FukatGyaan

Rolling Stones

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 06:03:00 +0000

Loose from a rock, edges raw and core soft

Bathing in the stream, spirits aloft

Every jump, was a new sight

A roll of dice, with infinite sides

Excited, enchanted and bubbling with zeal

A new dream seemed easy as a peel

Rolled and rolled, mingling with the blue

Grew smooth and round, shiny astound

Seasons passed, and leaps were high

The Alma matter, looked low and shy

The heady mix, a tumble and a thud,

A nasty fall, threw it on the mud

A dent in the shape, and bereft of its gloss

The rolling stone, gathered moss

Dirt and grime, and no sunshine

Every new day, was a labored whine

No sight of sky, and the end seemed nigh

Found itself in destiny’s decoy

A dark sky, thundered and poured

Fields brimming with water, it began to stroll

Slow and steady, reached its soul

Back with the stream, it regained its sheen

A new found life, and a new goal

The rolling stone, began to roll

- Harshad

P.S. This poem was first published at http://harshbadbad.blogspot.com

Mirages are Forever

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 01:00:00 +0000

Glancing at the glimmer of blue,

The gazelle galloped

It went chasing the blue,

Only to find reaching for

Galloped, galloped till the sun went down,

And down went the shine

Exhausted and weary,

It settled for the time

It was a new day,

But legs tired from yesterday

Even the first ray,

Arrives engulfed in hues of grey

Shadows along the way,

Brought memories of the night

Bloodied it might be,

Head was still upright

The feet are jaded;

But it has stomach for a fight

Another mirage in the way

Will chase it with all its might

- - Harshad

P.S. Thankful to someone for the title

P.P.S. This short poem was first published @ http://harshbadbad.blogspot.com

Two fountain pens and a story

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 02:20:00 +0000

I was munching on a cold sandwich at 37000 feet above Colorado trying to scribble on a notepad; A paper notepad. I gazed through the windows of nostalgia to a time when a Saturday meant white canvas shoes and shorts. Party meant grabbing a snack at the Ajit Bakery. Horror meant being caught on the wrong foot by Deshpande Ma'am. 12 noon meant being 15 minutes late for the assembly.

I was trying hard to think what I took away from RSMES till date. I could recollect those few moments and incidents over time. But If I could think of anything that I have carried through apart from the confidence, plenty of knowledge and great teachings are the “friends for life” ; something that all of us cherish.

One of us was in 5th-A and the other in 4th-A. It was the TT table that kept us glued. The day started at 6:45 a.m. when we used to meet across the TT table at Deo Sporting Academy. We rushed home only to get ready and come back to our school, with our rackets kept neatly among the crumpled books. If someday the racket didn’t fit in the school-bag, standing outside the classroom for not bringing a book was a more reasonable deal. The TT table, placed at the room beside the Assembly hall on the 4th floor was our object of interest. We hope it still exists. We used to practice in the long recess meant to have lunch and tried to squeeze a game or two in the short recess as well by shoving the compulsory ‘roti-subzi’ in our mouths. Such was the passion and the enthusiasm for the game. The fire still burns on, except for the company or to a certain extent the body’s support. It was very exciting during that time of our lives, or rather, “cool”, to represent the school at different tournaments. To leave the school at the end of 5th period was something, we always looked forward to. We hope, 10 years after we last attended the school, we won’t get into trouble for sneaking out early; not every time for a tournament. It evokes a hearty laugh when we relive those moments.

Inter-school tournaments organized by the District Sports Office used to be even more interesting, when we rode our bicycles long distances to reach the venues; proud to represent our school. With no cell-phones for moms to track our movements 24*7, we were free birds. Our most satisfying performances have been while representing the school. The pain of a nail-biting loss against the reigning champs Somalwar School is still red.

At times, we faced situations best summed up by Abhinav Bindra on winning medal at the just concluded Commonwealth Games which coincided with the cricket teams win, “I would like to be under the illusion that we would be on the front page next day (given the cricket test win)".
Volleyball and Kho-kho were more celebrated at the school then. Things did change in our favor, soon after both of us got selected for the State level tournament. We were really lucky to have the support from our school.

We celebrated with great joy the day when we came to know that our school had won the state level championship in U-17 boys’ category, long after we had passed out. It was a feeling that both of us wanted to experience. The sapling we sowed had borne fruits. Our school became very competitive in all the sports disciplines in the following years. There have been students who have excelled in swimming, basketball, obviously kho-kho, volley ball and aatya paatya. Also, not to forget the table tennis students! By God’s grace both of us got the opportunity to represent Maharashtra at the National Level, at some point of our short yet thrilling professional table tennis careers.

Everyone goes to school to learn countless shlokas of Sanskrit, solve (a+b)^n Group D problems of Algebra or Geometry hoping one of these will surely show up in one’s board exams. Our school taught us, it’s not sufficient to be good at these but all-round development was something which was just as important to evolve us into better human beings.

Today the circle is complete as we return to the same point where we started. RSMES has had an everlasting impact on our lives. Countless memories from school of the caring ‘didis’, the commanding teachers and of course the mischief we indulged into, stand out in our mind till date.
Our School is like a tree’s root, which keeps us grounded and keeps us in better stead for a bigger leap each time we look up.

-- Harshad Deshpande & Arshad Kokardekar.
The authors have been very close friends since 17 years. Reunited recently in NY. This blog was published as a part of a souvenir to commemorate the 25th year of inception of the school.

Rajini's own country

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 13:29:00 +0000

Rajini’s own country

Three panelists faced me from WIPRO in the interview room for summer internships. As I had consumed everything that was written about Retail on their website, I was able to tell them more than few things which they didn’t know about their represented organization. Now I know it’s perfectly OK not to know. Back then, it gave me great confidence. Gauging the general aversion of people from Mumbai towards Chennai he asked me the inevitable.

“We have our Retail practice based out of Chennai. Are you fine traveling there?”

Adrenaline took over me when I replied, “I am absolutely fine traveling even to the Andamans provided the work is of my interest”

When they announced the list few hours later, I was the one of the guys selected for the management internship program with a cool stipend as well. The project details arrived later and the whole batch had been posted at the WIPRO Bangalore campus albeit I posted at Chennai. The internship duration mid-april to mid-june was the harshest of weather in Chennai with temperatures soaring to higher forties and humidity almost touching the hundred. I was the butt of so many jokes that day in college and the poor girl from Chennai was dragged in them needlessly.

A friend recounted an incident about his mother when he had to travel Trivandrum for some training.

