Prague, a brooding movie released some time back (and created & executed by friends from my alma mater), had a thoughtful tagline, “Men live in cities. Sometimes, cities live in men too.” This makes complete sense. The world is replete with locations that intrigue, attract, delight and enchant. They tend to grow on an interested observer, and indeed get embedded in thought.
I first experienced Mumbai (or Bombay as it was back then) through the tinted lens of Bollywood. It was the city of dreams, where orphaned boys polished shoes at railway stations and grew up to be swaggering overlords of the city’s underworld. It was the city of the Bandra Fast where a bumbling cartoonist fell in love with a gorgeous but slightly wooden daily passenger. It was the city of the thickly accented Parsi couple and their Irani café with red-and-white chequered table cloths. It was a city straddled by gun-toting dons who were above all law and beyond all reasoning. It was the city of the special Bomabiya/Mumbaiya hindi that (unfortunately) has somehow been pigeon-holed as ‘tapori’ hindi. It was the city of the Gateway of India & the Marine Drive, and of Bollywood itself. Above all, it was the city of hope, the fountainhead of opportunity. Life has taken me to live in Mumbai in subsequent years, and I have found out that Mumbai is all this and much, much more.
I have often wondered what endears me (and many others) to this city. After all, Mumbai is known to many for its outlandishly chaotic local trains, unrelenting monsoon rains and crumbling overburdened infrastructure. But Mumbai has grown on me, both inspite and because of these.
The first thing that anybody is bound to notice about Mumbai is its sense of all-pervasive professionalism. Walk into a train station at 1’o clock at night or 4’o clock in the morning (or at anytime in between), and you will find people scurrying to board trains on the way to or back from work. Walk on the footpaths teeming with hawkers and you’ll find everyone cantering with purpose. Take a look at a bus-stop at rush hour and you’ll find people in neat lines waiting for a bus, fidgety but disciplined. In a megapolis where only about 5% of residents reportedly live within 10km of their workplaces, there’s no time for gossip, hanging about and meandering. As they say, you need to flow with Mumbai or be overwhelmed by it. While this cuts both ways, it weaves a never-say-die attitude in the fabric of this city. When blasts ripped apart suburban trains in 2006, train services were restored within just 6 hours. When Kasab & Co laid siege on Mumbai, people didn’t stop going to work. When rains pummel Mumbai every year, trains stop when the platforms get submerged, but not before that. As Bali Brahmbhatt crooned years ago,”raat ko 12 baje din nikalta hai, subah ko 6 baje raat hoti hai…”. What is really interesting, however, is that people endure all of Mumbai’s super-dense-crush-load with a matter-of-fact approach, neither resigned to their fate nor complaining about it. Auto-wallahs, taxi-wallahs, bus drivers and the average Mumbaikar – all patiently brave Mumbai traffic & suburban train madness as if it was part of Moses’ Ten Commandments. It is this gritty approach to life that makes Mumbai a city worth living in.
The city of Mumbai as we know it today didn’t exist until around 175 years ago, when the Hornby Vellard Project joined seven small islands into one landmass. However, the islands themselves (and subsequently the concatenated landmass) have been under the influence of a diverse set of rulers at various points in time – including the Mauryas, the Satvahanas, the Mughals, the Gujarat Sultanate, the Portuguese & the British. Additionally, communities like the Parsis, who came to Gujarat escaping persecution in Iran and subsequently made Bombay one of their homes, have also exerted significant influence on the fabric of this city.
Mumbai’s architecture bears testimony to this multi-layered heritage: from the Kanheri & Mahakali caves (probably) of the Mauryan period and the Haji Ali of the Gujarat Sultanate to the Indo-Saracenic grandeur of the British and the attractive Art Deco buildings of Marine Drive. Buildings like the Victoria Terminus, Gateway of India, GPO, BMC, Rajabai Clock Tower, Flora Fountain, Wilson College and others with their artistic cornices and crafted gargoyles are distinct landmarks of a city which is now getting immersed in the cheek-and-jowl existence of uber-lavish highrises and sprawling slums. Indian architects have also lent their weight on the architecture scene, creating (among others) the classy Art Deco mansions for the original rich classes of Bombay, and the regal Taj Mahal Hotel at Apollo Bunder. Portuguese influence can be witnessed in the form of the charming Mt. Carmel, Mt. Mary & St. Andrews churches at and near Bandra. And then there is the glamourous Marine Drive, gently caressed by the Arabian Sea and (literally & figuratively) a breath of fresh air in the city’s scrunched existence. These landmarks provide undeniable charm to the Maximum City.
Mumbai food benefits immensely from colourful heritage too. Parsi food – patrani machhi, salli boti & berry pulao; and Irani café fare – bun maska, mava cake & Irani chai – are legendary and deeply embedded in the Mumbai cuisine. Malvani cuisine from the beautiful Konkan coast tickles your tastebuds with seafood, cocum sharbat and bhakri. Influence of the Mughals & the Gujarat sultanate enchants in the form of nalli nihari, bheja fry and kulfi falooda. Typical Mumbai fast food like Vada Pav – reportedly invented by a thela vendor at Dadar station; and Pav Bhaji – created out of the need to quickly and effectively cater to the multitudes of mill workers in Bombay; are more popular in Mumbai than a Zinger burger or Maharaja Mac will ever be. As any keen observer will notice, a large percentage of Mumbai restaurants is owned and operated by Kannada folk, which translates to delicious Mysore Masala dosa and onion uttapam. Occidental flavor cannot stay far behind, and numerous bakeries and patisseries have continued to hold on to the British & Portuguese legacy. To sweeten your taste buds are Maharshtra’s very own puran poli, shrikhand, modak and tilgud laddoo. And while you are on the run riding the Mumbai rush-hour, promising to cater to your hunger are the timeless usal pav, missal pav, samosa pav, omellete pav, sheera upma, kanda poha, sabudana vada, thalipith and masala sandwich. All these cuisines have blended smoothly into the cosmopolitan Mumbai melting pot and yet stand out with a character of their own – much like the vegetable chunks in khada pav bhaji.
