India is a diverse country, with multi lingual people following many different religions, people who come in all shapes and sizes and from all walks of life, and last but certainly not the least, people who are multi talented. For someone who's not acquainted with this place, be it a foreigner or an NRI living abroad, coming back to India is a nightmare. Once here, the ill prepared and those who refuse to 'come down to earth' will learn a lot of lessons. Which is what I did on my return back after a long stint abroad.
The education started right from the moment I landed in Mumbai. In the Hollyood movies I see, the gorgeous heroine calls for a taxi, and then gets into her arguments, or punch dialogues, or her monthly periods with the charming hero and the whole while the taxi patiently waits. Apparently the directors don't research enough. I too hailed a taxi at the airport, put in my bags and hardly turned to say goodbye to my friends. Now the Mumbai police are on the lookout for a black taxi carrying three stolen suitcases. Luckily for me, thanks to the airport authorities who misplaced my fourth bag, which was eventually found abandoned on another flight, I'm not entirely devoid of some clothes to wear for the time being.
Having learned that lesson with taking a taxi, when I had to travel to Chennai, I decided to take the train. Seeing just one person at the ticket counter, I politely stood behind him. I finallly got my ticket a couple of hours later, well past the train departure time. The counter guy looked at me like I was some retard, understood that I was new to the place and explained to me that the queues there don't go in straight lines, they go in clusters. But the good thing was that I didn't miss the train either, apparently it was running late by a day and four hours. These days I take the bus.
And one such day on the bus, I saw this vacant seat next to this pretty lady, and occupied it. I quickly came to know that this lady was well acquainted with my family, which couldn't have been all that decent, based on what she had to say about us. Apparently in Tamil Nadu, the women and men aren't supposed to touch each other. I'm still trying to figure out which of the two is the untouchable. Atleast I was more fortunate than my very 'Americanised' friend. He reportedly went to a wedding and hugged the groom. He proceeded to do the same to the bride, is the last I heard. His funeral was a nice and quiet little affair by the beach.
Anyway, by now I'd decided to drive on my own, just that I still haven't figured out which is the right side of the road - the left or the right. But atleast I've come to believe in miracles, guardian angels and near-death experiences. And did you know that all Indian drivers are professional stuntmen; or that all vehicles in India are manufactured without brakes, the space being taken up to fit in extra noise making devices; or that running a few fellow road users off the road, (and if they don't oblige, running over them) is perfectly acceptable as long as it doesn't slow you down? Well, now I do.
One of the things that hits you the hardest in Chennai is the weather. Most of the time it is stifling hot and very humid. Takes a while getting used to. So I went to the beach to take a dip. I couldn't enter the water, for as soon as I stripped down to my trunks, I was promptly arrested by a couple of cops. Apparently some women belonging to the Southern division of the Adyar division of the Chennai division of the Tamilnadu division of the Hindu division of the Women's Holy Organisation against Revolting Exposures of India (proudly abbreviated to WHOREs of India, I was diffidently told) lodged a complaint. It seems that when they looked long enough at my trunks, it brought to their minds certain improper thoughts. That is how I got to spend a few days in jail.
The policemen were decent folks actually. They taught me seventy five methods to break the human bone. I was the subject though. Then when they realised I didn't have the money to pay them, they moved on to teaching me torture techniques. I learned fifteen of them before I lost consciousness. By the end of it, I was convinced that I was the one who shot JFK. The Chief Cop was to have got a medal.
Unfortunately before that, the poor guy ran his jeep over a stray cow galavanting on the roads. This caused a few riots up north. The Shiv Sena activists blamed the Muslims for the dead cow. They apparently had incriminating evidence of links between the dead cow and Pakistani intelligence. The Lashkar e Toiba blamed the Hindus and the Americans for the incident. They declared that the cow died of an Indo-US missile attack. And the Chief Cop was declared the biggest criminal of the country. We both are hanging this Friday.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Mobile's the word !
What an invention the mobile phone is. Enables one to always be reachable by friends, can be used as a fashion accessory, can be used to display financial status, capabilities and eccentricities, can play you good music, can keep you entertained with games, can even keep lonely housewives company (now don't ask me how, use your imagination). And I haven't even covered a quarter of their uses.
