Believe

Today I saw this ad and I broke down a little. Didn't see the ending coming really.



It's been a lifelong dream to sing the national anthem on that stage. Because if we do qualify in my lifetime, I don't care if I am old and deaf and blind and can't move. I will somehow drag myself there and I will stand up and sing and revel in the moment. So this ad, corny and outlandish as it may be, is an encapsulation of that dream.

So are we capable? Hell, yes. We are the second most populous nation on Earth, surely we can muster up a football team worthy enough to go. But are we willing? Therein lies the tragedy. We don't really care, at least the ones who are in charge of the sport's future don't really care about it beyond their personal interests. So the infrastructure will remain woefully sub par and the talent will have to forsake the sport for more lucrative means of making a living. But the day it changes, we will make it, that much I am confident of. We made it to the Asian Cup and the players gave their all. No losing team's fans have have so proud of three and four goal thrashings as we were in those three matches. One day it will happen.

Homesickness

Very rarely have I felt this emotion even though living away from home is a part of life I had to accept long ago. Then again, almost a year without going home would make even me fidgety to back to Cal, I'm still just a college kid after all. It's been too long since I saw family, friends and the city. It's time I did.

EDIT: Didn't realise this was the 50th post. Wouldn't have wasted it on something emo if I did. Oh well...

More Than Just The Cantera

There has been a lot of talk over the last couple of years on how FC Barcelona is a model club in that they have built a champion football team primarily through youth products with the occasional astute signings. While it is certainly true that La Masia is currently the leading youth academy in the world which includes not just the players currently playing in the club, but others like Fabregas, Arteta and Capel who are enriching other teams and leagues as well. However, it is a bit of an stretch to hold a moral high ground solely on the basis of how many youth products are in the first team and frankly unfair on the Ronaldinhos and Eto'os who came to the club and became legends by their own right. It is also a stretch to declare that this has always been the Barca philosophy.

Not the complete story

Youth systems go through their own golden periods where by a mixture of coincidence and a good system a bunch of talented players come together at once. Barca is having one now, in the 90s it was Ajax and Manchester United, in the 80s Real Madrid's five title winning team was built on a spine of home grown players. Before the rules regarding foreign players were relaxed, every team was anyway dependent on its youth products and the occasional foreign star.

While it is true that to preserve the Catalan identity of the club there has always been an emphasis on having Catalans playing for the club and this invariably means a healthy focus on the youth academy, it is not like Barca has always been a flagbearer in having teams which are solely dependent on home grown players. The Dream Team and throughout the 90s there were more than a fair share of first teamers who were bought from outside. If one remembers the sorry Gaspart era, Barca had a Madrid spending policy, except without the titles (brr). In recent history, the focus on youth products was only intensified in the later stages of Rijkaard and of course Guardiola eras of which the fruit is being reaped now.

While it is heartening and certainly a source of pride that the sextuple was truly won by a team which was mostly built from ground up, it should be remembered that a lot of this is down to the good fortune that players like Xavi, Iniesta and Messi have come together at once instead of ten years apart. I am more proud of the fact that no matter who is coaching or where the players come from, our attacking philosphy which was defined by Cruyff has remained steadfast and all the players from Messi to Oleguer have to accede to it. That philosophy is what really defines Barca, not how many youth products started the CL final. And that is why I support the club.

Some Things Don't Change, Even When They Do - Delhi

Hello, my fictional readership. You must be wondering about the reason of my long absence. It's just my last post was my 42nd and the Hitchhiker in me couldn't resist keeping it that way.
Not really, I've just been too lazy, no other excuses.
Hell, why do I need an excuse? It's my blog, I can be as frequent as I want to in updating it. You're not the boss of me. Especially since you don't exist.

...

Well, that was fun. Anyway, the subject of this post is my long overdue return to Delhi, the city I lived in for three years and left in 2001. It would be an understatement to say that the city I left doesn't exist anymore. When I left, Dhaula Kuan was still a circle, now it's a mess of flyovers. I was so disoriented I went past my school and only realised it at the last moment. And that was just the beginning, the city has changed enormously in the span of a decade and some parts are pretty much unrecognisable. A lot of the changes are good, the roads have become wider, the Metro is a godsend, the booze is cheaper than Bangalore. But for someone who expected a little more familiarity, this has been unnerving. Still, I was able to orient myself after a week and now I am comfortable with it.