Mumbai’s reputation of being the city of dreams manifests itself in the form of existential dichotomy which has now come to become common knowledge thanks to movies, documentaries and novels. Homeless men sleep under benches on the Worli seaface while uniformed chauffers walk exotic canines on the pavement. Dolce & Gabbana handbags are made in claustrophobic shanties built on overflowing drains. People park their Mercs at train stations to board local trains on the way to work. Airconditioning units and dish antennas punctuate slums like polka dots. A tarpaulin sheet strung on a boundary wall or an abandoned railway wagon is what many call home in Mumbai while flats worth 10 crores of rupees are bought even before construction work begins on site. Mumbai is home to every conceivable layer of society – from the owner of the Antilia to the owner of a corner of a garbage dump. This layered pastry of a city accommodates it all, albeit grudgingly and painstakingky. And life goes on, like the endless string of local trains at a Mumbai train station.
To brighten up your mood after the previous paragraph, I draw your attention to the promise of tourism and wanderlust that Mumbai offers. Mumbai sits on the shores of the Arabian Sea on one side, and on the edge of the formidable Western Ghats on the other. Both have enough locales to keep your tour calendar busy. Travel south of Mumbai and you have fantastic beaches at Murud, Kashid, Harihareshwar, Anjarle & Ganpatipule. Head north & you can sample the Arabian Sea and quaint countryside at Kelva & Daman. March east and the Ghats open up with locales like Khandala, Matheran, Malshejghat, Karnala and Kamshet. In fact, just sample the Western Ghats anywhere during the monsoons, and you will be greeted by lush greenery, frothy waterfalls and misty valleys – all at a stone’s throw from Mumbai.
In a nutshell, Mumbai is a megapolis that mirrors the complexity of India’s society, culture and development. It is saddled by the obvious problems of modernization, made worse by the fact that it is just a narrow stretch of land jutting out into the sea. But instead of getting burdened by this onerous task, Mumbai chooses to pick up the cudgels and go to war. And has some serious fun while on the job. Every single day. This is what makes Mumbai live inside men & women. At least that’s how I see it.
Friday, April 15, 2016
Wednesday, March 09, 2016
Siachen
As I dutifully focus on the guard post across the yawning snow, the stove next to me splutters. Tea leaves boil in the all-purpose fauji tin-can. The stove cannot be placed farther, for the beverage will freeze if I don’t drink it straight from the stove. Heavy goggles cover my groggy but alert eyes, lest the glint of the sun on the glacial ice blinds me. The ravenously cold barrel of my automatic weapon weighs against my thickly gloved palms, but it may have to spit fire any moment, or never at all. In this unforgiving and stern lap of Mother Nature, I stand with my brothers to fight the adversary. But there are times when I wonder who the adversary really is. The enemy is most certainly at the gates, but is that the enemy without or within?
The question has confronted me on numerous occasions.
I think of the ambushes, cordon and search operations I routinely do in the valley and the north-east. Generations of residents, pushed to the limits by government apathy and/or political strategy and denied the right to a respectable life, teeter on the brink of insanity. When the law refuses to stand by them, many of them are driven to become what analysts term ‘separatists’. Chaos and carnage ensues, with enough entities ready to fan the smoldering fire. The powers that be are disturbed, and I am called in to ensure “area dominance”. Nobody tells me how to make out a foe from a friend, because nobody knows how to. I am ambushed by the same people I am tasked to protect. I do what I have sworn to do – my job. I thus become the enemy. I patrol the streets knowing that the innocent and the guilty both view me with equal contempt and want me removed. Stray incidents of indiscretion and irrationality from some of my own make things further complicated. Slogans are shouted against me as I put my life on the line to neutralize armed attackers. And I wonder who exactly I am fighting. And if I end up making what is termed as a “supreme sacrifice”, wreaths are placed on my coffin and business goes on as usual.
I think of the flag marches I have done to ensure people don’t kill each other off based on caste, creed, religion, this, that, anything, everything. Power-mongers have quietly arranged for sparks to set the dried timber of poverty and unemployment on fire, have watched voyeuristically from a distance, and have then called me in. Nobody has probably wondered how I, who come from among the same people baying for each other’s blood, have managed to remain unbiased and almost mechanical. But I have, as I must.
I think of the studied lethargy of the governments that has always forced me to work with strained resources and information. Decades are expended in finalizing any major procurement order, and indigenous development projects run decades behind schedule. State-run units work with the smugness of assured monopoly, and even basic equipment like carbines remain in short supply. Coffins are allegedly procured with kickbacks and procured bulletproof jackets are substandard. Indian private manufacturers are shut out, and a Military Industrial Complex remains a pipedream. And I stand out there in the open, knowing that a gun never dies, it just falls silent sometimes.
I think of the dents that are waning away my organization’s reputation for honesty, diligence and ironclad principles. Flag-rank officers have been accused of graft, immorality and irregularities and valuable funds have allegedly been utilized for sprucing up the lifestyles of the top brass. My once unwavering trust in my superior, that he will watch my back while I walk into danger, is now under severe strain.
All this makes a dangerous concoction in my mind. My hands tremble for a brief flash of time. And then I remind myself that I joined this organization because I believed in something and because I wanted to live a life less ordinary. I assure myself that the clouds hovering over my country and my organization are but temporary. And I decide to stand up and be counted. And then I pick up the gun and promise every citizen – Sleep sound, for I will protect you, always.
The question has confronted me on numerous occasions.