Back in those days (when I say 'those days', I mean the good old days, old being the catch word), one was lucky to have a simple phone at home. Yes, a fixed phone (but these days even they aren't fixed anymore). I still remember many years back when we got our first telephone connection at home after more than a year of applying and waiting. Everytime it rang, it was pure elation. All family members came running out leaving whatever we were doing, to take in the marvel. It was looked at with awe and given more respect than certain family members, and only dad was only allowed to handle the instrument. Such was the reverence.
And then people were seen carrying around suitcases that they claimed to be phones. That was when mobiles came into being used for the first time, I guess. I had a very rich friend, son of a jewellery merchant, and he used to carry one of these suitcases. In those days, it was more like a Bond gizmo. One was allowed to look at it and if lucky, caress it. Nothing more. And as per him, calls were so expensive in those days that one rarely used them, unless in a total emergency, such as when you're hit by a car and are flying through the air, or ur halfway down the throat of a crocodile, and - well, you get the idea of such emergencies right? I mean, only if it were really such an emergency.
Then I moved onto college and hostel life. Now hostel life for every individual (except if your surname is Tata or Birla or Ambani) is a period of poverty. However much money you receive from home at the beginning of the month, it's the law of hostel science that at the end of it, you're back to those cheap and tasteless but filling 'thattu dosas' , half used cigarette and beedi butts and local, adulterated-with-everything-under-the-sun liquor. Obviously a local call from a fixed phone to a girlfriend or friend or anyone was only a yearly occassion. Under the circumstances, owning a mobile was totally out of the question, especially since you had to carry it with you even to take a shit for fear of someone stealing it, and worse, having to pay for the prepaid cards shelling out all your meagre belongings. And yet, one classmate of mine got one mobile phone from his dad as a gift. I suppose that was the only mobile phone in the entire college campus. The way it was being used was very interesting though. No calls were answered, and strictly none were made. The instrument was usually taken out when in the presence of pretty ladies, or to have some fun with friends making digital noises and playing games, until one day someone decided to have a say and stole it.
Those were the good old days I'm talking about. Now every rickshaw puller, taxi driver, car mechanic and beggar on the road has a mobile. They come in all shapes and sizes. You can take snaps with them, make porn movies with them, play and record rock and roll, access the internet, trigger bombs, perhaps even light a cigarette and carry a peg of your favourite beverage. A pickup line in a pub goes like, 'Hey, what's your mobile?' or 'Hello, I have a friend and she has a Nokia. What about you?'. Take a look below at what happens in a mobile store.
Customer walks in.
'Hey there, show me your latest mobile model please.'
'Sure, here you are. It's got polyphonic ringtones, five games with java downloadable option, screensaver, clock, calendar and diary, plays FM and MP3, has got MMS, WAP, GPRS, EDGE, 3G capability, still camera, video camera with and without zoom, calculator, car alarm, a shaving razor, torch and swiss knife. Can be worn on your sleeve, shirt, wrist, neck, belt or bum. All this with one week battery life and comes in hundred different colours and twenty different shapes.'
'Errr... can I make and receive calls on it?'
'Oh, I'm sorry sir, none of our customers have asked that before. I don't really know...'
'Never mind, I'll take it. It goes well with my attitude and that is what matters'.
But hey, I can't complain. The telecom engineer that I am, mobiles are my bread and butter. But you don't want to eat bread everyday, do you?
Back in those days (when I say 'those days', I mean the good old days, old being the catch word), one was lucky to have a simple phone at home. Yes, a fixed phone (but these days even they aren't fixed anymore). I still remember many years back when we got our first telephone connection at home after more than a year of applying and waiting. Everytime it rang, it was pure elation. All family members came running out leaving whatever we were doing, to take in the marvel. It was looked at with awe and given more respect than certain family members, and only dad was only allowed to handle the instrument. Such was the reverence.