She had said, “Tou tumhe Madrass jana hai?”

“Nahi maa. Trivandrum Kerala me hai”

“Are baapre. Wo tou aur hi Madrass hai!”

Luckily I was able to discover a friend of a friend staying in Chennai which solved my accommodation issues. Slowly I was able to find my bearings at work with the “buddy” assigned to help me out. He was a senior guy abut 38-40 years of age, a run-of-the mill Chennai techie who was more than helpful.

One fine day, he invited me with his team for a movie as a part of ‘project-party’; a concept I was alien to till then. The movie was, “Sivaji- The boss” starring super-star Rajni as he is addressed in that part of the world. The movie was a sensation even before it was released. The frenzy it generated outside the theatre amongst the masses was out of this world and only thing comparable to it was a India-Pakistan match at Wankhede; of-course the animosity replaced by excitement. I was the only one who was to watch that movie for the first time. The number of times one had watched a Rajini movie was directly proportional to the ‘coolness’ quotient of the folks. Summer being in its peak, there was no dearth in the demand of ‘coolness’ in any form.

The mention of super-star Rajini in the titles evoked a stadium like response when people see MS Dhoni walking down the aisles for a toss. The first dialogue by Rajinikanth err super-star Rajini was met with Sachin-spanks-Shoaib-for-a-fierce-square-cut reception. I resembled like doing the most unfashionable act of sitting on the chair while watching the movie where the call of the event was to dance flashing Rajini posters. My ‘buddy’ felt pity for me and volunteered to translate the movie. The gentleman that he was, he translated each dialogue for me as fast as he could. He went a bit too far when he was trying to translate a song.

The movie had everything from comedy-action-drama-tragedy and an ‘aal izz well’ ending. But unlike the movie, the Chennai stint was with more pleasant surprises than harsh ones.

P.S. Age of innocence is lost, when the age of rationalization takes over.

P.P.S The blog was first published at http://harshbadbad.blogspot.com

The Show-aib must go on

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Thu, 24 Mar 2011 01:22:00 +0000

The Show-aib must go on

A capacity crowd filled to the brims of the stands. It’s the first over. He comes towards the sightscreen and marks his run up just before the boundary. Waves at the crowd, eggs them up to cheer for him. And off he goes almost like a rampaging train in sync with the chanting crowd. As the chants reach its crescendo, you see the characteristic flourish of the arms and then bang; straight at the batsman’s body. They say the crowd comes to see the batsman but to be able to witness someone like Shoaib in full flow on the field has to be one of the most enthralling moments on the cricket field.

As a Sehwag sends shivers down the bowling lineup, Shoaib used to send shivers down the batsmen up there waiting with their pads on. Ask a Ganguly prior to a match against Pakistan what it is to face a Shoaib with the Islamabad crowd baiting for his throat err ribs. Shoaib has always has been a Shoaib for its impact and it’s not mere speed that creates it. Speed is just a part of it. A bowling machine can deliver speeds exceeding 150 kmph with the trajectories a Shoaib does. But it can never have the impact. The long run up, the persona, the flowing hair, the raging eyes and then the not so distant death knell followed by the soaring eagle celebration is what makes Shoaib what he is.

A friend recollects how Shoaib lifted a hundred thousand Kolkata fans when he single handedly destroyed the Delhi Daredevils lineup of Sehwag, Gambhir, Dilshan and Dhawan. He was the real hero while the Shahrukh Khans of the world and the entire Kolkata Knight Riders entourage could merely watch their aura diminish that evening. The same very crowd which he had silenced few years ago when he had sent back Dravid and Tendulkar bowled all ends up, yes! all ends up in consecutive deliveries and announced himself on the world stage.

Experts opined him to cut his run up, drop his pace. You can’t have a Venkatesh Prasad packaged in those big shoulders and the huge chest. A Shoaib is a Shoaib because he is a Shoaib. He knew he was good and fast and he made sure everyone around him knew the same. The attitude is to him like his arms to his torso. He is like marijuana, gives you a high but not without the bouts of depression. He had said once aptly, “Speed is my talent and I am nothing without it”. Nothing mattered to him but himself.

We might just have seen the last of him against New Zealand when Akmal dropped a couple of regulation chances off Ross Taylor in the beginning which cost Pakistan the match and quite possibly Shoaib his career. He is in the twilight of his career but heart still feels, “The Sho-aib must go on.

P.S. Yes, I am a biased Shoaib fan - hadu

P.P.S. This was originally published at http://harshbadbad.blogspot.com

Fairer Sex, Fairer Chance

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 18:24:00 +0000

Fairer Sex, Fairer Chance

Circa 2000, in a discreet house, an alarm bell rings, a figure wakes up with a sound of few bangles tapping the alarm button. As the sound of the bangles trail towards the kitchen, the lazy guy in the bed envelopes itself in the quilt for comfort.

The tic-tic of a gas lighter ignites the stove and the day in the life of an Indian woman. The breakfast is prepared; children are readied and sent to school. Then it is time for the Indra Nooyis and the Kiran Bedis to brace up to shatter the glass ceilings of the bastions of men. The sun rises with a day and sets with the eve but the day of an Indian woman rises with the sun and sets when the moon is smiling with might.

She is the light who ignites the day in the house. She is the thread with which the family is woven. She is the pillar of the value system of the family. She is the stem on which the kids bloom. She is the backbone of a husband braving winds. She is the sail of the daughter making waves.

She is a Indira who ruled; She is a Saina who personifies skill; She is a Sonia calling the shots; She is a Niira anchoring the deals; She is a Crane Bedi (Kiran Bedi) wielding power; She is a Aishwarya Rai mesmerizing the tinsel town; She is a Sudha Chandran who cast her spell; She is a Asha Bhosale who enchanted all her way; She is a Kiran Majumdar Shaw at the helm of an self made empire; She is a Chanda Kochar on whom the ICICI banks.

These women have prospered not in-spite of India but because of it. The values, the exemplary courage and unwavering grit have been in the blood of Indian women. The eight arms of goddess Durga aren’t there for nothing. She has always been managing all the chores and come out blazing her way on top.

She neither needs a favor nor a helping glance; Just an equal chance!

-hadu

P.S. – I am not into any business related to cosmetics, spa, healthcare etc. (- This piece was an entry to women’s day blog

P.P.S – This post was originally published at http://harshbadbad.blogspot.com

A nation bereft of it's soul

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Sun, 16 Jan 2011 07:42:00 +0000

A nation bereft of its soul

As we enter into the New Year, we shall see a thousand new write-ups on New Year. We will have a thousand new resolutions to break. The trend suggests hordes of new scams will get unearthed. New accusations will be made. New culprits would be identified. New scapegoats would be found.

