Forever and More

She extended her arms and gently covered my ears. What she spoke seemed like sweet nothings in my ear. Her voice tones were interspersed (albeit, gently) between different levels of melodies

As I attempt to guage her, the yellow skin on her body bears fruity qualities. Her brain tries to guage my mood to continue whispering sweet nothings. A Genius at play, it would seem! As I lay in bed, she engulfed the silence of the night, lying beside me, comforting me. I would fall asleep, in her arms, listening to her lullabies. As I rode in to nowhere, she accompanied me, lovingly caressing my back, gently filtering out the din outside. When I spoke alongside her, her melodious tones seemed more extravagant. When I listened to her intently, my world suddenly reflected the joys of a musical, unfettered by noise.

She was a bit mysterious on occasions. I would not know what she would say next. But there was a very nice medley, all the time. Sometimes, I would ask her to go back and repeat the things she'd just said, just to re-live the euphoria. Not once did she disappoint. Oftentimes, her lustrous face, reflected organization of thought. As she spoke, her face painted a rich kaleidoscope of colours, and sometimes, embezzling the gaiety of her voice. But often, her face was not the object of my attention. She would sometimes respond awkwardly to touch, but her face would glow, radiant and all. I would feed her, sometimes with quick bites, sometimes with elaborate meals. It would never matter to her. She would never flatter to deceive. We would fight too, when she said things I did not want to hear. But the fallout would end when the right chord was stuck soon after. On days when she felt low, a quick charge would immediately liven her up. 

Over the years, she has oft comforted me. Her gentle voice would emancipate worry. Her company on trips livened up an otherwise mundane journey. I would always come back refreshed after being in her arms. As I get up everyday to put myself through the grind, I know, when I come back home, she would be waiting for me, her arms stretched wide open, beckoning me to them....

For Love of the Game -Part2

Pudgy took his guard first up. He strapped on his pads, abdomen guard and gloves. Somehow, he never wore the helmet. Perhaps, he did not like to survey the landscape from the confines of the grill, perhaps he felt it was an irritant to his free hitting style. Pudgy was always a bowler first. A cracker one at that too! He loved to give the cherry a rip as it left his elastic wrists. He loved to dabble in military medium too. But I enjoyed watching him when he bowled spin. A physique like a certain blonde-haired Australian wonder, he had a bowling action quite similar to him too. Maybe a couple of more steps into the delivery...He liked the hard wrought-iron surface we played on. He liked the ball coming on nicely to his bat. He loved it give it a spank. "I am going to hit you out", was the message sent out loud and clear. I never really liked bowling to him. Often, standing at mid-off, I could feel the power and the force with which the ball would leave the bat. Pure disdain, I tell you! It was not a fun time to be fielding at that position too, especially with the cold Pacific breeze blowing through the well-lit makeshift cricket area. Pudgy as a bowler was superbly organized. Hell, I never liked facing him either! He would bowl leg-spin from around the wicket to right-handed batsmen. We had a predicament with our makeshift cricket field. The boundary wall was, perhaps just a couple of feet from where out leg-stump ended. It was almost as if Pudgy took a machiavellian delight in our agony. The ball would come looping from his hand (a beautiful loop shaming geometry!) and dip right on line with the leg-stump. The only way to play the ball was to either move across and back and awkwardly guide it to the off-side or kill the ball in defense. Open stance never seemed to work for me due to the boundary wall. And, I did not have the balls to sweep a spinning, bouncing cobra. In the six overs each of us faced, Pudgy's two were hell.

