its diameter to obtain a triangular shape. Now continue tying knots in whatever manner you may feel like till you can do it no more. The final product should resemble a ball. If it doesn’t - untie the knots, and do it again adopting different methods of knotting. Better – use another handkerchief). The bat was not the standard willow; it was this ‘board’ that students used then during examinations to overcome the craters that adorned the desks. Oh! And before you brand me stupid for playing in such a scenario, let it be known that I was in 4th grade then – merely 9 years of age. If you are a cricket fanatic, you must have heard about how Tendulkar and Kambli established their batting credentials at a young age in school itself with a mammoth partnership of 600-odd runs. Consider this to be on similar, if not more spectacular lines.

That afternoon the sky was remarkably serene – maybe out of respectful anticipation for the glorious events that were to unfold beneath it. When I came in to bat, the team was in a precarious situation – 8/2. A couple of minutes later, the 3rd wicket fell too and I was the only unbeaten batsman in our team of four. The ‘Last Man’ rule being operative then, I was left to wage a lone battle against a fiery bowling attack. But then calm seas are never known to make skilful sailors and the troublesome circumstances had set the stage for the outstanding inning that was to follow. Over the next 80 minutes, I made life difficult for that poor hanky ball. A ruthless and clinical approach to every single delivery saw me strike a shower of fours and sixes as I accumulated an unbelievable 180 runs within that short time. The spectators’ eyes grew larger and rounder with each delivery as they speechlessly saw history being fabricated at my hands. The fielding team helplessly tossed the ball amongst each other hoping to stem the vicious onslaught that I had let loose upon them but it was just not their day. I suppose even Laxman had given the Aussies a couple of opportunities to dismiss him which they had not been able to grab. But my inning was an epitome of perfection – there were no dropped catches, no missed-by-a-whisker passes by the stumps, no deliveries that caught me napping. The bad deliveries were naturally dispatched to boundaries but the good deliveries didn’t manage to do much better either. None of Tendulkar’s tons were decorated with such panache. None of Lara’s demolition acts were so hopelessly one-sided. Not even the great Don Bradman had made things look so easy and yet so elegant. The ill fate of the opposition was only cut short by the ringing of the bell that signalled the end of the day at school. I was ofcourse interested in continuing but a couple of members from the fielding team had to catch the school bus which apparently couldn’t wait for my dismissal. The next day, I eagerly reached the match venue in the afternoon, looking forward to continue my dazzling performance of the previous day but the whole fielding team had opted to go for football that day (The reason was obviously an escape from the prospect of facing me again). And so, the saga ended there – a splendid tale that the celebrated historians of cricket were unfortunate to miss. Maybe even Gods were reluctant to share the memories of that inning with mortals.

I know what your reactions are right now. Probably you consider the whole thing comical – a shameless narration of a ten year old inconsequential event by a nineteen year old. Fine – have it your way. But, if you are prudent enough you will realize certain things. One, at whatever level cricket is played on, a champion is always a champion and his genius transcends all geographical and chronological barriers. Two, in reality a hanky ball is much more difficult to play cricket on than the standard season ball which is hard and meets the bat with a pleasant crispness. Three, on a similar note, a board is much more difficult to bat with than the willow which is expressly shaped and empowered for that purpose. Four, there are neither well-defined rules nor rational referees in these games and so you may even be given out if your game in not in sync with the popular demands. Put these four together and you realize why this inning has to be rated at par with the finest in the cricketing world. The sporting history is replete with stories of Tendulkars and Beckhams doing unbelievable things at a tender age itself. Ofcourse, they eventually followed it up as a career and came up with more of such exceptional performances. For me, the start was just as good but I chose to ignore that lucrative path and follow up another one. But let it be remembered that at one point in time, I walked with giants and managed to dwarf them as well...

Bandits in Blogosphere

2008-10-31T11:41:00.003+05:30

Imagine you have a child (that is, ofcourse, if you don’t already have one!). Now imagine, that child of yours, brought up by you with the best of warmth and affection, falls into bad company. And though not quite the spoilt brat himself, earns a somewhat similar reputation because of the filth he is seen around with. That exactly is the dismal situation which so many of us find ourselves in as we consider the blogosphere and its rampant trashing in recent times.