I think of the ambushes, cordon and search operations I routinely do in the valley and the north-east. Generations of residents, pushed to the limits by government apathy and/or political strategy and denied the right to a respectable life, teeter on the brink of insanity. When the law refuses to stand by them, many of them are driven to become what analysts term ‘separatists’. Chaos and carnage ensues, with enough entities ready to fan the smoldering fire. The powers that be are disturbed, and I am called in to ensure “area dominance”. Nobody tells me how to make out a foe from a friend, because nobody knows how to. I am ambushed by the same people I am tasked to protect. I do what I have sworn to do – my job. I thus become the enemy. I patrol the streets knowing that the innocent and the guilty both view me with equal contempt and want me removed. Stray incidents of indiscretion and irrationality from some of my own make things further complicated. Slogans are shouted against me as I put my life on the line to neutralize armed attackers. And I wonder who exactly I am fighting. And if I end up making what is termed as a “supreme sacrifice”, wreaths are placed on my coffin and business goes on as usual.
I think of the flag marches I have done to ensure people don’t kill each other off based on caste, creed, religion, this, that, anything, everything. Power-mongers have quietly arranged for sparks to set the dried timber of poverty and unemployment on fire, have watched voyeuristically from a distance, and have then called me in. Nobody has probably wondered how I, who come from among the same people baying for each other’s blood, have managed to remain unbiased and almost mechanical. But I have, as I must.
I think of the studied lethargy of the governments that has always forced me to work with strained resources and information. Decades are expended in finalizing any major procurement order, and indigenous development projects run decades behind schedule. State-run units work with the smugness of assured monopoly, and even basic equipment like carbines remain in short supply. Coffins are allegedly procured with kickbacks and procured bulletproof jackets are substandard. Indian private manufacturers are shut out, and a Military Industrial Complex remains a pipedream. And I stand out there in the open, knowing that a gun never dies, it just falls silent sometimes.
I think of the dents that are waning away my organization’s reputation for honesty, diligence and ironclad principles. Flag-rank officers have been accused of graft, immorality and irregularities and valuable funds have allegedly been utilized for sprucing up the lifestyles of the top brass. My once unwavering trust in my superior, that he will watch my back while I walk into danger, is now under severe strain.
All this makes a dangerous concoction in my mind. My hands tremble for a brief flash of time. And then I remind myself that I joined this organization because I believed in something and because I wanted to live a life less ordinary. I assure myself that the clouds hovering over my country and my organization are but temporary. And I decide to stand up and be counted. And then I pick up the gun and promise every citizen – Sleep sound, for I will protect you, always.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
The enterprise called love marriage
Over a cup of bland vending-machine coffee, a friend of mine popped a balloon of statistic in the air. His theory went thus, “More often than not, an entrepreneur will have a love marriage as against an arranged marriage.” I thought about it, and it helped me forget the blandness of the coffee. But then I thought about it a bit more, and realized that the idea was worth ruminating on.
To begin with, the number of well-known entrepreneurs who have met their future wives instead of being led to meet them is not that insignificant. Blockbuster names like Steve Jobs, Sergei Brin and Elon Musk are known to have walked down the aisle in love. But then again, our “sanskaari Indian” thought process would retort that marriages in the Occident, more often than not, do not come with the ‘lived-happily-ever-after’ warranty. Indeed, the last two of these three examples had an acrimonious climax. Let us adopt a Look-East policy then. So, what do N.R.Narayana Murthy, Nandan Nilekani, Prannoy Roy, Kiran Mazumdar-Shaw, Kunal Bahl, Chetan Bhagat & Mohammed Yunus have in common? You guessed it right, all are entrepreneurs and all embraced love marriage. So, we know the idea may not be a wild goose chase.
When you think about it, it starts to make a little sense.
Entrepreneurship is a tough taskmaster. It demands passion, focus, perseverance and, above all, a will to walk a path less trodden or not trodden at all. While nobody can contend that these qualities don’t bolster a salaried professional’s career, it’s reasonable to say that they are oxygen to an entrepreneur’s career. Consequently, if one drinks, eats & breathes about an enterprise, the elaborate and tortuous process of an arranged marriage may become too much of a performance-retarder. And while the entrepreneur’s family may recoil thinking that their offspring is not interested in getting married (or worse!), the offspring may end up becoming betrothal-agnostic. Love marriage, which by definition is an enterprise itself, suits the style of an entrepreneur much better.
Coming back to the “Indian” mindset, a large chunk of us still tends to believe that a salaried job is a stable and mature career choice. Names like Lehman Brothers and terms like downsizing don’t seem to mean much to this chunk. In such a scenario, an entrepreneur is viewed almost like a maverick who doesn’t think about the welfare of his family and wants to take undue ‘risks’. Female entrepreneurs have it even worse. This state of affairs frequently is a dampener to shaadi.com members and their parents. This has two broad ramifications. One, an arranged marriage and an entrepreneur may become chalk and cheese. Two, an entrepreneurial individual will crave for a life-partner who shares his/her passion and/or, more importantly, shares his/her wavelength. While arranged marriage definitely has the potential to provide such a partner, love marriage becomes a more natural, or at least a more desirable path. Of course, whether the synergy continues after marriage is another matter, and the predicament of Alex Rogo whom Goldratt has accurately shown struggling to balance family and work may well become relevant. But that is crossing the bridge when you come to it.
I guess we are indulging in too much of unnecessary arranged-marriage-bashing. So let us take a look from the converse side. An entrepreneur has a fire in the belly that fuels his/her actions every day. An entrepreneur is also aware of the fact that, as mentioned above, the path chosen by him/her is a unique one. When such a person encounters a like-minded individual, at work, at the coffee shop or at a client meeting, hormonal rush can very frequently accompany appreciation and respect. This makes love marriage a natural after-effect.
Finally, proposing to someone is making a sales pitch. Period. This would be something right down the alley of an entrepreneur. Also, this puts the entrepreneur in charge of his/her destiny, which is one of the biggest drivers pushing any entrepreneur. Love marriage is, thus, much more streamlined with an entrepreneur’s flow and could be a strong variable in an entrepreneur’s equation.
Having said all this, I know this could be complete nonsense. But, in a world where we are still debating whether we landed on the moon when we think we did, a healthy-looking argument is all that is required. Argue away.