Lefty perhaps played Pudgy the best. Being a south-paw gave him natural advantage. It was a joy to watch Lefty bat. He had the elegance, much like an audacious former Indian captain. Again, standing at mid-off, you can just watch the ball caressed towards the point and cover areas. Lefty was quite fidgety with his stance too. He liked the little details. There used to be an apologetic look on his face after he would send the ball flying, moments after it left your hand. "Sorry, mate", came promptly. After every ball, he would adjust his gloves with the same clinical precision as before. Lefty used to wear his helmet on top of his rotated cap. It provides a solid base for the helmet, he used to say. And he liked trying out new bats too. I recall, he had spent multiple sessions seasoning a new bat which adorned our balcony for a while. Often, Pudgy and Lefty would converse in Kannada. Perhaps it was sledging. No, I don't think it was that. Folks from Bangalore are much too genial. Lefty used to bowl right-arm medium pace. It was great fun playing Lefty. We had to always mind of our foot, though. A yorker was always on the corner when Lefty bowled. And, he kept coming at us. With the same speed, same pace, every delivery. He used to apologize if we played and missed! He was a fine reader of his opponent too, Lefty. He would comment on our shots, the way our feet were moving, balance and all that jazz. And, do it so gracefully. Fine gentleman, Lefty was! He would encourage us to try something new, cater to our requests bowling specific deliveries repeatedly and with the same intensity. He would let you know what to expect when he was trying something new, to get the batsman's perspective! Much like Amby...

Amby always prided in being technically correct. He was equally dextrous bowling with either arm. Amby played Division league cricket and manned the No:3 position much like a certain legend who was India's finest there. Every game we played, Amby used to preface it with a methodical warm-up session of stretching and loosening up. If Amby batted first, it would be a good 10-15 minutes before we bowled the first ball! He used to go over strapping on his pads to putting on his helmet with utter disregard for time. Never rush yourself before going out to bat, he would often remark. Amby used to wear a bandanna underneath his helmet. He would always come out to bat with a dri-fit white shirt underneath his t-shirt. His entire ensemble made for much banter amongst the others but never once was he perturbed. Even while waiting to face the delivery, he would raise his head up at the last moment. Often, we have stopped in our run-up thinking he was not ready! Amby had a very prodigious cut. It was a joy to watch him cut the ball. His shift of balance, while being oh, so nimble on his toes. Like Lefty, he would often dabble in the intricacies of the technique. He handled Pudgy much better with an open stance and was never afraid to launch into the sweep. Against the pacers, Amby would never be rushed into playing a rash shot. But Amby was never about the powerful hitting. There was something insanely serene about him. Even when he bowled, he had the perfect run-up before delivery and his action was smooth as silk. He used to experiment with a new technique each time we played. One session used to be just for out-swing while the other used to be for in-swing. Even when batting, Amby followed a routine that he would have thought of to practice, earlier. And, he used to practice this for his game in the leagues. I hear that even in friendly-matches, Amby would always fancy himself to hold one end up, something he prided in doing in the league games too. To us, he was the most complete player.

Amby, Lefty and Pudgy represent three very real characters with whom, I have had the pleasure of sharing multiple practice sessions. I never cared that Amby played Division cricket, that Lefty represented clubs professionally or that Pudgy was the best bowler of spin I had ever played. To me, it did not matter who was a better batsman or a better bowler, who was fitter, who was more knowledgeable. To me, what mattered was that wrought-iron tennis court and the sheer joy of playing a sport that the four of us loved. To us, the cold Pacific breeze brought the warmth of friendship. To us, cricket provided a stage to let go, be free.

Always for love of the game....

For Love of the Game -Part1

Oftentimes, I wonder what is first. The sport or the players? While professionals who have played any sport will readily admit that none can ever be bigger than the game itself, as a spectator, I am often trapped in a catch-22 situation.

In this day and age, where power, speed, agility constitute a player's dominance, I wonder how much of the romance and elegance gets embodied in him. As a spectator, I followed only two sports in my life. Tennis and Cricket. This I think, was more to do with the history and romance with these, through the people who played it. Sadly, it is slowly diminishing for me...