When I created this blog, its sole intention was to serve my love towards writing. I found it a convenient place to sound my thoughts and an able medium to get them into others’ heads. Conceited though it may sound, I considered myself then, as I consider myself now, to be fairly adept in the skill of writing. I do not claim to author a popular blog – it was never my aim and the blog’s probably not worthy of it too. But, I am sure, that what I write is fairly beyond the quality that you would expect from a person of my age and does infact, deserve a tiny place in the blogosphere, particularly because what is written here is absolutely original. Almost every word, except where duly acknowledged, has been born in the crypts of my mind and I take great pride in possessing the ability to string those words together into readable matter – a feat not most people can boast of. Having read hundreds of other blogs, I am quite happy knowing my standing amongst them and needless to say, it will be my persistent attempt to improve it.

The blogosphere, I am afraid, is not in a good shape at present. There are a chosen number of good blogs, an abundance of bad blogs and several blogs which threaten man’s celebrated position as the most intelligent species on this planet. If you are lucky, you might hit upon an interesting blog, worth a revisit, when you browse through dozens of worthless blogs. Amongst them will be certain blogs which leave you pondering over why you are into this stuff at all. Why not just chuck the bloody blogosphere away and return to good old diaries again? For you really feel stumped when you try to figure out the possible reasons why some blogs actually happen to exist. A deeper analysis indicates that a very popular reason for blogging is simply that it is the ‘in’ thing. Its fashionable and ‘rocking’ to blog; plus its free, its uncensored and its very uncomplicated in operation. It is also extremely simple to project an ultra-cool virtual image of yourself by having a blog that belongs to a very dominant breed (Just talk about gadgets and software – better if they happen to be endorsed by Google, spit out some senseless lines about love and friendship, worship Kurt Cobain and his million clones and bazooka the ongoing social norms). You do that and suddenly you transform yourself into the most enviable guy on the planet. Blogs have also emerged as lassos to catch unsuspecting members of the opposite sex and establish your dating credentials in the virtual world. Some people blog because others blog. Others blog to just prove that they too can blog. In the end, anyone and everyone blogs, resulting in the sanctity of the blogosphere being flushed down the drains of pathetic writing. But none of this is worse than plagiarism in the blogosphere. The beauty of a written work lies in its originality. It is an art – maybe not as picturesque and resplendent at the first sight as other forms – but just as magnificent when patiently pursued. The beauty of creating something – putting a portion of your thoughts on paper (or in this case cyberspace), delivering something to the world which it hasn’t already seen before, lending your own perspective to things – it’s an experience beyond imagination. If you can’t really write, don’t. There is no sense in besieging the world of those who do possess that ability. A much better utilization of that world would be to read, understand and relish what they have written. Welcome that world and maybe you can even find a place in it. Borrowing and stealing someone’s literary creations and putting them forth as your own is detestable and comes around as an act that smacks of nastiness. No person, with sanity at his command, could derive any possible joy from such an act. It is nothing short of a crime in the world of literature and these bandits in blogosphere must be discouraged at the earliest.

There is this acquaintance of mine – a nineteen-year old, emotionally thwarted in the deceptive realms of love, held under a spell of unidirectional romance and a pauper when it comes to decencies. A week back, he started blogging and a couple of days from then, already had a dozen posts on his blog. He urged me to look through them and see if they were good enough to tell ‘someone’ about it. It is impossible to say for sure but I would bet a couple of fingers that this ‘someone’ is a girl he is interested in. Reading blogs, probably mine included, convinced him that it was a perfect tool to impress this girl and so he quickly got on with it. Now I am well aware of his writing abilities and frankly it would be an achievement for him even to write five grammatically correct sentences in English but his blog would seriously leave you thinking otherwise. For there you will find touching poems on love, deeply provoking discourses on friendship and everything which hints that the author is a person with distinction in what he is writing about. But deceit always has to bow to truth at two places – in the omniscient eyes of God and in the results of a Google search. I discovered that he had, without a single alteration, borrowed the entire content from some stupid blog on ‘teenage tips on love’. It angered me to see the blogosphere being contaminated so easily and how little regard was paid to originality. If I choose, I can malign him further by dissecting his entire blog with vindictive scissors of words at several places. Believe me – that indeed was my intention as my temper soared in the immediate aftermath of reading his blog. But on reflection, I think I can do much better by blogging even more original quality pieces with a vengeance. I find solace in the knowledge that even though he may plagiarize and mask his shortcomings by others’ writings, he will never experience the tremendously satisfying sensation that one feels when one creates something on his own. Success in the field of writing, I believe, can be measured from two standpoints - external and internal. Externally, it is a measure of a job well done and recognition received for it. Internally, it is a feeling of achievement and wholeness derived from completion of a task or fulfilment of a desire. Now just think - which is a truer measure of such success - the outer accolades or the inner joy and peace that is experienced when we know we have done well? If you agree with me that it is the latter which is more cherished, I think you will realize why plagiarists are never destined for a joyful voyage in the literary world.