To begin with, the number of well-known entrepreneurs who have met their future wives instead of being led to meet them is not that insignificant. Blockbuster names like Steve Jobs, Sergei Brin and Elon Musk are known to have walked down the aisle in love. But then again, our “sanskaari Indian” thought process would retort that marriages in the Occident, more often than not, do not come with the ‘lived-happily-ever-after’ warranty. Indeed, the last two of these three examples had an acrimonious climax. Let us adopt a Look-East policy then. So, what do N.R.Narayana Murthy, Nandan Nilekani, Prannoy Roy, Kiran Mazumdar-Shaw, Kunal Bahl, Chetan Bhagat & Mohammed Yunus have in common? You guessed it right, all are entrepreneurs and all embraced love marriage. So, we know the idea may not be a wild goose chase.
When you think about it, it starts to make a little sense.
Entrepreneurship is a tough taskmaster. It demands passion, focus, perseverance and, above all, a will to walk a path less trodden or not trodden at all. While nobody can contend that these qualities don’t bolster a salaried professional’s career, it’s reasonable to say that they are oxygen to an entrepreneur’s career. Consequently, if one drinks, eats & breathes about an enterprise, the elaborate and tortuous process of an arranged marriage may become too much of a performance-retarder. And while the entrepreneur’s family may recoil thinking that their offspring is not interested in getting married (or worse!), the offspring may end up becoming betrothal-agnostic. Love marriage, which by definition is an enterprise itself, suits the style of an entrepreneur much better.
Coming back to the “Indian” mindset, a large chunk of us still tends to believe that a salaried job is a stable and mature career choice. Names like Lehman Brothers and terms like downsizing don’t seem to mean much to this chunk. In such a scenario, an entrepreneur is viewed almost like a maverick who doesn’t think about the welfare of his family and wants to take undue ‘risks’. Female entrepreneurs have it even worse. This state of affairs frequently is a dampener to shaadi.com members and their parents. This has two broad ramifications. One, an arranged marriage and an entrepreneur may become chalk and cheese. Two, an entrepreneurial individual will crave for a life-partner who shares his/her passion and/or, more importantly, shares his/her wavelength. While arranged marriage definitely has the potential to provide such a partner, love marriage becomes a more natural, or at least a more desirable path. Of course, whether the synergy continues after marriage is another matter, and the predicament of Alex Rogo whom Goldratt has accurately shown struggling to balance family and work may well become relevant. But that is crossing the bridge when you come to it.
I guess we are indulging in too much of unnecessary arranged-marriage-bashing. So let us take a look from the converse side. An entrepreneur has a fire in the belly that fuels his/her actions every day. An entrepreneur is also aware of the fact that, as mentioned above, the path chosen by him/her is a unique one. When such a person encounters a like-minded individual, at work, at the coffee shop or at a client meeting, hormonal rush can very frequently accompany appreciation and respect. This makes love marriage a natural after-effect.
Finally, proposing to someone is making a sales pitch. Period. This would be something right down the alley of an entrepreneur. Also, this puts the entrepreneur in charge of his/her destiny, which is one of the biggest drivers pushing any entrepreneur. Love marriage is, thus, much more streamlined with an entrepreneur’s flow and could be a strong variable in an entrepreneur’s equation.
Having said all this, I know this could be complete nonsense. But, in a world where we are still debating whether we landed on the moon when we think we did, a healthy-looking argument is all that is required. Argue away.
Saturday, June 06, 2015
The Passport kaleidoscope...
To put it very simply, life is just a continuum of observation and learning. Observation may be both inward and outward, and learning is derived from observations that we make on a daily basis. If we observe carefully, many aspects, layers and nuances of life are visible all around us. Indeed, while our own lives give us a firsthand experience, cross-sections of life around us can be equally enriching and educating.
One of the Passport Seva Kendras (PSK) offered me such a cross-section the other day. My wife had an appointment for submitting her documents to the PSK and I had accompanied her. At the appointed time, the guards ushered her into the PSK and I realized I had some time to kill while she went through the document verification routine. I bought a cup of elaichi tea and a couple of Osmania biscuits from one of those ebullient thela vendors that somehow always exist outside such offices and settled myself on the low wall of the PSK parking lot.
As I looked around me, I realized the PSK was teeming with hopefuls from all walks of life, looking forward to get a passport for a variety of reasons. There were youngsters, presumably looking forward to academic avenues abroad. Most of them were accompanied by their parents, and the entire family had the look of expectant excitement of their faces. One of the young girls even touched her parents’ feet while going in.
Then there were the overseas job-seekers. Many of these hopefuls, evidently, were financially stretched (or perhaps even jobless) in India and were probably looking at greener pastures like the Middle East, Canada or even Africa to prop up their and their dependents’ lives. They came clutching crumpled polythene packets containing their documents, their faces frequently betraying their anxiousness. Some of them had disheveled looks, evidently having travelled from neighboring towns or villages to the PSK. You could guage the criticality that the PSK held in their scheme of things.
Senior citizens represented a third category of applicants. Elderly couples helped each other as they painstakingly climbed the stairs of the building. Some applicants waited patiently, running a final check of their documents through reading glasses perched on their noses. Some others kept flitting around nervously, occasionally stopping to look around, ask someone a question or just to catch their breath. A variety of situations that had brought them to the PSK could be extrapolated on observing them. Some were going to visit their children who were living or settled abroad. Maybe some had a daughter who was expecting maternity soon. A couple I accidentally overheard was being forced to move abroad to live with their younger son as the elder son in India was not inclined to share a roof with his parents. The PSK was, for these elderly ladies & gentlemen, a portal to either a family reunion or family dismemberment.
And then there were the frequent flyers. These were professionals working in multinational firms who were used to frequent overseas visits and their passports had either expired or run out of pages. They were probably even tired of attending visa interviews. The look on many of such people was plain irritation, non-productive but mandatory work eating into their exacting but handsomely paying working time.