There was a time when we had become habitual of bomb blasts till the dogs themselves were targeted either in parliament or felt a threat when the high and the mighty were targeted in Mumbai. Now as the congress celebrates its 125^th year of existence and brandishes its achievements, I feel they should question their very reason of existence; if it has changed or badly abused. The same holds true for every other political party. In the eyes of the common man who wants to be lead; a politician is an abuse. He votes because he wants to participate in some way or the other in the process of the democracy that has been handicapped and compromised to the core. We are a handicapped democracy because we are broken to the hilt by every person who came to power. We are compromised because every pillar that was put to strengthen the democracy; be it the parliament, the judiciary, the bureaucracy and the Defense Forces have not been spared from accusations of corruption and nepotism. How worse it could get if a former CJI is allegedly accused, a Prime Minister is pulled up by the SC for alleged inaction and delay, an industrial house till now considered a true nation builder is dragged into a scam and the media supposedly found hand in hand with all the parties.

We have become a country bereft of a hero in the real walk of life. We are a nation of billion without a leader whom everyone wants to follow. We are lead by the government because we don’t have a better choice. Dr. APJ showed us a glimmer of hope, but the collective will of the dogs meant he too was rendered out of the system. Every honest man thinks of himself as being incompatible to be a part of nation building. A billion dollar business is not about something that is radically new but about how an established conglomerate bends the regulations to multiply his wealth. Mind goes back to 2001 and sometimes tries to take only possible positive if the attack on parliament was a success. A lot of bad brains would have gone to dust. As a nation we are robbed of any hope from our leaders who have rendered “hope” as just another four letter word.

Much is said about the new generation that can bring about the change. A generation which starts its life with an admission to a play school with a capitation fee and a degree college with a management fee has ingrained the idea “money talks” too deep in them to bring about or even allow a change to happen. No amount of “Jago-re” is going to help the country of the corrupt.

That is why we look to someone like Sachin to worship us. A Sachin to give us hope. A Sachin to make us happy. We know cricket is just a tiny part of it. Life shows us at instances like the one in Mumbai on 26/11 the littleness of things like cricket. But it can at least give us some unadulterated pleasure minus Pakistan.

The New Year would be good even if the days of gloom pave a way for a dawn to bring closer the idea of India as it was dreamt to be.

- -Harshad

P.S. It’s possible for one to be proud of his Nation and detest it’s unworthy rulers.

A journey to the end

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 12:48:00 +0000

A journey to end
I strolled inside the premises of the railway station and saw people rushing along with huge suitcases, families seeing off their guests, loved ones, et all. The chants of platform vendors enamored my senses. The tea might not be exotic, the vada-pav might not be tastiest or the soft-drink might not be chilled, but everything at the railway station had a unique charm to it.

My train was to start from the Dadar station and I had ample time to observe people going about their chores. I spotted my bogie and took my seat. As I placed my luggage, an old woman sat beside me. She had a very frail body and her wrinkles suggested she could be well in her late eighties or nineties. She had no baggage with her.
I was not too happy at her taking a seat beside my reserved berth and I expected someone to accompany her and take her to another seat. But that never happened. Some time went by and the train started running. Another fellow passenger seated opposite gently asked her where she wanted to go and who was with her. The lady with a wrinkled sari slowly replied in a weak voice that her son had dragged her out of his house and she wanted to go to Pandharpur where God had called her. I was a little moved by that and suggested that the train did not head to her desired destination. That suggestion raised so many eyebrows. But, she didn’t budge. She told that someone had asked her to board this train to go to Pandharpur and she had followed. Another woman sitting next asked her name. Her answer to that was her first name, ‘Suhasini’ but she refused to tell her second name. She didn’t reveal how she reached the railway station and who suggested her to board the train.

Soon the TTE arrived. The old woman had twelve rupees on her and was without a ticket. After getting to know from others, he tried telling her that the train would not take her to her desired destination, only to see her blank face. The railway official announced his helplessness considering her age and physical condition. The journey went on.

As I observed her small and weak frame, her eyes stood out. They were stone dry. There was no hint of pain, anguish or even remorse. She kept saying, “God has called me to Pandharpur”. The sun had set, and it started getting colder. She wrapped her cotton sari tightly around her and folded her legs and got them closer to her chest.

The lady in front of her offered her a couple of chapattis and pickle. She ate one chapatti and murmured that she would keep the other one for the next day. I offered her a bottle of water and slept. It’s strange sometimes, that doing so little can make you feel that your guilt has been shoveled.

The next morning, my destination arrived, which was coincidently the last stop. All the fellow passengers were vacating while a passenger helped her out. He again tried and coaxed her to get some information out of her, but all she had to say that god had called her and she wanted to go to Pandharpur. The gentleman sighed and helped her board the train to Pandharpur, where GOD had called her.

P.S. Sometimes destination is just another travel - hadu
P.P.S: This blog was originally published at http://harshbadbad.blogspot.com

If shame had a face

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Thu, 23 Sep 2010 17:09:00 +0000

If shame had a face

I was about to leave Bangalore and make it to a new city. Bangalore had been quite a place. From not wanting to live in Bangalore to not wanting to leave; it had been quite a journey. Coming from a not so big town, I found my feet in the city of ambitions, cut my teeth in the silicon valley of India and was heading towards the cultural capital of Maharashtra.

In the midst of these feelings a group of friends decided to pay a visit to Lord Balaji at Thirumalai hills a day before I was to leave Bangalore. We planned to start on a Friday evening, climb the hills in the night, get the blessings early morning and head back to Bangalore by afternoon.

Everything was going according to plan. I finished my work early to start by a cab around 7p.m. As we entered the cab, my friend asked the driver if he had a music system installed as he had got a CD. He gave grin and said, “Saab I have a digital media player. CD, DVD, pen drive sab chalega! Aapke paas kitna bada USB drive hai?” My friend replied in 512 KBs. He seemed to control his laugh while he made fun saying, “Kya aap IT waala saab, itna chhota pen drive? Isme to ek poora movie bhi nahie aayega!” Embarrassed, I changed the topic to routes we would take and schedule.