When people are free to do as they please, they usually end up imitating others. Originality is forced and deliberate - something which partakes the nature of a protest. Maybe the blogosphere is too liberal – too powerless to take any action against such bandits. Maybe originality is indeed on the decline and blogs are all about presentation and compilation – a painstakingly mechanical activity. Maybe blogs are no longer exhibits of creativity and mines of information but just a trendy newcomer in the list of ‘must haves’ in the virtual world. But is it right that blogs of brilliance are lost in the shower of unsavory trash? Is it right that the plagiarizing bandit basks in glory while the brain behind the thoughts suffers from pangs of anonymity? Is it right that the sanctum sanctorum that is our blogosphere is littered with the stolen works of these bandits? Let us vow to respect originality and give these mind-pickers a piece of our mind. Let us annihilate these bandits and their vestiges and make the blogosphere a beautiful place to reside in.

At the Threshold

2008-10-01T09:36:00.005+05:30

~ Celebrating the last year of my teenage ~

It is the ultimate watershed moment in life,
The decisive lap of your life-long run.
Your destiny concocts a nasty plot,
to terminate your tryst with frivolity and fun.

You are ushered into the realms of adulthood
Trembling at the sight of the hurdles ahead.
To hell with these chaotic complexities of adult life -
Give me back the golden teenage instead!

Teenage - the greatest web of all contraries...
The supreme experimental laboratory of Fate.
Where life entices you with its juicy prospects,
and we are naive enough to take the bait.

We are robbed of the innocence that childhood imparts,
and still short of the wisdom that comes with age.
Our rebellious instincts make us social bombs,
and only stronger muscles can appease our rage.

We are too young to dabble in economy and politics,
and too old to indulge in silly paediatric pranks.
We are too wild to pay heed to idealistic preaching,
and too enlightened to be wooed by guns and tanks.

We are too plucky to be afraid of failures,
and too anxious of our standing amongst peers.
We are too candid to fall prey to hypocrisy,
And too conceited to ignore those applauding cheers.

It is the time when we actually discover ourselves,
and fuel the splendid fires that shape our wills.
We encompass the entire world in our sphere of desire,
and feverishly strive to develop world-conquering skills.

The more we find out about the world around us
The more we realize how little we really know.
The greater we try to chain our deepest desires
The sooner they break free - all raring to go.

But amidst this scheming cloud of conflicts,
your individuality is memorably conceived.
And soon you discover the terrains of reality -
A stark contrast to what you had so far perceived.

Our shoulders are now strong enough to bear,
the burdens that are soon to be flung upon them.
Our senses are all eager to swim in new waters,
with a thoroughly upgraded brain at the helm.

How sad that life has no ‘rewind’ button,
to replay all those memories of years gone by.
But then all good things always come to an end,
and you have to give the newer things a try.

Adieu! my dear teenage - it was nice meeting you...
you have empowered me to face the world.
I can feel the great altitude you have set me upon,
as I stand here with the flag of my identity unfurled.

- NISHANK MEHTA
30.09.2008

WHACKY QUOTES :

' Back in my day, teenagers weren't like they are today - they used to be obedient, and perfect and got good grades at school...and back in my day, the teenagers didn't have opinions!!! What the heck is up with this crazy generation? '
- An old scumbag on Teenagers

' It's so unfair!!'
- Teenagers on everything