As I kept absorbing what I was seeing, the dichotomy of India’s so-called development seemed to play out in front of me. While some sections of our society are clear benefactors of India’s tryst with development, misery and seemingly fathomless struggle still stare unflinchingly at other sections. Bright minds are moving abroad and weakening our demographic dividend. Social structures are weakening and emotional strains are on the rise. The future of our nation is indeed bright, but on that day at the PSK, it seemed at best to be a light at the end of a pretty long tunnel.
One of the Passport Seva Kendras (PSK) offered me such a cross-section the other day. My wife had an appointment for submitting her documents to the PSK and I had accompanied her. At the appointed time, the guards ushered her into the PSK and I realized I had some time to kill while she went through the document verification routine. I bought a cup of elaichi tea and a couple of Osmania biscuits from one of those ebullient thela vendors that somehow always exist outside such offices and settled myself on the low wall of the PSK parking lot.
As I looked around me, I realized the PSK was teeming with hopefuls from all walks of life, looking forward to get a passport for a variety of reasons. There were youngsters, presumably looking forward to academic avenues abroad. Most of them were accompanied by their parents, and the entire family had the look of expectant excitement of their faces. One of the young girls even touched her parents’ feet while going in.
Then there were the overseas job-seekers. Many of these hopefuls, evidently, were financially stretched (or perhaps even jobless) in India and were probably looking at greener pastures like the Middle East, Canada or even Africa to prop up their and their dependents’ lives. They came clutching crumpled polythene packets containing their documents, their faces frequently betraying their anxiousness. Some of them had disheveled looks, evidently having travelled from neighboring towns or villages to the PSK. You could guage the criticality that the PSK held in their scheme of things.
Senior citizens represented a third category of applicants. Elderly couples helped each other as they painstakingly climbed the stairs of the building. Some applicants waited patiently, running a final check of their documents through reading glasses perched on their noses. Some others kept flitting around nervously, occasionally stopping to look around, ask someone a question or just to catch their breath. A variety of situations that had brought them to the PSK could be extrapolated on observing them. Some were going to visit their children who were living or settled abroad. Maybe some had a daughter who was expecting maternity soon. A couple I accidentally overheard was being forced to move abroad to live with their younger son as the elder son in India was not inclined to share a roof with his parents. The PSK was, for these elderly ladies & gentlemen, a portal to either a family reunion or family dismemberment.
And then there were the frequent flyers. These were professionals working in multinational firms who were used to frequent overseas visits and their passports had either expired or run out of pages. They were probably even tired of attending visa interviews. The look on many of such people was plain irritation, non-productive but mandatory work eating into their exacting but handsomely paying working time.
As I kept absorbing what I was seeing, the dichotomy of India’s so-called development seemed to play out in front of me. While some sections of our society are clear benefactors of India’s tryst with development, misery and seemingly fathomless struggle still stare unflinchingly at other sections. Bright minds are moving abroad and weakening our demographic dividend. Social structures are weakening and emotional strains are on the rise. The future of our nation is indeed bright, but on that day at the PSK, it seemed at best to be a light at the end of a pretty long tunnel.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
An eye on the goal(ie)
Another football World Cup came to a reasonably exciting end, with a deserving team winning the coveted title. The last edition of the World Cup had left me dissatisfied, with Spain, for all its Barcelona firepower, willing to just tumble over the finish line with only eight goals in the tournament. Germany won in a much more alive fashion this time, scoring prolifically and defending solidly. But if Higuain had not hit wide with Neuer at his mercy, maybe Messi wouldn’t have been holding only the Golden Ball today.
This World Cup was also about the monumental crumbling of Brazilian football, something similar to but much more catastrophic than what happened to Australian cricket some years ago; a generation of stars retired and those who succeeded them were pretenders at best. Incidentally, German football experienced a nadir around the end of the 20th century, when with typical German regimented discipline a football rehabilitation programme was implemented that touched both the grassroots and the helm of its system. The results are for all of us to see today. Brazil has a long hard road ahead.
But amidst all the goalscoring, a welcome trend was the amazing quality of goalkeeping on display. To begin with, this World Cup had probably the highest number of goalkeeping captains, with Casillas, Buffon, Lloris, Bravo (Chile) & Valladares (Honduras) all donning the captain’s armband. That aside, we had some fantastic displays of goalkeeping that had a longlasting impact on the individual games as well as on collective memory. While Guillermo Ochoa kept the eventually disgraced Brazilian attack at bay and saved fantastically throughout the tournament, Tim Howard redeemed the faith Alex Fergeusen had shown in him in the pre-Van der Saar days by creating a record of saves. (I am not sure of FIFA’a selection criteria, but I was surprised at seeing Sergio Romero in the final 3 nominees for the Golden glove and not someone like Howard). I had liked Vincent Enyeama’s fitness and commitment in the last WC, and this time was no different. Keylor Navas was in prime form, and justifiably in the shortlist for the golden ball. Romero and Tim Krul had their moments of glory. Manuel Neuer, of course, is a worthy replacement of the iconic Oliver Kahn at the German goal. Igor Akinfeev, such a seasoned campaigner, would however remember his howler against South Korea for some time to come.
Many talented goalkeepers were, however, missed at the World Cup for reasons beyond their control. Petr Cech lost out as the Czechs did not qualify. David de Gea and Pepe Reina were under the Casillas-shroud. Their presence would have added more colour to the proceedings.
Goalkeeping has always been a thankless job. As the Pele-defying Gordon Banks put it accurately, “Nobody will remember the ones you saved, everyone will remember the ones you let in.” Ask Moacir Barbosa, who allegedly made Brazilians cry after allowing Uruguay to score a second goal at the Maracana in 1950. The once-celebrated goalkeeper died a taboo-ed figure, not allowed to visit the Brazilian team in 1994 as he was deemed to be bad luck. (Never mind the fact that Claudio Tafferel eventually benefitted from the bad luck of Roberto Baggio in the final) Ask Rene Higuita, the colourful & controversial scorpion-kicking Colombian, who allowed Roger Milla to snatch the ball from his feet at the centerline and score a decisive goal in 1990. Football is all about goals, and so the goalkeeper, whose mandate is to keep a clean sheet, becomes almost like an anti-hero in the scheme of things. Of course, if you act like Harold Schumacher, you have justifiable reasons of being called an anti-hero.