Of course, some things never change. Old Delhi is still the same, with its narrow busy roads and delicious cheap food (or diarrhoea if you don't know where to look for it). The corridors of power remain pristine. Outer CP has the same charm even though the inner circle has changed face completely. And the heartbeat of the city ticks the same way, Delhi was, is and always will be a city of people who are show offs and ill-tempered, but at the same time go the extra mile in helping you. And it is the people who really make the city after all, they breathe life into the facade.

I am more than two weeks into my stay now, and although I would have liked to travel around a it more by now, it's been an enjoyable stay. I wouldn't mind working here if the opportunity would arise. I find that I still like the city.

Except for the part where my phone got stolen. Sucks.

Omnia mutantur, nihil inherit.

The Tragical Comedy of Beach Ball 1 - 0 Liverpool

Every now and then, the EPL gets down from its straitjacketed stiff-upper-lip pedestal and delivers a truly farcical moment. These moments have become quite prevalent this season and are making otherwise academic title chases quite interesting, but have so far have been mostly limited to managerial rants and antics off the pitch. Today's Sunderland 1-0 win over Liverpool provided a rare moment on it.


The sole goal came when the shot deflected off a beach ball lying on the six yard line and pretty much mindf*cked Pepe Reina who couldn't decide whether to go after the football or the giant red balloon. For the record, he chose to ignore the football and wave a feeble hand at the beach ball, whether to curse it or to try and save it in the hope that the referee would be colour blind and think it is the football he's saved we'll never know. He failed anyway.

The supremely sweet irony lies in the fact that the beach ball was.. a 'Pool branded ball thrown by an industriously moronic 'Pool fan. ('Pool, beach - heh)

I feel sorry for the poor kid. His moment of stupidity has in all likelihood caused him to be disowned by his family by now and has probably dared not make the trip back to his hometown for fear of being lynched and quartered. Because, like every other self-respecting set of fans, the Liverpool supporters would have invariably laid the entire blame of the loss on him and his ball, completely ignoring the fact that they were second best and deserved to lose anyway. In fact, if Liverpool fall short of the title by a whopping ten-fifteen points (which is looking entirely possible right now), they'll blame the whole thing on that ball.

But maybe they have a right to be paranoid. Maybe the whole thing was planned all along. But who would be so insidiously devious to come up with such a cunning plan to crush the morale of the Liverpool players?
http://i37.tinypic.com/2njg5tl.gif
Who else?

Everyone Is Unique, And The Music Never Dies

I am honestly tired of sports journalism always comparing upcoming players to retired superstars or even current players - "The Next ________". God only knows how many Argentinian prodigies have been dubbed the next Maradona and pretty much all of them - Aimar, Saviola etc - have succumbed to the pressure. The only one currently who seems to be justifying the tag is Lionel Messi, and so what do the media do, they dub even younger Argentinian kids The Next Messi. Hell, Messi just turned 22, he still has whole career in front of him, you can't push him over the hill like that. It's like giving a Lifetime Achievement Award to Dev Patel because of his 'superlative' performance in Slumdog Millionaire. You're implying that Messi cannot or does not need to achieve anything anymore, which is so obviously untrue.

This trick is mostly used to sensationalise the headlines, they are hardly ever a reflection of the player's abilities anyway. The new Brazilian starlet Douglas Costa who Manchester United are pursuing was , till a year ago, The Next Ronaldinho, now he is The Next C. Ronaldo. Because Ronaldinho's stock isn't as high as it used to be. How do you justify that on the basis of merit? Both of them are players with different styles, so unless one is saying the kid has changed his game to become a mirror image of someone else now, it really doesn't hold water.

Don't be lazy , journalists. Say it as it is, describe what the kid is good at, don't just mention he is like so-and-so and leave us to draw our own inferences. Footballers are people, and no two people are exactly the same or have the same set of talents. Everyone is unique.

...

A heads up to Vh1's coverage of Michael Jackson's demise, they have paid tribute to him in the best way possible, which is screening marathons of his music videos. Not a discussion of his life, a scrutiny of his well documented fallacies, false platitudes of his talents; just a celebration of his music.