Three hours into the journey, we were on a straight patch of road, not as smooth as Hema Malini’s cheeks, but smooth enough for our cab to cruise around 100. Suddenly our driver applied brakes, took a sharp bend to give a miss to an object. What we saw was a mass of bones and flesh bloodied on the road. We asked him to stop and turn around. He asked twice if we were sure to turn back. At first, we all three were in unison. Second time it was only me who said yes. I got off the car, and sped and suddenly my feet halted seeing the gory sight. A dhoti and shirt clad man in sixties looked to be hit by a passing vehicle. The body was unmoved. It was disfigured beyond recognition. The legs seemed bent at strange angles. Blood was all over the torso and the face. Then I saw a broken liquor bottle near his palms and few pieces of glass shoveled in his arms. He was surely not alive.

Our driver switched the blinkers on. We tried to stop few vehicles passing by, one slowed down, the drivers questioned our driver if he had hit him. Another vehicle stopped, he asked few questions in vernacular to our driver. He suggested we too move on from the site and warned the police would assume we had hit him and will have to prove otherwise.

Convinced, our driver pleaded, “Saab, nikalte hai saab. Main phass jaunga. Aap to nikal jaoge. Please chalo.” He repeatedly pleaded and I couldn’t take my eyes off the gory site. My friends too insisted we leave from there and pulled me off to the cab. We tried to think of alternatives we could inform police somehow. Using cell-phones was out of question. We contemplated using a public phone, but the driver said, the operators keep a log and it could complicate for no fault of ours. We continued to see lord Tirupati.

There was a strange silence as we moved along. The driver was telling a story about an accident he had seen some time back. I didn’t hear any details. I was numb and had only questions in my mind. Not one was answered.

If shame had a face, it would have reflected in the mirror opposite me.

P.S. If you don’t put your hand up, you don’t get counted. - hadu

Behind bars...

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 21:21:00 +0000

Behind Bars...

Circa 2009. Bangalore.

Some things were not like today.

Harsha Bhogle was almost bald. Virender Sehwag had hair on his scalp. “Whats your rashee” was yet to bomb at the box office. People confused Saina Nehwal with Sania Mirza. People other than Lalit Modi agreed on him being the chairman of IPL.

Many things were just the same.

Shahid Afridi was 21 years old. Rahul Dravid hadn’t hit a six over point fielder. Dr. Manmohan Singh stood up hearing Soniaji’s footsteps. Aliens flashed live on Aaj Tak breaking news.

The IPL in South Africa had just started to evoke interest as the knock-out stages were nearing. It was about 11:30 p.m. that I and my flat-mate were watching the just concluded IPL match, where the camera captured the same people 39^th time with a different angle as they were the only ones at the ground. I had laptop on my lap and my flat-mate had the remote. Suddenly, the door bell went buzz. The door was knocked too. My flat-mate got up and opened the door. Almost half a dozen khaki clad men were at the door. They started yelling something that sounded like pebbles being shaken in a mud pot. My Kannada vocabulary was limited to, “Kannada gothilla” meaning “I don’t know Kannada”. After trying to pick the words, we came to know that they meant we stayed in a residential locality and were disturbing the neighbors. The fact that Rameez Raja and Arun Lal were commentators at the end, it couldn’t even have disturbed a 90 year old man’s sleeping under our TV, let alone our neighbors. Our immediate neighbors had their lights off and didn’t seem to be disturbed. But the house above our neighbors had their lights up and an oldie was baring his intermittent teeth.

By the time the police men had gauged that we didn’t understand Kannada and asked in hindi, “Keyaa awaaj karta tum?” My room-mate replied, “We were just watching TV! We didn’t make any noise” The cop went on, “Do you realize what’s the time?” My room-mates’ part of brain that was conditioned in the 2 years of MBA suddenly caved in and he replied with a visible disdain and extended arms, “Pata nahi!” The cop was livid at the answer saying, “Time pata nahi! Daru pee ke baitha hai! Abhie dikhata hu, chalo police station.” Panic alarms went berserk as I rushed to the door keeping my laptop aside and tried to cool the situation down. All the apologies bore no fruit after that. The cops were hell-bent on taking us to the police station. We looked at each other and agreed without a word that we had no choice. I asked for a minute to get my bike keys and come along. They refuted the suggestion and instructed that we need to go with them. We nodded. Not that we had a choice.

I could by now notice eyes popping out of windows and necks sneaking out of balconies for a glimpse of the presumed spoilt north-Indian brats who were drunk on a weekday. As we sat in the police Jeep, I could hear the slow version of, “Papa kehte hain bada naam karega. Beta humaara aisa kaam karega…”

It was all silent until we reached a secluded spot behind our locality. The cop broke silence and asked us why we were disturbing neighbors. It was a mixture of apologies and brand names of Infosys and Wipro that contributed to the cops accepting that we were at the receiving end of a lunatic sixty year old. After accepting a bribe, the cops conceded that as the neighbor had contacts with the ACP, they had to take action for a petty complaint. We requested to let go when one of the cops told that we need to spend time with them or the neighbor would think that they didn’t take any action. So, it triggered a friendly banter which started with our family background took turns to gather our opinions on the career option the cops’ son should take after engineering and ended with exchange of phone numbers.

After about half an hour, we said we would take their leave. They insisted to accept their request to drop us back home. As we reached, I had a “What the F!” expression for next 24 hours even while I was asleep.

The unforgettable proceedings ended with a courtesy call from the cop in the morning.

P.S. It’s only sometimes that facts conjure up a story spicier than fiction.

hanging my pen up..

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 04:53:00 +0000

When coming first became secondary

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Fri, 21 May 2010 20:35:00 +0000

When coming first became secondary

Mumbai had come out with all their enthusiasm on this very Sunday morning. People with different placards, messages, colors and fancy clothing were on the streets.

We were at the starting line. I announced to Ketan, “Look I have to win!” The trigger was pulled and off we went. It had been quite some time when I had heard the chants, “Come On! Come on! Faster. Faster.”

I had never been slow in my life. I always wanted to be free. Unbounded. I still remembered the day I soared in the sky. We were on the top of the hill. I always loved flying my hang glider. My now I had learnt to maximize my stay in the air and had considerable control directing my glider. After a long gap of monsoons we had a clear weather and we had planned this seasons’ first glide.

The weather was perfect and the breeze steady. Being the most experienced, I was to jump first. I took run-up and jumped the cliff; off I was in the sky talking to the clouds. I pulled my dark glasses off to enjoy the real colors of nature and felt the thin air. The wind was nice and steady, I was descending slowly and got a ridge lift due to the small hills below and maneuvered over towards the plain. It was a smooth sailing and I pulled over to take right over towards the green plain. I suddenly felt turbulence in the frame of my glider and saw the frame come off from the joint. It caused the wings to claw away and my glider started descending at a frightening speed. I gathered all my strength to hold the frame together and steady the descent of my glider also trying to direct it towards the muddy surface to lessen the impact. I was at 50 feet above the ground when the side of the wing came off unable to withstand the concentrated stress.