I grew up watching the likes of Oliver Kahn, Peter Schmeichel, Gianluigi Buffon, David Seaman, Edwin van der Saar, Fabien Barthez and Santiago Canizares man the goal like their life depended on it. Later, talents like Iker Casillas, Petr Cech, Victor Valdes and Manuel Neuer took centrestage at club and international level. There were colourful characters like Jose Luis Chilavert who loved scoring goals and getting involved in set pieces. The names of Lev Yashin, Gordon Banks, Peter Shilton, Walter Zenga, Dino Zoff and others will always spell magic.
Goalkeepers have always caught my fancy, for the simple reason that they are like the last men standing between victory and defeat. Especially in penalty shootouts and spot kicks, the mind games that goalkeepers can and do play makes these set pieces extremely intriguing and exciting. I have always thought goalkeepers have the mental advantage in a shootout; they will get sympathy if they can’t save and instant glory if they can. Over the years, goalkeepers have had to revisit their capabilities and sharpen their senses, as balls have evolved from the dead leather spheres to Bernoulli-friendly lightweight balls. Balls swerve much more in the air now than they did earlier, and goalkeepers have to judge the complex trajectory of balls in split seconds, or be tagged as “caught napping”. People will remember the discontent the Jabulani had caused in 2010 due to its unpredictable trajectory. Angles and vectors will always be a good goalkeeper’s lifelines.
Goalkeeping is an extremely absorbing and demanding responsibility, and the number 1 jersey justifiably goes to the first choice goalkeeper. The kick that you get out of seeing a forward’s frustration as you glove a ball away can be intoxicating. After all, if someone has an eye on a worthy goal, he needs to work hard to get there.
This World Cup was also about the monumental crumbling of Brazilian football, something similar to but much more catastrophic than what happened to Australian cricket some years ago; a generation of stars retired and those who succeeded them were pretenders at best. Incidentally, German football experienced a nadir around the end of the 20th century, when with typical German regimented discipline a football rehabilitation programme was implemented that touched both the grassroots and the helm of its system. The results are for all of us to see today. Brazil has a long hard road ahead.
But amidst all the goalscoring, a welcome trend was the amazing quality of goalkeeping on display. To begin with, this World Cup had probably the highest number of goalkeeping captains, with Casillas, Buffon, Lloris, Bravo (Chile) & Valladares (Honduras) all donning the captain’s armband. That aside, we had some fantastic displays of goalkeeping that had a longlasting impact on the individual games as well as on collective memory. While Guillermo Ochoa kept the eventually disgraced Brazilian attack at bay and saved fantastically throughout the tournament, Tim Howard redeemed the faith Alex Fergeusen had shown in him in the pre-Van der Saar days by creating a record of saves. (I am not sure of FIFA’a selection criteria, but I was surprised at seeing Sergio Romero in the final 3 nominees for the Golden glove and not someone like Howard). I had liked Vincent Enyeama’s fitness and commitment in the last WC, and this time was no different. Keylor Navas was in prime form, and justifiably in the shortlist for the golden ball. Romero and Tim Krul had their moments of glory. Manuel Neuer, of course, is a worthy replacement of the iconic Oliver Kahn at the German goal. Igor Akinfeev, such a seasoned campaigner, would however remember his howler against South Korea for some time to come.
Many talented goalkeepers were, however, missed at the World Cup for reasons beyond their control. Petr Cech lost out as the Czechs did not qualify. David de Gea and Pepe Reina were under the Casillas-shroud. Their presence would have added more colour to the proceedings.
Goalkeeping has always been a thankless job. As the Pele-defying Gordon Banks put it accurately, “Nobody will remember the ones you saved, everyone will remember the ones you let in.” Ask Moacir Barbosa, who allegedly made Brazilians cry after allowing Uruguay to score a second goal at the Maracana in 1950. The once-celebrated goalkeeper died a taboo-ed figure, not allowed to visit the Brazilian team in 1994 as he was deemed to be bad luck. (Never mind the fact that Claudio Tafferel eventually benefitted from the bad luck of Roberto Baggio in the final) Ask Rene Higuita, the colourful & controversial scorpion-kicking Colombian, who allowed Roger Milla to snatch the ball from his feet at the centerline and score a decisive goal in 1990. Football is all about goals, and so the goalkeeper, whose mandate is to keep a clean sheet, becomes almost like an anti-hero in the scheme of things. Of course, if you act like Harold Schumacher, you have justifiable reasons of being called an anti-hero.
I grew up watching the likes of Oliver Kahn, Peter Schmeichel, Gianluigi Buffon, David Seaman, Edwin van der Saar, Fabien Barthez and Santiago Canizares man the goal like their life depended on it. Later, talents like Iker Casillas, Petr Cech, Victor Valdes and Manuel Neuer took centrestage at club and international level. There were colourful characters like Jose Luis Chilavert who loved scoring goals and getting involved in set pieces. The names of Lev Yashin, Gordon Banks, Peter Shilton, Walter Zenga, Dino Zoff and others will always spell magic.
Goalkeepers have always caught my fancy, for the simple reason that they are like the last men standing between victory and defeat. Especially in penalty shootouts and spot kicks, the mind games that goalkeepers can and do play makes these set pieces extremely intriguing and exciting. I have always thought goalkeepers have the mental advantage in a shootout; they will get sympathy if they can’t save and instant glory if they can. Over the years, goalkeepers have had to revisit their capabilities and sharpen their senses, as balls have evolved from the dead leather spheres to Bernoulli-friendly lightweight balls. Balls swerve much more in the air now than they did earlier, and goalkeepers have to judge the complex trajectory of balls in split seconds, or be tagged as “caught napping”. People will remember the discontent the Jabulani had caused in 2010 due to its unpredictable trajectory. Angles and vectors will always be a good goalkeeper’s lifelines.