All those platitudes can still be seen in the ticker in the bottom where the condolence messages sent by people can be seen. Some of them seem sincere, most of them are people who had little idea who he was and just want their three seconds of fame, and a few of them are dowhright retarded. Like this - "MJ, we miss you sooo much, your music has died with you :("

The music never dies, you freak! The art is what makes the artist immortal. How many people actually remember or care about the person. Even if he was a douchebag (which I don't believe he was) his music is what will count ultimately.

He was never a favourite of mine, but I really like certain songs and I overall enjoy his music. There is a definite sincerity and energy in his songs and he was one of the best lyricists of his era. He single handedly made Pop music cool and dragged it to its zenith before, well, the 90s happened. So all said and done, he will be missed. But his music won't be, because it hasn't gone anywhere.

The Bus Conductor

"Rashbehari! Kalighat! Minto Park! Sealdah!!" "The bus is empty, get on quickly", he bellowed.

A swarm of people hurriedly got into the bus and, mightily relieved to find empty seats, rushed to them before they filled up. The bus resumed its journey. It was office hours, it would be full to the rafters soon.

Then conductor continued shouting out the bus route as it moved towards its next stop. He got paid through a commission out of the revenue he collected through tickets everyday, so it was in his interests to get as many people on board as possible. He hated it. There was never a peaceful moment in the morning rush, people would jump in or out every two minutes and the bus stops were too closely spaced for him to be able to switch off for even a moment. Strangely, only when the bus was stuck in a traffic snarl would there be a respite.

The bus was overflowing now, and tempers within were rising. The passengers were all jampacked together and the heat wasn't helping matters. They constantly shouted at him exasperatedly asking him why was the bus stopped for so long. He turned his sweaty face away and ignored them; if they expected him to magically lift the bus high and glide it over the traffic across the road, they were sadly mistaken.

It was a typical day.

...

It was early evening and the sky finally crackled enough to force the heavens to open and let loose. Like all Kolkatans, he loved the rain, even though it meant a dip in business. The rain brought back memory of younger days when life was simple and more carefree. This one was fast becoming a storm, and a welcome relief.

The rain was pouring now and the wet wind rushing past his face was as refreshing as an oasis in the desert. Still, work was work, and he grudgingly ducked into the bus to sell the tickets. The worst place to be in the rain in this city is inside a bus. As soon as the rain comes down, the window shutters go up and the bus becomes a sweaty, claustrophobic little box. He braced himself for the inevitable barrage of complaints about the leaking roof. He shrugged and told them this bus is just six months old, it was the company's fault they bought a faulty one, he cannot do anything about it. It always amazed him how everyone always thinks the conductor is the tyrant overlord of the bus and the reason for all its problems. But then again, he thought, who else can they blame.

He finished his round and went back to his post by the door. For a job whose description includes traveling across the city, a conductor's life can be become lonely. He's shackled to a moving prison cell trudging back and forth the same route route over and over and none of the other inmates ever stay long enough to strike a friendship with.

...

He usually enjoyed the last shift of the day. It would be late in the night when even this crazy city would slow down. The weather would be more bearable and the passengers would be more tolerable, as the few who travel that late are too tired to indulge in their favourite pastime of conductor bashing.

He was doing a routine round of ticketing when he suddenly heard a voice in front of him utter a gasp of surprise followed by his name. He looked up, and the hand he was handing the ticket over to belonged to someone he had not seen for years, but had never forgotten. She was clearly pleased at the sudden meeting and eagerly asked him how he was, and why had he become a bus conductor. What answer could he give her? That a string of misfortunes had cost his family his entire wealth and ultimately his father his life, and as a result none of his dreams and plans which he used to narrate to her could ever be realised? No, that would be making excuses and he never made them. So he just smiled weakly at her and changed the subject by inquiring about herself. She probably got the hint and talked about her life, it was a happy one and she had much to tell him.

They were soon chatting about their school days and reminiscing those events which had seemed so important and those which had seemed irrelevant but were ultimately so much more influential in shaping their lives . Suddenly, the bus screeched to a halt and they realised with a start that her destination had come. She hurriedly wrote down her phone number on her ticket and pushed into into his hand, extracting a promise to call her. Then she gave him a quick hug and jumped off.