With tennis, epic matches between Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi generated more interest than scoring points with chicks. I revered Micheal Chang for his amazing cross-court play, Stefan Edberg for his class, Boris Becker for his tenacity and Steffi Graf for her grace (too bad I was not part of the Chris Evert era). But Sampras/Agassi took the cake. Not for the players they were, but for the people they are (I still have to read Open by Agassi!). As a spectator, you have the additional luxury to assimilate players' persona with judgement. You can cross the barrier to ridicule someone for his brashness, or awe someone for this humility. But, in the end, somewhere a part of you wants to imbibe qualities like will, grit, determination, stamina, tenacity, courage, class which, eventually sums up your respect-quotient towards that player. This is what I loved with Sampras and Agassi and strangely this also increased the aura of the game itself. You come to realize that sports personalities are largely different from you and me, simply because of their undying love for something they believe in, something that flows through their veins. So, it follows naturally that a romance for the game ensues. But if one factors this account of "romance" or "love for something we believe" in our daily lives, I am sure we would find ourselves performing our daily tasks much more potently. Sadly, not all of us can lay a substantial claim to that.

In-spite of cricket being a team sport, Indian cricket players have always held a super-stardom status. So, automatically, they "become" bigger than the game in the eyes of the spectator. We are often interested in how a player defines himself outside the field of play. How well he carries himself, how controversy-free he is, how he values ethics of the sport, and the like. I would love for someone to talk about his first visit to the Lord's dressing room, what he felt when he walked out on to the field at the Eden Gardens, how best he related with history at the Adelaide Oval, what does he think when he sees the honours board in the venues across the world, how soon his focus moves to the zone where nothing else matters besides the duel between bat and ball, how he finds comfort within the game he plays, how he feels to be part of an opponent's team's psyche in nerve-wrecking duals, what he thinks of the Ashes urn, what runs through his mind when he sees trophies on display. These, in my opinion would encapsulate the beauty of the sport and the game that is played within it's quarters. We have been very fortunate to have been part of an era in Indian cricket where a certain nucleus of players came together at the break of the century to guide the spectator's imagination for love of the game. The class of 2000 was not merely a group of individuals, but were our symbols of hope, courage, intensity, agony, ecstasy, respect. They became entities that defined the sport itself. That, their personalities grew in stature in our eyes, is a mere corollary to this. Or is it?

This is where I am caught like a deer in front of headlights. Am I lured by the romance of the sport or am I star-struck by the achievements of the legends? As I go over what I have written so far, I am amazed by the amount of ambiguity I generate. Sometimes, the competition to prove who is better, the instinct to win, do not take precedence when you want to focus on the regalia of the traditions of the game.

To judge a sport for it's game or the people who played it? The question plays itself all over again...

Affection

"We have come together a long way", she remarked. He agreed. From childhood to the present, at the cusp of her matrimony, her calling, her desire, all were to materialize soon. We did have a jolly good time, didn't we, he asked. She nodded approvingly indicating that good times were always with good company. She did not believe in partying out, of jars filled with beer, glasses flowing with alcohol, music generating high decibels. Her's was a simple motive. Of giggles and squeaks, of good-natured bantering, of discussing sitcoms and the characters it entailed. Such was the definition of time well spent. It included too, her time spent with family. Just being in the present. Just being there...

"You will be going to a whole new world", he said. There won't be soul-sisters at beck and call. They will be asleep when you are awake. "You will have to deal with new found silence. And that will be a good thing." He had gone though the same rigour too. Suddenly, noise around him was muted. He could hear the bird chirp, the wind hustle. He gave into this wonderful peace. "Some might call it drone", he cautioned. "But, don't mind them. This will be a break. This is your time away from it all. Enjoy the silence. It does not fall into someone's lap this easily." Absence of noise, even in it's presence can be wonderful!

"How did it feel when you gave it all up? To return to simpler times and people. Do you miss it?"