And then people were seen carrying around suitcases that they claimed to be phones. That was when mobiles came into being used for the first time, I guess. I had a very rich friend, son of a jewellery merchant, and he used to carry one of these suitcases. In those days, it was more like a Bond gizmo. One was allowed to look at it and if lucky, caress it. Nothing more. And as per him, calls were so expensive in those days that one rarely used them, unless in a total emergency, such as when you're hit by a car and are flying through the air, or ur halfway down the throat of a crocodile, and - well, you get the idea of such emergencies right? I mean, only if it were really such an emergency.
Then I moved onto college and hostel life. Now hostel life for every individual (except if your surname is Tata or Birla or Ambani) is a period of poverty. However much money you receive from home at the beginning of the month, it's the law of hostel science that at the end of it, you're back to those cheap and tasteless but filling 'thattu dosas' , half used cigarette and beedi butts and local, adulterated-with-everything-under-the-sun liquor. Obviously a local call from a fixed phone to a girlfriend or friend or anyone was only a yearly occassion. Under the circumstances, owning a mobile was totally out of the question, especially since you had to carry it with you even to take a shit for fear of someone stealing it, and worse, having to pay for the prepaid cards shelling out all your meagre belongings. And yet, one classmate of mine got one mobile phone from his dad as a gift. I suppose that was the only mobile phone in the entire college campus. The way it was being used was very interesting though. No calls were answered, and strictly none were made. The instrument was usually taken out when in the presence of pretty ladies, or to have some fun with friends making digital noises and playing games, until one day someone decided to have a say and stole it.
Those were the good old days I'm talking about. Now every rickshaw puller, taxi driver, car mechanic and beggar on the road has a mobile. They come in all shapes and sizes. You can take snaps with them, make porn movies with them, play and record rock and roll, access the internet, trigger bombs, perhaps even light a cigarette and carry a peg of your favourite beverage. A pickup line in a pub goes like, 'Hey, what's your mobile?' or 'Hello, I have a friend and she has a Nokia. What about you?'. Take a look below at what happens in a mobile store.
Customer walks in.
'Hey there, show me your latest mobile model please.'
'Sure, here you are. It's got polyphonic ringtones, five games with java downloadable option, screensaver, clock, calendar and diary, plays FM and MP3, has got MMS, WAP, GPRS, EDGE, 3G capability, still camera, video camera with and without zoom, calculator, car alarm, a shaving razor, torch and swiss knife. Can be worn on your sleeve, shirt, wrist, neck, belt or bum. All this with one week battery life and comes in hundred different colours and twenty different shapes.'
'Errr... can I make and receive calls on it?'
'Oh, I'm sorry sir, none of our customers have asked that before. I don't really know...'
'Never mind, I'll take it. It goes well with my attitude and that is what matters'.
But hey, I can't complain. The telecom engineer that I am, mobiles are my bread and butter. But you don't want to eat bread everyday, do you?
Friday, July 13, 2007
Killing the Females ??!!
Modern day trends are set in the cities. However, for the past century and a half, a very bad trend has been and is being followed in the remote villages and towns in India, and perhaps even in the cities. The trend of killing the unborn female human foetus. Obviously this is an age old issue, and I just read an article on it. Saddening, to say the least.
We men need women right from the day we're born. Before anything else, we need a woman to bring us to this world. We need them to feed us, to take care of our childhood needs and tantrums, to sing us to sleep, to wash our dirty clothes and make our unkempt beds, to console us when we're sad or angry. Breaking the eggshells of childhood, and emerging into the adult world, we need women in newer roles. As a friend, as a girlfriend, as someone to drool after and flirt with, as a soulmate and finally as a wife, to live with for the rest of our lousy lives.
And then, our attitude takes an about turn. We no more need the women. It is like we have suddenly woken up from some hidden confinement and decide enough is enough. Henceforth, we shall make do with males alone. And so, every one of us wants a male child, a Son. A son who will sit on your shoulders, lovingly boisterous and take on the world for you. A son who will make his dad proud one day and take forth the 'khandhaan parampara' (family surname and tradition) and business into the future. And the sad part is that the wife or the mother in the family feels the same too - 'I want a son, just like his papa!' or 'I want a grandson just like my son!'