The bus started moving again as he looked back at her retreating form. There was a time when he had liked, more than liked her. He probably still did. Still, those days were long gone and he was happy than she was doing well. She would have never been this happy with him. He looked at the ticket in his hand for a few moments, then crumpled it and let it fall out of the bus.

He looked ahead as the bus sped past the closed shops under the dim streetlights. Then he looked up and saw that the stars were out. It was a beautiful night.

Where There is a Will...

The last fiery rays were clinging to the sky, sending bright red streaks across the horizon in a vain attempt to hang on. The waves crashed against the shore with escalating ferocity as the tide increased by the minute. Each time the beach broke a wave another smashed into it. Slowly the water began creeping upward, inch by inch.

He sat on a rock, legs dangling, and watched all of this. His life had been miserable for a long time, today it had reached its climax. His boss had called him and handed him the pink slip, saying that the orders from above were to 'downsize' the company branch and they had unfortunately named him among the people to be fired. He said nothing and impassively walked away. He knew that no one else had been fired and that he had been chucked out so that the boss's son could join the company. He went straight to the shore, probably entertaining thoughts of drowning and ending his existence there and then.

Now he watched the ocean slowly winning its battle of ground supremacy. A crab scuttled away to higher ground to avoid the sea but was caught in a wave and got pulled back. It waited until the wave had receded and then made a dash for dry land, This time it succeeded, the waves only managing to wash away its trail.

A seagull suddenly dropped out of the sky and dived sharply into the sea, hunting for fishes. it came up a few seconds later, its beak empty. Undeterred, it started circling the area, its eyes focused downwards. In its third attempt, the seagull succeeded and the man watched the fish wriggling in its beak, slowly getting gulped down the seagull's throat.

The next time the seagull dived down, it came up with another fish, but this time the fish twisted and turned with all its might, finally managing to break its hold and flopped back into the sea.

He saw all this and noticed that Nature never gave up. The waves, the land, the crab, the seagull, the fish - all ceaselessly trying to achieve what they set out to do. Even if they did not succeed, they knew that if they kept fighting they would get another opportunity, and that was enough. He decided that he would also keep trying. He never liked his job anyway, so it was no big loss. He now had the chance to start all over again and was not going to let go of the chance. He silently thanked Nature, just as Nature had silently taught him a valuable lesson, and walked off with a spring in his step.

The sun finally set, but it set with dignity and a flaming farewell, as if it knew it was going to rise again at dawn and rule over the sky yet again.




This is an exact reproduction of a piece which was written sometime in Class XII. It started out as a random description writing exercise to pass time in a free period (hence the first paragraph) and developed into a proper prose piece. I didn't think too much of it right then, it was just another random piece of fiction I had come up with, and with a moral to boot. However, I found myself coming back to it in the next few weeks, mostly just reading it. I realised that I had written it subconsciously at some level to help me get through a really tough period. I had rarely showed such optimism in any of my stories, especially the ones I had written around the time. And it did give me the strength to go through a pretty hard time. It's not one of my best fiction pieces, the style is more juvenile than what I usually wrote, but it is very important to me and acted as a tremendous support. It also happens to be one of the very few times a written piece of mine got published (school magazine), so in that sense I'm pretty proud of it. I have reproduced it in a blogpost to remind me to always keep my chin up, and also as a promise to myself that I will get back to prose writing in the vacations, something which is long overdue.

Chillin'

There is something cathartic about a terrace jam session under the full moon in the first breezy night in ages. After one has spent four days cooped up in one's hotbox of a room, stepping out only for food.

I know what I missed the most during my project imposed exile.

A Day Older than Yesterday, 7 Years after Childhood

So I quietly left my teens today, not much of a choice when mostly everyone I know is studying for repeats. Still, I suppose it was the best way to have spent this Birthday, gave me time to contemplate. I treated myself to a nice Peking lunch, slept through the afternoon, finished some more of that blasted placement diary and then ended it with an absolute mad session of PES with Nikki and Jannu with three controllers, so we would play two against one.. and the team with two players would typically have no coordination and be hilariously all over the place.