Goalkeeping is an extremely absorbing and demanding responsibility, and the number 1 jersey justifiably goes to the first choice goalkeeper. The kick that you get out of seeing a forward’s frustration as you glove a ball away can be intoxicating. After all, if someone has an eye on a worthy goal, he needs to work hard to get there.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Omellete-paav in the hills...
Sorting through largely meaningless stuff on the Times of India centrefolds the other day, I came across a piece that said that Beyonce Knowles bought an island for about 3 billion US dollars for a personal holiday. I am no big fan of Beyonce (though I love “Beautiful Liar”), and I don’t even understand just how big that sum of money is. But the news got me thinking. I felt the sentiment that presumably would have led Beyonce to make this purchase nestles in many of us – to tear away from the humdrum and juggernaut of daily life, take a step back and to be able to reflect on life with a studied peace of mind, without the rush of life’s flow to flush us away.
Life is a busy enterprise. Every day dawns with the possibilities of new acquaintances, unanticipated experiences, soaring joys, crushing sorrows, fights, reconciliations, disclosures, discoveries, and a whole lot of surprise packages and/or routine deliveries. While we, in the spirit of living life to the fullest, try to take it all in as it comes, we sometimes tend to lose the essence of the moments that go past us, because we are too busy flowing with life. Get up in the morning, go to work, attend meetings, meet friend for lunch, go out with family in the evening, call parents after dinner, watch Dhoni hit winning sixes on television, read some pages of the latest novel, call it a day… not typical but a possible template. Swim with the flow, swim with the flow…
But how wonderful and refreshing, once in a while, it would be to swim to the banks, stand on the edge and just study the ripples and cascades in the flow. To analyze and assimilate. To reason and reflect. To learn and live. Imagine waking up at dawn in the lap of the hills, taking a leisurely walk around a mist-covered lake, sitting on a cold-damp wooden bench at the edge of the hill, sipping steaming milk-tea with omellete-paav (crisp rusk-cookies for the vegans), beyond the blinking light of the Blackberry and with the yawning valley as your confidante. There’s a lot you can think about in such a state of mind.
Your family. Your bedrock of existence. Your parents who train you for life and also give you pocket-money to go alongwith it. Your sister who dotes on you and takes more pride in your achievements than you do. Your brother who cries as a child as his toys are given to you but gives you his favourite Casio wristwatch as a present on the eve of your first board examination. Your spouse who takes diet lessons so that you can keep your cholesterol in check. And then there are the ever loving and giving grandparents, uncles and aunts who would always see you as an extension of their life and as a beacon of their principles. We owe our existences to the love, devotion and diligence of these personages. As we move forward in life and carve a niche of our own in this world, we knowingly or unknowingly tend to shift our focus away from them. We go for higher studies abroad and then make professional careers there, while our family continues to live back home. We take promotions and postings which advance our career goals but which mean we cannot always live with our parents and/or wife & kids. We work for long hours and even bring work back home because we are responsible professionals, but we tend to forget that we also need to be responsible offsprings, parents, husbands/wives, grandchildren and nephews/nieces. It is true that all those who love us also want us to be successful. But is success of any significance if you cannot share it with the people who have made you capable of being successful? It is an extremely difficult decision to make, but it definitely requires some focused thought and retrospection.
The love of your life. The person who rejoices in your smallest joys. The person with whom you can share your deepest fears. The hand you want to hold whenever you need to be loved. The shoulder you can cry on whenever life gets tough. Someone who senses the pain behind your smile and the joy behind your tears. Someone who understands things you can’t explain even to your family. Some people are lucky to find such soulmates very early in life, some have to labour a little harder but finally find their destination, while some remain travellers all their lives. In many cases, we fail to understand why we are loved and why we are not, which creates a lot of problems. In some cases, we realize the existence of love for somebody but fail to express or reciprocate it because we are unsure of feelings on both sides or fear losing a friend at the cost of trying to find our love. And in other cases, we fail to break the shackles of family, tradition, society, expectations and misgivings and thus give up on what we assume to be pure love. In other cases, we find and actualize mutual love but later fall prey to conflicts and demands of personal aspirations and changing environments. Love, without a shred of doubt, is life. Thus, when it comes to love, tremendous reserves of maturity, restraint and reasoning need to be harnessed before taking any decision. Thought processes need to be attuned to keeping love alive.
And then there is fun and enjoyment. As I said before, life has enough cards up its sleeve to keep us guessing all the time. But that should not desist us from breaking away from the mundane routine of everyday life and giving the child in us a chance to surface again. It does not come in the way of being responsible individuals or professionals, it actually bolsters it. Whenever you get time (in fact, you will have to carve out time), head for the nearest market and down some pani-pooris at the thela at the chowk. Call friends or family home and organize a cookout. Play a game of gully cricket with the colony boys. Run out in the rain and feel the drops on your face wash out your anxieties. Smile whenever you can. Give life a chance and you will be a better man.
These are thoughts that live in me but are not always actualized. But I guess they may/should live in most/all of us. Hope all of these see the light of day, sooner or later.
Life is a busy enterprise. Every day dawns with the possibilities of new acquaintances, unanticipated experiences, soaring joys, crushing sorrows, fights, reconciliations, disclosures, discoveries, and a whole lot of surprise packages and/or routine deliveries. While we, in the spirit of living life to the fullest, try to take it all in as it comes, we sometimes tend to lose the essence of the moments that go past us, because we are too busy flowing with life. Get up in the morning, go to work, attend meetings, meet friend for lunch, go out with family in the evening, call parents after dinner, watch Dhoni hit winning sixes on television, read some pages of the latest novel, call it a day… not typical but a possible template. Swim with the flow, swim with the flow…
But how wonderful and refreshing, once in a while, it would be to swim to the banks, stand on the edge and just study the ripples and cascades in the flow. To analyze and assimilate. To reason and reflect. To learn and live. Imagine waking up at dawn in the lap of the hills, taking a leisurely walk around a mist-covered lake, sitting on a cold-damp wooden bench at the edge of the hill, sipping steaming milk-tea with omellete-paav (crisp rusk-cookies for the vegans), beyond the blinking light of the Blackberry and with the yawning valley as your confidante. There’s a lot you can think about in such a state of mind.