I was feeling drowsy and my head heavy when I opened my eyes. The white ceiling of the room was what I saw first. Suddenly all my family and friends rushed seeing me open my eyes. My mom’s eyes were swollen and tired. Three days of unconscious son had taken its toll on her. A big “WHY” was written all over her face. I was feeling thirsty and asked for some water. I lifted my arm and tried moving but I didn’t feel my legs moving.

My friends made sure that they attended me every hour of the day. I was slowly gaining strength in my body but multiple fractures in the legs were to take time to recover. I had obtained permission to visit the physiotherapists’ clinic rather than having him come home. I used to have bouts of depression looking at the wheel-chaired myself. Visiting the clinic, I saw so many of them fight the disability and the pain barrier kept the sinking feeling at bay. At the clinic, I saw Aakruti, a child of age 10, paraplegic due to a near fatal accident; working so hard wanting to gain strength had become my idol. She always had her quota of silly jokes that made me take life lightly and look ahead.

It was January first week and like every year each Mumbaikar wanted to be the part of the celebration called Marathon. I told Ketan, “Listen. I want to take part in the marathon”.

The wheelchair marathon was a stretch of two and a half kilometers and we had reached half way mark. We were at the third spot and I wanted Ketan to run faster. We were running against the slope and Ketan was unable to run faster. I cried aloud, “Come on Ketan. We have just two folks ahead of us.” Seeing this, the crowd joined and began chanting “Ketan, Ketan!” That was the spark he needed and we had crossed one guy. He kept running and the guy ahead ran out of steam as well. It was the last 100 meters and we raced freely. I was happy that we would win. Everyone was clapping and I saw another wheelchair come near us. A gentleman around 40 was driving the wheelchair with a tiny frame seated.

I saw it from the corner of my eye and it was none other than Aakruti. Now we were hardly 30 meters to the finish line and Aakruti was catching us. I wanted to win. I lifted my arm and kept on Ketan’s palm driving my chair.

The finish line was crossed. The tiny frame threw her arms in rejoice. Aakruti was the winner.

P.S. You don’t have to come first to be a winner always.

Soaked in love…kept to rot

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Wed, 19 May 2010 16:58:00 +0000

Soaked in love…kept to rot

Om was just out edging a catch to the keeper. The fielder farthest had heard the bat nicking the ball but Om wasn’t to be cowed down. He refused to be judged out and threatened to walk off with his bat, ball and stumps if he were pursued more. He was allowed to bat on and he got out bowled a couple of balls later when he went throwing his bat away.

Om had been a kind of bully of his lane as most of the kids were younger to him. Moreover, Om was fat and overpowered most of his mates at the age 11. Being the only child of Mr. and Mrs. Patil, Om was pampered to no ends. Mrs. Patil bore Om eight years after their marriage by in-vitro fertilization commonly known as a test-tube baby as she had multiple failed attempts of normal pregnancy. The Patils, a well to do family with huge amount of inherited wealth made sure their only child had all the needs and comforts fulfilled. Om knew it and he made sure his every demand got addressed. He always had the best toys. He had the whole range of Mattel cars and the plastic circuits. No wonder the kids in the middle class neighborhood wanted to be his friend and wonder at his toys. In the summer holidays, he used to invite not more than two friends every afternoon. So most of the kids tried to be in the nice books of Om to be invited to his place and play with the new toys.

At his place he had the latest video game which he was very good at. He used to play most of the time and make others watch. But the kids were fine even to get an odd game to play on the best video game available in town which they couldn’t even ask their fathers to buy for them.

As he turned 13, he wanted the racer cycle with n gears; and he wanted it next day. He had learnt the art of terrorizing his parents by threatening them. Every window saw the drama unfold when he climbed the tree and refused to come down for three hours unless his father promised him the cycle. The next day he was shouting on top of his voice for his mom to come out when she was in a hurry, packing Mr.Patil’s lunch box for his tour. When she came out as he kept shouting at the top of his throat; he paced his bike and braked suddenly to do a reverse wheely, evoking a scream out of his caring mom. He seemed to have started enjoying the horror in his mom’s eyes.

Mr. Patil tried to instill manners in Om, but he knew their weakness and took advantage of it. Fat, as he was, whenever Mr. Patil took him out of his bed for a run around the park, he aped to gasp for breath at the hint of sweat. As Om was asthmatic, Mr. Patil couldn’t take any chances. Mr. & Mrs. Patil knew their child was getting spoilt but the palmist in the market had warned them to protect Om as much as they could from external troubles, which often blinded them.

At 16, Om was just another boy in the neighborhood and the boys were not bullied by him anymore. Instead, he was the main target of the boys. His names ranged from Golgappa to the connotation of everything that was round and dumb. The volleyball court in the ground was the ‘katta’ where the evening volley-ball game was the most sought after. Om was no good at anything in which hand-eye co-ordination was involved. Also, being overweight didn’t help his cause. He tried hard but the ball hit his knuckles more than his forearms and ended in the direction altogether different than intended. The next ball hit his head making him the laughing stock. At this the annoyed Om headed straight to his house stamping his feet through the court.

As soon as he was 17, he wanted a geared 200 cc brand new bike. The whole neighborhood was witness to the drama when he threatened to run away from the house if his demand was not met and so he did. Mr Patil thought he had enough of it and let him go. It was only late evening when he didn’t return, frenetic searches started.

After whole the locality was combed, Om was found munching on gol-gappas in a faraway place. This time Mr. Patil looked in no mood to bow down to Om’s demands and gave him a tight slap while he was still chewing the golgappa. The plate he was holding went bang on the ground. He gave the change to the vendor and dragged Om to the car and got him home. He hurled him on the floor as he came home. Mrs Patil went to him and shielded him in her saree. Om still not done with his antics went up to his room and locked himself up.

Mr Patil warned his wife not to go up and pursue him down anymore. She stayed put. Om surprised that his moves didn’t bear any fruit, planned for one more. He got hold of the rope used for drying clothes and made a knot of the size of his neck. He made sure the knot would open up easily. He tied his hands with another rope and stood on a plastic stool with the rope hung by the fan.