Do I feel any different? No, not really. I'm just a day older than I was yesterday and that's obviously not a life changing duration, even if it is a symbolically important day. But I did leave my teens behind, and although that's more symbolic than anything, it got me thinking of seven years ago when I stopped being a child and became a teenager. Life has certainly changed since then, I don't have to wear a uniform anymore, I see things less in black and white than I did, I have to shave regularly, and a million of other things. I am, what is called, becoming mature. Those days in Rajasthan, Delhi, and even Kolkata are gone.

What I think about is whether my growing up has amounted to this?

Have I left that child behind? I hope not. I hope that no matter how ripe an age I grow up to be, there is always some of the child and of the teen in me, I really, really do. For the record, I comfortably believe that I still have the kid who went to seven schools in me and gives me good counsel when I need him. A toast then to the continuing of this relationship. Here's to me and me.

P.S. thanks for the wishes everyone :)

Rants, News and some 'Tagging'

Intolerance reached a new level of absurdity when protesters prevented the construction of a Charlie Chaplin statue in Udupi on the grounds that he is a Christian... and therefore, our Hindu sensibilities will be offended when we see that famous moustache and bowler hat mocking us from their high pedestal. Some of us will probably succumb to depression and go drown ourselves on seeing that blasphemic sight.



chills my living bones

This is a Cracked.com article waiting to happen. How can anyone take this seriously? Thankfully, no one really has, not even Muthalik, who has condenscendingly rubbished it saying that Chaplin was never projected as a Chritian and therefore, everyone should view him as an artiste. Muthalik's comment has been tagged as 'Surprise of the Day' by Sunday Times, a nicely not-so-subtle dig on our misogynist crusader.

On a slightly related note, one of my favourite sad quotes belongs to this ultimate funnyman, more so because I have done it: "I always like to walk in the rain as no one can see me crying."

.....

The first week of the trimester has rumbled by and with the varying and, so far, mostly chilled out schedule we have had, it actually feels like we're in one of those filmi colleges where no one ever studies. It's not going to last, already the shadow of repeats and placement diary has put brakes to it, but it was nice all the same. And unlike most other pseudos, I had openly admitted that I had become restless sitting at home and was really looking forward to law school reopening. It's amazing how many people have indicated the same after a little prodding. If only we didn't cling to this falsely 'cool' sense of belief that law school is this unbearable hellhole where every minute is torture, then we could really enjoy our last really free years before career drudgery consumes our souls.

.....

Couple of blogs you can visit if you are not doing anything.

Firstly, this crazy one. It's by Dan Piraro who is the creator of the Bizarro syndicated comic strip. It's an absolutely fantastic read. The man's clever and hilarious, the best combination.

Then there is Neil Gaiman' blog. You probably already knew about it but what the heck.

Bawww Moments in Comics

Comics are supposed to be funny and happy, right? Well, that ship sailed away a long way back. Ever since Eisner wrote his wonderful A Contract With God, sequential art storytelling has deserved to be as highly respected in its maturity as any other form of literature. But then this post is not me justifying why I love comics.

Over the last few years, I've read thousands of comics, of all genres. Some which make me laugh, some which depress the hell out of me, some which are epic and others are brilliant in their dealing with mundane subjects. Every so often, I've come across a point in a comic where something really upsetting happens and which has been so beautifully portrayed that I will never forget it. It is not necessarily very important to the story. It is certainly not an aspect unique to comics, it is a challenge in any art form to memorably show any poignant moment so that it does not get relegated to any of the deaths and losses and sadness which our desentitised brains have seen over the years. But I believe a comic has the unique capability of juxtaposing the written word/dialogue with the image made exactly the way the creator wants it and such that both do not trample on each other.

So what makes such a Bawww moment successfully rendered. The test, to me, is that you should remember it long after you have read it, and indeed, make you want to read it again and again, and curse it under your breath for every single time. It should make you say 'this is not happening' even though you fully expected it to happen and should be incomprehensibly saddening when it is unexpected. It should not be depressing and send you into a black mood. Depression is never beautiful, and these moments are beautiful. This is why nothing from Maus is in the following list, although Maus has some of the saddest moments in fiction. Maus is just too depressing, there's no beauty to appreciate in it.