"I do, more than ever. Because, I was able to perceive sound as an entity there. So there was a clear demarcation when it was present and when it was absent. Here it takes more effort. I have to struggle to know when to switch-off. It is a lot harder. But, then again, it feels nice to come back to one of your own. This is where I belong now." She tried to come to terms with it all. All through one's life, man searches for stillness. But no one really knows how to achieve it. Perhaps it's all relative. One need not go to Mansarovar to experience stillness. One can experience it in the darkness of the night, in bed, just before dozing off. Just need to be gracious enough to accept it.

"I don't really know what to expect. This contrasts with the excitement, vigour this new phase in my life would bring." She seemed confused. Her large, round eyes exemplifying the fact. "You are definitely entitled to it! All I am saying is, don't get caught up in the physical world, trying to please everybody. You can have your own approach to it all. Try and switch-off every now and then. You will notice that time appears to be on roller-skates there. Take a walk, breathe in the cold crisp air. Try to slow it down. You will notice yourself relaxing." This is not yoga or meditation, he was quick to add. "Sometimes, to handle responsibilities, you need to first underplay them. Soak it in, don't act instinctively. Let it engulf you. You will see yourself handling it better."

It is very hard, he added. "I still am struggling to come to terms with slowing things down. Looking at a proposition from multiple angles becomes your Art of War. I might take a lifetime to find my Art of War or even put it to full use. But, I do know that failing to react instinctively to responsibilities often got me out of icky situations and enabled me to approach it better." Hopefully, it earned me some admiration, some respect, he drifted off...

"You never craved attention, anyway. So, I can understand this bubble you generate. It is like your stage. Your theater without any act." That is some analogy, he joked and gave her a hug. It was time...she would be leaving soon. Bouncing ideas off each other would rarefy. Space for intellectual thought will be shared with someone else. Hopefully, she will find time to get away from it all every now and then....

Marital Piss

There comes a stage in every male loser's life where he needs to start browsing through matrimonial websites for a potential bride since he did not have the balls to go out and score himself a chick. I am going through that process now. Hell, a little self-deprecation never really did hurt no one!

So, yeah, matrimonial websites. I think this is a place where the rudest people have an account. The website itself gives you cheesy tags like "Express Interest", "Dislike", "Dislike with message" and the like. Of course, I never really got to "Disliking" anyone since I have always been "Disliked" immediately after I "Liked" someone! Anyway, God has funny ways of humouring himself. Be that as it may, these girls and their parents think no end of themselves. When one sends in a "like" request, these buggers take five hundred days to respond with a "Sorry Sir, but I don't think the horoscopes match". What the fuck! It took you five hundred days to say that? And, are you living in 1856 to be matching horoscopes? When the celestial bodies say that the boy and girl are not suited for each other, you hang on to it as if it was a pearl of wisdom. But, if the same celestial body declares that from tomorrow you are going to suffer from diarrhea for the rest of your life, you say, "Oh, I don't believe in that crap". Bloody hypocrites.

The weirdest answer I got was that the "girl was not ready". FUCK! Why the fuck did you put up her profile on the website then? It's not like she was super hot or anything. Even for this, the attitude is too much, I reckon. Anyway, the description on the profile is even more annoying. Typically, every parent HAS to mention, "..we are looking for a boy who is cultured and has good values..". So what is the benchmark for that? I can proudly declare that I ate my chocolate bar with a knife and fork (just like our very lovable George Costanza). So, does that make me cultured? Or are you looking for someone who consumes cultured fat? What do you mean by good values? Does it entail putting salaam to uncles and aunties? Does it mean that I shut my trap when elders are talking (or bitching about someone)? If I were to do this, then you will label me as subservient. If I were to open my trap and disagree with their one track opinions, you will label me as pompous and arrogant. So where the fuck do I draw the line? More-so, who the fuck gave you the authority to judge me?

Secondly, every profile indicates that smoking and consuming alcohol is an absolute no-no! Why the kolaveri against this? I can see your daughter's profile photo right outside a pub. Did she go there to find out what soft drinks are being served? So, you think if I emit a couple of puffs and down a few cold ones, I am the baddest guy around? Or the most annoying? Even more than Shah Rukh Khan?? That is a personal insult!