He started yelling “Mamma! Mamma! Come up or I will die” Mr. and Mrs Patil ran to his room which had a window beside the door. There they saw their dear son standing on the stool with a rope around his neck and hands tied. All the spruced up sternness of Mr Patil melted and he pleaded, “Dear Om, please come down. You will get what you want. We will buy the bike first thing in the morning!” As he said this, tears rolled down from his eyes. Om was happy, but he was enjoying the plight of his pleading dad and said he was angry that he had slapped him in the middle of the road. Mr. Patil brought on his knees now, apologized his son for his act. Seemingly happy that his demand would be met, Om tried to loosen his tied hands. As he tried doing that, he lifted his left feet off the stool and all his weight fell on one leg of the plastic stool and it slipped off the marble floor. The loose knot of the rope had a strand which had come off because of overuse got stuck and it fastened. Mr. and Mrs. Patil were left to the horror of their life in front of them.

The time the neighbors came running to the frenzied noises and broke the door open. The body hung motionless in thin air.

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Wed, 12 May 2010 14:11:00 +0000

Life...beyond time

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Tue, 11 May 2010 17:57:00 +0000

Life after…

It was a chilly morning. The weather in the hills after the incessant rain was a little too cold for comfort. I tried to close the window to switch the air-conditioner but she stopped me and said,

”Let me feel the natural air”.

“Isn’t it uncomfortable?”

“Does it really matter now?” That was enough to end the conversation.

She went on nonchalantly with the morning chores. But I did not know why she was cleaning up the room. I switched on the TV and tuned the news channel and muted the sound.

Her eyes were red and swollen while I saw her arranging the clothes. They didn’t wear a pitiable look; albeit I could see rage in them. I could not muster any courage to touch the open wounds. The phone batteries were discharged after so many calls from family and friends for the past 2 days were unanswered. We could have easily switched it off, but didn’t.

The day before was bright and it was drizzling all day. We got up and enjoyed the freshly grounded coffee in the balcony overlooking the valley. The monsoon meant it was lush with different hues of green. The start of the day couldn’t have been more pleasant.

By the time we got ready; the cab driver had arrived and was waiting at the lobby. She got dressed and wore the matching ear-rings and a necklace. She had applied the lip-gloss & eye-liner and confessed, “I can apply only these things myself; so I am done.” She wanted to change the ear-rings but I liked the ones she had put on and didn’t let her change.

We went to the restaurant at the ground floor where fresh and soft idlis awaited us. The home-grown spices as mentioned in the menu gave a very nice taste to the sambar. We started for the day. Visited the beautiful valley of flowers where each flower was smiling a different color. Next in the route was a small garden on top of the hill overlooking the valley where the king used to come in the evenings. The whole garden was covered with clouds and things 10 feet away were hardly visible. As we strolled, the moist clouds were making their presence felt like a light cushion in the air. I got a bit bit mischievous when I hid behind a tree and didn’t come out until she went hysterical. We also had a nice ride in the round bamboo boat at the lake. The water currents felt through the soft bamboo was a different feeling altogether. She tried to sprinkle water but the boat went unstable much to the frustration of the old “captain” and we laughed it off hiding our faces.

By the time we came back we had a small nap and we got ready for a candle-lit dinner. The live music at the restaurant was very pleasant and two green apple margaritas were just enough to make it a perfect evening. Time went back to the college days when we didn’t need a great topic for an interesting discussion. An incident was recalled when she had kept her jacket in my bag and a cricket-team mate happened to unearth it when trying to fetch a pen. He had flashed the ladies jacket out to all my team mates in the canteen; no wonder I was carted all around the park even without bowling a single ball at the nets that evening.

We wanted a perfect pic but the margarita didn’t let me locate the flash and the night mode and it was only after 3 attempts we figured out the flash. We sighed as the flash lit; but after the waiter went away, we discovered the photo was shaken.

The knock at the door from the room-service brought me back to my senses. I asked him to pour the coffee in the mugs. A paranoid looking reporter was saying something. The sky was dark and the atmosphere was heavy. She had come out from a bath and changed into casuals. She had gone quiet from the chirpy self in the morning. Even I couldn’t conjure up much. By the time we had our coffee; it had gone cold. I tilted the cup and found that I had finished my coffee while I kept glancing at her uncombed hair.

It was time for us to leave. We paid the bills and got hold of a auto-rickshaw to drop us to the hill-top garden. The clouds were thicker, darker as if they sensed what were in our minds; while we walked towards the valley, she held on to me tightly, trying not to break-down she gathered her composure and loosened her grip. We reached the barricades at the tip. We hugged each other tightly closing our eyes. We grew closer, for eternity..

Moment of truth

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Thu, 22 Apr 2010 06:00:00 +0000

Sydney Relived at DY Patil

In the semi-final played yesterday between Mumbai Indians and Royal Challengers Bangalore ; there was a very “interesting” incident yesterday which was potentially explosive.

It was the second innings and Dravid slashed hard at a Fernando delivery. The ball went flying towards Sachin in the slip cordon. He seemed sure to have caught it cleanly and started celebrating. Here was Dravid unsure about it and he stood his ground. Sachin observed that he had torn his webbing which was bleeding profusely and he went to the doctor. Here was our very celebrated Sunil Gavaskar who suggested Dravid to walk as he would know Sachin; his team mate for 18 years who was sure about the catch and hence celebrating…

Dravid didn’t budge and replays suggested that the ball had touched the ground while Sachin had his fingers around it.

It was given not out;

It was so much like Sydney gate. Only difference being, umpires reigned supreme and didn’t take a player’s word.

I don’t want to make any judgments about Sachin, Dravid or Gavaskar… You are free to make yours.

In quest of Bodhisattva: take 2

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 08:02:00 +0000

Theme for today: Sportsman spirit

Quote of the day:

Winning is a state of mind; and so is.. losing.

-hadu

"Quest for Bodhisattva" - edition 1

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 08:36:00 +0000

Theme for today: The right path
4/16/10 10:39 am

Starting today, I would try and put a good quote up on my blog with a theme to it, under the title "Quest for Bodhisattva"

Theme for today: The right path

Quote of the day:

If you're having a hard time convincing the guy in the mirror, be sure that you've put your foot in the quick sand.

-hadu

LSD- A rollercoaster ride, that went horribly wrong!