So here's a list of Bawww moments in comics which have truly hit me when I read them, in no particular order. Most of them are deaths, but I guess that is natural. For the record, each of these comics series/titles are excellent reads and I would recommmend them to anyone (unless you hate comics, but then you have probably stopped reading this anyway). The list has spoilers, so if you are interested in the comic, you may want to skip it.

Y-The Last Man: Okay, I lied when I said this list is in no particular order. There is one scene which is unquestionably on the top and hit me the most and deserves to be first. If I had read it ten years ago, I would have probably cried. It's in the last issue, the epilogue, the scene where the capuchin pet Ampersand dies.

Sandman: This had to be there somewhere, right. Well, yes and no. I'm not talking about Morpheus' death. Not even any other death in The Kindly Ones storyline, most of which were, I think, more heartbreaking than the big one. This scene is in issue #46 in the Brief Lives storyline, the one where the shriveled, weak Bast wakes up from Morpheus' dream conversation. That image was completely unexpected to me, and although it is a footnote in the series, I think it is one of the most powerfully written parts of Sandman.

All-Star Superman: If you have read it, this one is pretty easy. It's Pa Kent's death in issue #7 and Superman's sudden realisation from somewhere far away that he can't hear his heartbeat anymore.

Identity Crisis: The beginning of issue #6, when Robin discovers his father's body, and Batman holds him for comfort. Of all the deaths in the Bat-verse over the years, this one is probably the best written.

Pride of Baghdad: The last scene, when the lions are killed.

Silver Surfer - Requiem: The end where Galactus comes to mourn the impending death of his one-time faithful servant, Silver Surfer. If you have the minimum idea of who Galactus is in the Marvel Universe, then you can guess how this reaction is supremely poignant, especially with the near perfect dialogues which were written here.

Lone Wolf and Cub: Ogami Itto's death. Anyone who's read the comic will understand that the complete abruptness of the ending completely throws the reader off before the realisation of what happened hits. I couldn't sleep the night after I had finished it.


There are more, but I guess these are the biggest bawww moments in comics to me.

What is Freedom?

I've been pondering on this a while now. What is it really like to be completely free? None of us are.

There are always restrictions. Some say it is about equal opportunity. But to truly say there is equal opportunity you have to say that both of them have the equal capability to take it. Do any two people have that?

Others say it is about freedom of choice. Nobody ever has full freedom to choose. I cannot leave college if I wanted to, the repurcussions on my family will be too severe. Or is it that I chose to care about what happened to my family and which have influenced my decisions. Certainly there have been several points in my life where I've been tempted to chuck it all (and by all I mean all), what has held me back each time?

Society will always have rules and restrictions. Does this mean to be completely free one has to be outside the society? It seems to be so, then all of us hungry for freedom should simply leave society. Certainly this has been tried many times, but how many have succeeded. Where are the San Francisco hippies of the 60s, they're living sedate little suburban family lives or running a corporation or whatever. They are back in the society.

So what does this mean. I think it means that we never truly want complete freedom because the struggle for it brings the biggest fear there is - fear of the unknown. We don't know what we would get if we get what we wish for. So we rebel a bit and then join the mainstream, or our rebellion becomes the mainstream and then changes face completely. Restrictions are our security blanket and we're all Linuses who are scared to get rid of it. But he did it in the end, maybe the rest of us will take the cue someday, then again, maybe it's not such a good idea.

I was thinking of all this yesterday night when this song of Beatles (who else) started playing. I think it explains the struggle for freedom better than I ever could.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.

Blackbird fly Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird fly Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

The Simple Things

Isn't it funny how the little things sometimes give you the most pleasure? I came to know yesterday (Friday) in my internship that I have Saturdays off too, along with Sundays. It pleased me no end, as much as my miraculous escape in a certain hellish course.

So that's four more days to completely laze around. At least I spent some of this one productively by whipping up a title image. I'm still very much a Photoshop newbie so every one of my creations makes me really proud (another one of those little things). Although this one was ridiculously easy to make once I found the right background in deviantart which I could crop and modify. It even somehow ended up with the slight blurry effect which I think enhances it.

I imagine it as Morpheus observing us from wherever he is (or something). The Earth and all of us are just part of a fine yarn which the Kindly Ones have yet to finish making something out of.