Thirdly, if the girl says that she would like to get to know the guy, be an ideal partner to the guy, respect his family, give her space, take my space, how the fuck do you hope to achieve this if you do not respond to the guy's interest?? Just like your space, you think the guy is going to drop from space? And, even if you do land up talking to someone, you dismiss him after a couple of calls saying, "we are not a match for each other". So you expect me to be all chivalrous and accept that I have just been KLPD'd?? Well, screw you. I already had plans of rejecting you. You just made it easier for me! My male ego will only get more inflated and I ain't gonna mess with that shit.

So, in effect, whenever I see male animals trying to impress a female on National Geographic, I think of myself. Well, at least that bird-of-paradise got his female by showing off his colours. And I am sitting here writing this. Fuck, sixth sense FAIL!

PS: This is not a rant. I know I am awesome!

Serenity

As someone who pays attention to the little details in life, I am inclined to write this. Perhaps, this might not be coherent or dainty but will attempt to entail a certain part of your mental make-up called comfort. I have been thinking about this area for sometime now. What does one mean when he talks about his comfort and the zone it belongs to? Various points come to mind.

First and foremost, I feel a sense of "belonging" to this zone. There is a warm reassurance of this space and being. The mind and body suddenly relax and a goodness factor creeps in. I am not able to pen the words to this feeling exactly and, neither can I quantify it. What I can say is that I want to relate to this feeling far more than I do presently.

Secondly, this space is yours, and just yours. This again re-affirms the sense of "belonging" that I mentioned earlier. Suddenly, the fast paced world stops and your world is now limited only to this space. It is as if the mind now gets events at a much slower rate to assimilate and process. And, it does that so beautifully! I get a feeling of focus when everything else gets shut out.

Thirdly, this state is completely pre-emptive. It just comes. While reading something that inspires, while sitting in the office cubicle when everyone has left work, while travelling alone, while lying in bed, listening to music in the darkness of the night, and so on. And, it is more frequent at night when all else is quiet.

In this state, everything around you assumes a meaning, a presence that you do not notice otherwise. You feel good about the stillness of the air, the silence of sound, the absence of man, the sound of waves, the darkness of the night, stillness of water. These are moments that entails your conversation with your mind. Free of chaos, free of din, free of noise, free of people. Little things around you take precedence. Dew on a leaf, water droplets on the window, a cup of tea, green fields, last rows on an aircraft, a book, rain drops, a table lamp that lights a desk space and so forth.

It is very hard to shut one's self out from the commotion that one is subjected to. Perhaps, that is why I get pleasure from these little things. Though few and far in-between, these moments of alone-ness are rejuvinating. What if the world were full of it?

People may argue that one needs to turn into a monk to achieve this state of impasse. And, it would be impractical to be always surrounded by a bubble and not adjust to change. Perhaps, that is the point of contention itself. Are we going to be eventually embedded in this struggle, in this rat race? No wordly pleasure can match the few moments of joy the mind gets when all else has lost focus....

Adieu To Emotion

How and where does one begin to write about someone who has been a moral part of one's self? I do not intend to post laurels on Rahul Dravid or on his journey into the pantheon of greatness. That, is a subject best handled by journalists and biographers much more qualified than me. And, by those, who weave magic with the sanctity of the written word. Much like RD did with his willow. Instead, I wish to take you though a life-journey..

I did not watch RD's debut innings at Lord's partly because I was struggling with lessons in school and partly because my affection towards cricket at that stage was only playing it and nothing else. So my journey with RD (or perhaps, the other way around), began at a time when he was a "nervous nineties" batsman. Everything about him looked impeccable on the 22 till that point (or, it's near-about). For all the times, Lady Luck did not feel sorry for him, a part of me did. The analogy of studying so hard for an exam but failing to make the upper-cut often came up (of course, such was the maturity at that stage). Little by little, I became part of that struggle, his anguish and his long walks back to the pavilion, head held down...