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 07:42:00 +0000

On a lazy weekend, I started off for a movie LSD, for spending some good time and ended up being shaken if not stirred.
Of course I did not expect a Sooraj Barjatya storyline to the movie, but more of a Black Friday/Page 3 kind of a flick. What I actually had in store was a roller-coaster ride, where the roller coaster came-off the baring, so the adventure turned horror and audiences tumbled on their fastened chairs before coming to a halt, leaving behind a disturbed mind and a turbid taste in their mouths.
Imagine a Aaj Tak or a Times now gory honor killing story shot live with disturbing visuals and screaming voices or a MMS scandal from conceptualization to execution and a what-goes-inside a sting story operation woven together to make a movie.
If you want to go to a movie for entertainment, think again if you ever want to spoil your mood.

sachin puraan..contd

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 11:06:00 +0000

Impossible is nothing
I was watching the Mumbai Indians vs Chennai match yesterday, once again I was amazed at the ease in which the stiff target was chased. At any point in the match Sachin didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Long back I had attended a talk by Harsha Bhogle, about excellence. A defining factor in a genius is not in his actions but his thoughts.
In the 2003 World Cup finals, when Australians racked up 359 which was a near impossible target to chase; it made everyone in the dressing room sweat and put down their shoulders. Saurav was clueless as well. Everyone looked up to the great man to show them the way. While everyone was yet to come to terms with even about thinking about how to bat, Sachin had a plan ready. He announced, “We have 50 overs to bat. Suppose we score one boundary an over, we will make 200 runs. Now we have 160 runs more to score. 50 boundaries would take 8 overs and 2 balls. So, now we have 41 overs and 4 balls to score 186 runs.” It is a different matter altogether that India lost the match. But, this talk instilled some confidence in the team. Before we even go out to play, it’s imperative that we make us believe or rather convince that we are capable of doing it.
Yesterday he showed us genius lies in his thinking. Hope he is able to inspire the team to fulfill his dream in 2011

What do they know of facebook, who only facebook know!

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 11:01:00 +0000

What do they know of Facebook, who only Facebook know

I met a friend at our annual alumni meet, in a banquet hall of a plush hotel. He had just started mingling with one of the organizing committee member. We were at a table, when someone asked his gmail id; he replied he doesn’t have a gmail account but a yahoo one. At this reply, his interest was about to faint before he announced, he had a facebook account!

Gosh! That saved the relationship even before it started. The discussion drifted towards the Facebook Ramayana, Farmville and what not. One girl was saddened by the dwindling number of tigers on Facebook which was 1411, and vowed she would add a tiger on facebook to increase the number.

I wondered, if equal number of trees were actually planted, we would have created the Sunderbans at various places from Kandivali to Cape Town and solved the problems of deforestation.

The group wasn’t ready to believe a guy who said who had married the girl who always overlooked him in the college. He managed to convince them only after he uploaded his marriage pics from his cellphone to facebook application and shared immediately with others, then and there. He treated them instantly with strawberries from his Farmville and special 360 year old wine from his Vineyard application.

A guy asked score of the current IPL match, to which a reply came; the score last updated on facebook was 33/4 in the 5th over. Interestingly, Joginder Sharma, the name immortalized by Misbah-Ul-haq by playing the silliest shot in the the history of t20, has a fan club dedicated to him named, “Chal gaya mera Bandar, Joginder Joginder”

So, basically if u were online that meant you are on facebook and if you are at a table at a dinner you got to be on facebook. Facebook was a start of the relationship and the savior too, in this case.

Writing is on the “wall” “Roti, kapda, makaan, network, facebook!”

A famed facebook historian, CLRJ Harshad aptly put it, “What do they know of facebook, who only facebook know”

P.S. "The wall" no longer describes Rahul Dravid!

Indian Idol - Generation II

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 14:53:00 +0000

Indian Idol - Generation II

After the brilliant victory against Pakistan, India’s roller coaster nose-dived after three consecutive losses and a draw at the Hockey World Cup 2010. The debates are on why we lost. Former players are writing off the team one more time and the public hue and cry about poor administration and facilities.

One thing can be said after watching the matches; the team did play well albeit in patches and couldn’t sustain performance for a longer duration. The interest in the people is still alive. If there is good hockey on show, people will flock the stadium.

Indian cricket was never so good before it met with an accident in 1983. It was most unexpected for the spectators as well as the players if it was not a fluke. Only after the accident, people started believing that they can win against the best. The superstars were born. The hero worship of the Kapils and the Sunny’s produced Sachins and the Srinaths of the next generation whose baton has been carried by the Sehwags and the Khans.

All these years, even if we didn’t win much, there was always a Sunny who stood taller than the West Indians, brilliant Kapil who marched ahead of Hadlee, or a teenaged Sachin scoring on a burning deck against Australians spitting bouncers. India found comfort in their loved son’s moment of glory, what if the team failed. There was always a consolation.

The World T20 Championship win was another accident. It didn’t instill any belief here but the discovery of the big bucks sparked in the mind of a Lalit Modi.

The attendance to a dead rubber against South Africa is a testimony to the place of hockey in the hearts of Indians.

What India need is a beloved son. Someone, the kids can look up to and their mothers don’t look down upon. Someone the fathers feel proud about and brothers to boast of. A Dhanraj Pillay was noticed only when he cried. We need someone who smiles more often. Someone, who stays on ground but makes us believe he is above all.

Can I borrow one more Sachin from God, this time for Indian Hockey?

Indian Idol, Season 2 has begun and Anu Malik is not invited!

P.S. Trespassing in the dreamland does not warrant prosecution- hadu

When he looks up!

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 17:56:00 +0000

When he looks up!

Some time in the history, a nation was swept by a teenager who had never shaved till that time. The match also marked debut of one of the finest proponent of reverse swinging yorkers, who made the teenager taste his own blood in his very first outing.

Twenty one years on, the fast bowler has taken second stint at coaching his national team, while his counterpart is still batting in national colors and leaving behind heaps of runs as he marches ahead.

When a batsman scores a ton, it is accompanied by a few good shots, few breathtaking ones and it is generally played in a certain context of the game. When Sachin scores a ton, the Sachin ton becomes a context and the match is played there on.

So instead of a match in Sydney or Headingly in which India was playing either Australia or England and a Laxman or Rahul scored a ton; it becomes When Sachin had scored his 23^rd or 18^th ton and India was playing Australia or England, we had won the match.

Sachin’s ton is not just about a mere 100 runs or 200 in case of Gwalior or a few near perfect cricket shots to the fence or over the fence. It is about the joy to a nation of a billion people. The sense of pride a cricket fan gets when he talks about a Sachin ton is reminiscent of the Raymond’s ad where the Dad is proud to see his son become a gentleman with an offer letter.

It was only apt that so much was talked about the match winning hundred against England after the 26/11 attacks. It was a not-so-made-up story in the days of sensationalized journalism.