Your family. Your bedrock of existence. Your parents who train you for life and also give you pocket-money to go alongwith it. Your sister who dotes on you and takes more pride in your achievements than you do. Your brother who cries as a child as his toys are given to you but gives you his favourite Casio wristwatch as a present on the eve of your first board examination. Your spouse who takes diet lessons so that you can keep your cholesterol in check. And then there are the ever loving and giving grandparents, uncles and aunts who would always see you as an extension of their life and as a beacon of their principles. We owe our existences to the love, devotion and diligence of these personages. As we move forward in life and carve a niche of our own in this world, we knowingly or unknowingly tend to shift our focus away from them. We go for higher studies abroad and then make professional careers there, while our family continues to live back home. We take promotions and postings which advance our career goals but which mean we cannot always live with our parents and/or wife & kids. We work for long hours and even bring work back home because we are responsible professionals, but we tend to forget that we also need to be responsible offsprings, parents, husbands/wives, grandchildren and nephews/nieces. It is true that all those who love us also want us to be successful. But is success of any significance if you cannot share it with the people who have made you capable of being successful? It is an extremely difficult decision to make, but it definitely requires some focused thought and retrospection.
The love of your life. The person who rejoices in your smallest joys. The person with whom you can share your deepest fears. The hand you want to hold whenever you need to be loved. The shoulder you can cry on whenever life gets tough. Someone who senses the pain behind your smile and the joy behind your tears. Someone who understands things you can’t explain even to your family. Some people are lucky to find such soulmates very early in life, some have to labour a little harder but finally find their destination, while some remain travellers all their lives. In many cases, we fail to understand why we are loved and why we are not, which creates a lot of problems. In some cases, we realize the existence of love for somebody but fail to express or reciprocate it because we are unsure of feelings on both sides or fear losing a friend at the cost of trying to find our love. And in other cases, we fail to break the shackles of family, tradition, society, expectations and misgivings and thus give up on what we assume to be pure love. In other cases, we find and actualize mutual love but later fall prey to conflicts and demands of personal aspirations and changing environments. Love, without a shred of doubt, is life. Thus, when it comes to love, tremendous reserves of maturity, restraint and reasoning need to be harnessed before taking any decision. Thought processes need to be attuned to keeping love alive.
And then there is fun and enjoyment. As I said before, life has enough cards up its sleeve to keep us guessing all the time. But that should not desist us from breaking away from the mundane routine of everyday life and giving the child in us a chance to surface again. It does not come in the way of being responsible individuals or professionals, it actually bolsters it. Whenever you get time (in fact, you will have to carve out time), head for the nearest market and down some pani-pooris at the thela at the chowk. Call friends or family home and organize a cookout. Play a game of gully cricket with the colony boys. Run out in the rain and feel the drops on your face wash out your anxieties. Smile whenever you can. Give life a chance and you will be a better man.
These are thoughts that live in me but are not always actualized. But I guess they may/should live in most/all of us. Hope all of these see the light of day, sooner or later.
Monday, June 25, 2012
Life & death...
“Death fixes forever the relation existing between the departed spirit and the survivors upon earth.”
The phenomenon of death is profound. Medically, death is just like night falling after day, a routine logical phenomenon. Spiritually, life and death are like night and day, one following the other in eternal cycles until absolution. But, in everyday life, in the context of the social matrix that frames our existence, death of a person brings with it a lot of unique effects and responses in the world that person leaves behind. And though death is thought to be a dark event, which it is in many ways, death can have a silver lining too.
As far as the person renouncing physical existence is concerned, death can have different connotations. If a person lives a full, virtuous, successful & healthy life and dies a natural death with minimum suffering, it is a befitting end to a life well-lived. But, as it is correctly said, a person who has attended to all the responsibilities and obligations to the best of his/her ability is sure to live on in the minds of people he/she has touched, even though things may not have been rosy during his/her lifetime. Death, thus, proves to be just a semi-colon rather than being a full stop.
It is often remarked, mostly sarcastically, that death has a curious ability to paint a person in a saintly aura – “bada achha admit tha...” But death does indeed lead people to look back on the life of the deceased and try to take lessons and inspirations in a way they never did when the person was alive. There are devoted patriarchs who spend their lives trying to reconcile and keep together their immediate or extended families they have nurtured with care and effort, while the family members keep bickering on various issues of vanity, property and the like. During their lifetime, the patriarchs are termed as nosy and time-warped people. However, their death, in some cases atleast, serves as a catalyst that brings the family together, even if for a brief period of time. The intense recognition of the permanent loss can galvanize a lot of faultlines. And if that happens, the person is most certainly still alive even after death.
Death also tends to open the floodgates of nostalgia. From my own experiences, as the tears begin to dry out and the embers of the pyre begin to turn into ash, all the memories of the departed souls – of times good and bad, of celebration and acrimony, of achievement & deprivation, of elation & heartbreak – come flowing through the mind. The eyes swell up again in a bittersweet emotion and the person is alive all over again. In a life of hectic everyday demands, such times stop the clock for an ephemeral moment, and help us in remembering what we are neglecting or leaving behind, knowingly or unknowingly. Equally importantly, it reaffirms to us the values and principles the departed stood for and, if we respected and loved and cared for that person, it forces us to vow to uphold those principles and values forever. This is what makes the person immortal, the guiding light.
Of course, when a person you love is physically gone, a void is created that can never ever be filled again. But, firstly, death is inevitable and it is bound to find its mark someday; you only wish it does so elegantly. Secondly, if you put your best foot forward to continue what the person endeavoured to do in his/her life, you will forever find a guiding and loving spirit taking you home.
“To live in hearts we leave behind
Is not to die.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)