Fast forward a year, I was busy studying for my tenth class board exams. It was during this time, the Indian cricket team was scheduled to leave for South Africa. I can still recall the advertisement represented by the players with Noble Savages' "I'm an Indian" as a background score. RD's line in that ad was, "Catch us in action in South Africa". The game of cricket reached The Wanderers and I was in the middle of a Chemistry tuition class. Acids were being mixed with alkalis and salts were being produced. My chemistry teacher, Mr.Khade was a remarkable man. He was an avid fan of the game and used to mute the television while ranting out chemical equations, all the while keeping an eye on the match and score. It was during this class, RD approached his eighties on a spicy wicket against a stellar pace attack. Suddenly, Mr.Khade stopped chemistry and focused his attention completely on the match, un-muting the television. Joy knew no bounds when we closed our notebooks and turned our interest to the same. I recall muttering a small prayer to enable RD to end his quest. Eighties turned to nineties and his guardian angel broke free from her shackles and wrapped him under her wing. Perhaps, she had heard my prayer. From then on, RD played like a man possessed! Cuts, drives, pulls, glides were unleashed in all their resplendent glory. He had completed his first spiritual quest. I somehow cannot recall how he got there, but I can never forget the image of his head looking up to the heavens and his bat raised in acknowledgement. While acids and bases continued to yield salts, patience and grit yielded a memorable milestone. I do not remember how I fared in Chemistry but I remember being bathed in that magic moment.

As an adolescent kid with new found charm of junior college, bunking classes was something I took great personal pride in. To me, it was the epitome of rebellion, it was Pink Floyd's magnificence playing with hormones. I would rush home early on Fridays to join my friends in colony cricket. We used to play into the wee hours of the night. The games constituted two phases. Proper "over-arm" cricket outdoors followed by a quick scamper home for meals. This was followed by throw-down matches in the building lobby (Bhatta cricket as it was called in Mumbai). These games were tense. Ten people crammed in a small area with the following rules:

1. If you were caught on the first bounce, you were declared out
2. If you had hit the ball directly on any building wall, you were declared out
3. If you had padded the ball more than once in an over, you were declared out (this led to considerable debate too!)
4. If you had edged the ball onto the back wall (which served as the wicket), you were declared out

So, with these in place, accompanied by a first slip, second slip, silly point, forward short leg, very short mid-on and mid-off and the bowler, the batsman took guard. The aim of this exercise was not to score runs (we did not bother keeping any), but to survive hostile pace. A batsman was not bound by number of overs but could just keep playing till he got out. The approach I took while playing these games was to leave the ball outside the off-stump irrespective of how close it was. Over time, I got pretty good at knowing where my off-stump lay. I once had the pleasure of surviving nearly ten overs and, to this day, it has been the most satisfying and adrenalin-rushing stay at the crease. During these glorious days, RD's concentration and dogged defense became a part of me...

Fast forward another year, I was in Bengaluru, slated to appear for the Karnataka engineering entrance examination. India was playing Sri Lanka at the World Cup at Taunton,England. Exams were forgotten. We were five, sitting in a tiny room glued to the television as two of India's young green-horns launched a superlative counter-attack. Perhaps, if God was induced into taking revenge for what had happened three years ago, this was how He would have done it. I shall never forget that period of play, or the cozy blankets, tasty tea or the re-assuring comfort of that room. Suddenly, all was well. It was at this moment RD's grit and struggle became a part of me...

Over the years, I tried to ape him in every possible way. I used to wear collared T-shirts to games so that I could raise the collar. I started listening to Sting. I used to take guard, left foot first in line with the leg stump, followed by a couple of taps of the bat on the ground and then position the right foot (something I do even today, when I get a chance to play). I used to close my lips while making contact with the ball. I always manned forward short leg in the lobby games. I tried to defend more than attack and took great pride in taking the single so that more flamboyant players could play their strokes. I always used to hit along the ground. I used to shadow practice after playing each ball. Needless to say, I failed quite miserably in these attempts!