I was witness to one of the test matches in Nagpur, where the Indian opener had scored a maiden hundred and just got out. As he started for the long walk back, the crowd applauded in appreciation but as he neared the pavilion, the applause got bigger and bigger. A kid asked me why they were clapping like this, I told him it was in anticipation that the master was coming to the crease.

A friend from Mumbai always tells, my paisa wasool moment of any match is the reception to Sachin. Even if it rains the whole day after that, I don’t regret going to the stadium!

The Sachin bond with any Indian is stronger than any linguistic/regional/religion can have over an entire nation. If any other individual who can be compared to have a similar impact on the psyche of a nation is none other than the father of the nation.

It’s an irony that even after reaching the pinnacle; he still looks up towards the sky. Sky is indeed the limit for HIM!

P.S. Who says reiterating the facts is plagarism- hadu

King Khan and the marathi man

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Sat, 13 Feb 2010 17:55:00 +0000

King Khan and the marathi man

Valentine‟s Day is around the corner. So is Shiv Sena looking for the corners, rather couples hiding in them. Leave alongside the black faced Muthalik, couples can celebrate and show uninhibited PDA, as half the sainiks are behind bars and rest of them trying to peek in to the closely guarded theatres to prove My name is Thackeray!

For “MaPo” err Maharashtra police, it‟s just another day out (on the roads) wandering aimlessly when a sena maverick will come with a stick or black paint to get a stick inflicted paint on his bum. KaJo on virtue of his boot lick off the estranged Thackeray, he is not allowed inside matoshree for another round of apology; instead of the man who once famously inspired 13 girls to give a taste of hockey sticks to 20 odd eve teasers. God knows how he maintained his composure after being in the company of 13 girls!

Meanwhile, the sena spokesperson who has been receiving a mouthful on all the channels he was appearing said it was a part of bigger conspiracy to crack down on the Valentine‟s Day culture by pinning down the man who taught this generation lessons in Mohabattein. Also, while we tear posters we are trying to create awareness for a greener Mumbai by discouraging the promotion using posters. He was sweating backstage while on the phone saying “Yess Boss...Ahem... Yes Boss”, and cried aloud after he hung up, “Now tell me about having the worst job in the world!”

The Badshah has been hoping a Chamatkar, trying to allay all the fuss, using the methodology innocently made famous by the upper-cattle class protagonist. But he chose the wrong audience in the non tech savvy „T‟ company.

The real life Don seems to have inflicted the maximum city with Darr and wants the reel life Don to prove Phir Bhi Dil hai Hindustani while he has been busy with the release of his next film in Pardes.

The whole drama has affected Rajdeep Sardesai so very deeply that he was seen mumbling Uddhav, Khan, Mumbai, manoos, what is my name, in his dreams. Harbhajan Singh has lost his sleep over his place in the Mumbai Indians team if the T Company asks for quota for Marathi manoos in the team.
Lalit Modi is already in talks over shifting the MI matches in IPL to a safer venue in Sydney. Chalte chalte he says life is all about Kabhi khushi kabhi gham.

I wonder what the Baazigar gets in return for the loss of My name is Khan.

P.S.: Life is a race. When everyone’s trying to be insane, why should I stay behind? - hadu

Bat-tling for life !

noreply@blogger.com (harshabadbad) — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 10:09:00 +0000

Battling for life!

One of the most enthralling moments on the cricket fields are the battles between fast bowlers and good batsmen. Good spinners mesmerizing the batsmen. The situation bends towards amusement the moment fast bowlers come hard at tail-enders. If that tail-ender happens to be the fast bowler of the opposing team, nothing can be more entertaining.

Yours truly was in one such situation. I was in the first year of the college, and was playing my first cricket match with the season ball. I had batted only once against the season ball, in the nets, at the fag end of the session when part-timers were bowling spin and slowish seam-up. So I was oblivious to pace bowling, but was surely not oblivious to fear of the fast ball as I had seen batsmen go down on knees when hit on the abdomen or the chest and the elbows, et all.

It was a practice match and as not too many days had gone-by, we were yet to be friends with most of the guys who were not from the same class. So, it was not a friendly battle and to add to that everyone wanted to make a mark; made it fierce.

Our team had to bat first. Our batting collapsed courtesy a 6 foot hefty giant fast bowler in the other team. He was so feared that all the batsmen did was to try and play him out. In a 30 overs a side game, we were reduced to 110-8 at the end of 22 overs. I was sent as a number 10 batsman. The spinners were bowling from both ends and so I went in without a helmet. A part-time off-spinner was trying his dollies at me, one of which I managed to dispatch to the fence.

My worst fear came true, when the tall and hefty fast bowler was asked to bowl from the other end. Trying desperately not to look frightened, I called for a helmet from the dressing room. The gesture had attracted bouts of laughter from the typical dressing room junkies that they were. I couldn’t fit the helmet and the sub who got it, helped me out. Fixing my spectacles in that was a little clumsy and the time that was spent doing that, made the situation more tempting for the guys watching and I wished that the bowler didn’t concentrate too much on my helmet.

As I took guard and stood to face the first ball, I could hear clearly the comments that were coming from the dressing room about how interesting was the situation getting; while I tried to ignore all the junk that was coming from the slip cordon and from the man at short cover in front of my face spitting abuses and chewing gum. The bowler came hurling from a 20 yard run-up and the first sight of the ball I got was in the wicket keepers gloves before it had hit my thigh pad and went over the stumps. The bowler gave me a dismissed look as If he knew that was to happen and turned his back.

As I prepared to face the next ball, I could hear Sunny Gavaskar’s word’s of wisdom, “Always watch the ball out of the bowler’s hand!” As I concentrated, I saw the ball pitch in front of me and I just extended my arms towards it. Only to find in surprise that it had hit the bat and went over the head of the fielder at short cover for four runs.

The next ball, the bowler bowled fast and full on the middle stump in quest of rattling my timber. I could see the ball and only thing I did was bring my bat in the way of the fast ball to try and save my legs from getting broken. Phew! This one went to the square leg boundary too. I acted as If I knew it was going to the boundary. Now the bull was enraged. All he wanted to do now was hit my head.

The next one was dug in short around the off-stump; I swished at it and it flew off the edge over the slips for another four.

Now, I could sense the loyalties of the dressing room shift towards me and people were hooting for me. At the end of the ordeal, I had scored 31 runs off 22 balls. I never managed to score a total of 30 runs after that, the whole season; information just to put things in perspective. But the battle was won and the monster in the mind was put to rest.