The grind of technical education preceded higher studies and professional work. I tried to find a balance between honing analytical skills and psychological ramblings, between sharing wonderful boisterous moments with friends and quiet introspection, between rationality and insanity, between practicality and instinct. It is during this stage of my life that RD became a part of me...

Today, I saw good part of my life flash by. For this, I am grateful to RD. I am grateful for the memories. I am grateful for the dignity, spirit, respect, conduct, character and altruistic romance for the game and it's traditions. Above all else, for shaping my thought, I am grateful for RD. Goodbye and good luck. They do not come like you anymore. You will always be a treasure....

PS: The repeated use of "I" is by no means an attempt to focus this article on me, but rather, point to the influence RD has on "I"

Overdose and Overkill

There is a nice statement that is flung out on one of the Harry Potter movies. It goes something like this, "Fame is a fickle friend. Celebrity is as celebrity does". While this statement may sound quite attractive, in real life, the actual enactment of this is just causing intolerable pain to the poor citizen.

The celebrity seems to be everywhere now. I can understand if he restricts himself to his movies. The ideal case scenario would be act your ass off in-front of the camera and let the public decide on the judgement. But instead, he seems to be in a state of constant self-promotion like a two-cent whore. He endorses cola drinks, sodas, music cds, fruit drinks, consumer electronics, toothpaste, shaving cream, why, even state tourism. Why is this constant need of attention pinching your arse? More importantly, why are you determined to make us pinch ours and wince in pain?

If the poor people thought that self-promoting via advertisements is enough, they are in for a rude shock. Because, now the celebrity is free-whoring on TV shows, internet feeds, facebook and for fucking God's sake, even on news channels. All he does is rant and repeat the same shit of how fortunate he was to land up on the assignment, on how important his fans' support is. Balls. No one gives a rat's ass how you got your movie assignment. You just fucking got lucky. And don't worry, no fan is interested in what toothpaste you use for which tooth. We know that you are selling yourself for cheap publicity for which we just don't give a fuck about.

What's with the constant re-affirmation that you are the most down-to-earth human there is? Are you trying to convince us? You know shit about the stark realities of life. So, don't come to us with your caring, humane pretense to tell us you feel our pain. Fuck you! You feel shit. At-least, try to put in a good act so that you can boast about your actual acting skills. Oh, I'm sorry, if you knew how to act, you would not have to sleep around in the first place to prove yourself. And, what's with these fake "Achievement Awards" you get? What the fuck for? You better not declare that you have earned it. I can show you a million people who deserve it more than you. So, don your designer shades and go pleasure yourself somewhere else. Speaking of which, why the fuck do you need to wear shades in the dark. Are you a retard? I am amazed that you don't knock something over and land on shit. Maybe you can put this feat on your Resume. It will atleast ensure that you will earn your shades irrespective of whether you will earn respect.

Speaking of respect, give some while trying to mimic local dialects. Just because you dress up like a baboon and shout, "Enna rascala" does not mean you got it right. If you had bothered to do your homework, you will find that no Tamilian even talks with that annoying accent. And, mind you, it's TAMILIAN, and not Madrasi! Same's the case with your cheap imitation of a "Ayyo Rama" and the like. For fuck's sake, don't ever say it out loud in front of a Madrasi lest you want your fledgling biceps to be pulled out.

Just when I thought you would sink no further, you went and branded a fragrance line. Do you think all of us are retards like you? Tell me this, which jackass with a semblance of sanity will buy a perfume/product when the focus is on your sorry-ass face? If the director of the advertisement asked you to pose for the bottle, where the fuck did your brains go? Did you leave it with your shades in the glove-box of your big-ass SUV?

I also see that you seem to be quite tech savvy these days. You seem to be blogging and tweeting messages to endorse your opinions on every subject, right from politics to sports, from current affairs to your own affairs? Seriously? Did you pause for a milli-second and realize that your opinion matters to something as redundant as the hair on my privates? So, get a hold on yourself and stop wallowing in self-pity that someone, somewhere raised a question about your credibility. Stop giving your fake aggression there.

If you want to contribute to something, take the effort to do it on your own time and you own space. Don't fucking publicize it to the whole world. Do it gracefully, or is that too much to ask? If you want to opinionate on something, get your personal life in order first. Don't come and give your thoughts on matters relating to violence, values, culture and tradition when you land up knocking the shit out of the bartender, causing havoc in an inebriated state at some party organized by your kith. Speaking of parties, you don't have to flaunt your birthday to the whole world when there are those who don't even know theirs. Even if you want it, do it behind closed doors and not for the cheap publicity.

Work for something you believe in. Not because you are getting millions to promote that something. And, for God's sake lose the attitude, arrogance and contempt that you so freely display. So what the fuck if it is an old idea? Gone are the days when people with sane minds blindly purchase the product you endorse. Deal with that, bitch!

Celebrity is as celebrity does...my ass! It not long before fame returns to knock the shit out of that pretense attitude.

P.S:If you think the female celebrity gets a respite sorry to deflate your ego. You have indeed proved that you are just a dumb bimbette!

An Open Letter

This comes at a time when, under hushed tones, sections of the media are baying for your blood...People who have never held a cricket bat are calling you out to hang up your boots out of a misplaced sense of media marketing and "breaking-news". And they seem to be doing it without any remorse, thinking only of the TRP ratings for their channels.

Suddenly, everyone has forgotten all that you have brought to us. For a very few, playing to win matches for your country is one aspect but you have given us much more. You have shown that qualities like pride, hope, courage and, dedication do really exist and have tried to encourage us to inculcate them in our daily lives. Each time you step onto the field, to represent your country, you have shown us that these qualities can be applied beyond the boundary ropes, in our lives. I can only think of our brave soldiers, besides you, who invoke these qualities as they stake claim to our security by offering their lives. Sadly, most of us are not made aware of the sacrifices they make to protect our sovereign integrity. So, we have to make do with you...

Suddenly, everyone appears to be questioning your integrity for a new "headline" to pop up every few minutes. Panic buttons are being pressed, one moment, the media claims that the team has let millions down while the very next moment, individuals like you are being singled out. Have they forgotten the number of times you have bailed the team out in the past? Have they forgotten the immense discipline you have displayed while making so many personal sacrifices for the team?

Suddenly, people want to infuse brash, callous. young blood into the team at your expense. Do they not realize the depth of the void this would create? Do they not realize, for these modern-age players, to carry your mantle forward, they need tutelage from you? Do they not realize, for all the combined laurels you have brought to the game and country, you have earned the right to call it a day and ride into the sunset?

A few of us would like to remember you for the humility and grace with which you have conducted yourself. We have tried to ape your game sometimes in our colony games but on most other counts, we have tried to live our existence based on the ideals and values you have set, for respect, charm, discipline are qualities not learnt or developed, but are in-built into the Indian middle-class strata of the Seventies and Eighties. The few of us cannot see ourselves identifying with the current "next-generation" of players and perhaps, no amount of their valour can change this view.

Amidst all this furore for your heads, you have maintained dignified silence. Please consider this earnest request to throw in your towels because the cynical world does not need you. It does not recognize the purity and innocence of your selfless services. This gentleman's game, which you have held so closely to your hearts is vanishing and as it's last dying breed of custodians, it will only be prudent for you to do the same. Retract from all of us into the darkness...for the remaining few of us, will accept this with a heavy heart. We may or may not have succeeded in emulating some your qualities in our lives but we are ready to acknowledge this our personal shortcoming to thank you for all you have done for us....

With utmost respect...