I quote from that article the view of a woman from a village in Gujarat, "Raising a female child is like watering your neighbour's plant". There are some things that can be slowly amended with time, for instance education for women or abolishing child labour. But with this basic attitude towards bringing up your own daughter, I doubt if anything can even be attempted on solving this issue. On a lighter note, being the perpetual bachelor, my main worry is if there will be any women left for me to marry. Even more worrying is if there will be a girl to marry my son to (yes, I'm aware I mentioned son here, but please note that given a choice, I'd go for a daughter). The funny part is gay relations and marriages among men are more prevalent in those other countries where the sex ratio is hardly a problem, while in our country with such a sad sex ratio, guys just can't seem to get enough women.
So, what is the reason for this attitude towards the female child? Obviously it is the maintenance costs of a female (sorry for putting it so bluntly ladies). Honestly in any society, the female child digs a bigger hole in the pocket than the male. Fashion accessories for the female body are a hundred fold more than the male version, both in quantity and cost. And in our Indian society, we still live with another old evil called 'dowry' (the bride's family compulsorily having to give money or expensive gifts to the groom's family at the time of engagement or marriage). Therefore, the family of the girl child needs to start saving with these in mind, right from the day the daughter is born. Then there are the social stigmas and safety issues of women, what with all those desperate male bastards galavanting the streets. Anyway, the problems are another whole issue by themselves.
And the solution? Abolish dowry for starters. Guys, shouldn't you be ashamed at taking money from a girl? Comeon, where are your male egotisms when needed? And thinking about it logically, shouldn't you be the one paying something to the girl's family in return for taking away their daughters?
Secondly we could educate the women about their rights in all those far flung villages and make life for women as good as it is for the men (I know the respective bodies have already started out on these). I'd even go on to suggest government sponsored, free porn shows for those desperate male bastards like us to reduce those desperation levels somewhat. And while we are at it, let's get more men to have gay relationships in ou country, and lets get those lesbian women out there to consider us perpetual bachelors for a change. Yeah, I know these are some crazy ideas, but atleast the point is made.
PS: Please do not let the humour and the quips divert any attention away from this serious issue. A female child is as good as a male child, if not better. Please do not kill our future lovely ladies.
Here's the link to the article -
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=393896&in_page_id=1770&ct=5
We men need women right from the day we're born. Before anything else, we need a woman to bring us to this world. We need them to feed us, to take care of our childhood needs and tantrums, to sing us to sleep, to wash our dirty clothes and make our unkempt beds, to console us when we're sad or angry. Breaking the eggshells of childhood, and emerging into the adult world, we need women in newer roles. As a friend, as a girlfriend, as someone to drool after and flirt with, as a soulmate and finally as a wife, to live with for the rest of our lousy lives.
And then, our attitude takes an about turn. We no more need the women. It is like we have suddenly woken up from some hidden confinement and decide enough is enough. Henceforth, we shall make do with males alone. And so, every one of us wants a male child, a Son. A son who will sit on your shoulders, lovingly boisterous and take on the world for you. A son who will make his dad proud one day and take forth the 'khandhaan parampara' (family surname and tradition) and business into the future. And the sad part is that the wife or the mother in the family feels the same too - 'I want a son, just like his papa!' or 'I want a grandson just like my son!'
I quote from that article the view of a woman from a village in Gujarat, "Raising a female child is like watering your neighbour's plant". There are some things that can be slowly amended with time, for instance education for women or abolishing child labour. But with this basic attitude towards bringing up your own daughter, I doubt if anything can even be attempted on solving this issue. On a lighter note, being the perpetual bachelor, my main worry is if there will be any women left for me to marry. Even more worrying is if there will be a girl to marry my son to (yes, I'm aware I mentioned son here, but please note that given a choice, I'd go for a daughter). The funny part is gay relations and marriages among men are more prevalent in those other countries where the sex ratio is hardly a problem, while in our country with such a sad sex ratio, guys just can't seem to get enough women.
So, what is the reason for this attitude towards the female child? Obviously it is the maintenance costs of a female (sorry for putting it so bluntly ladies). Honestly in any society, the female child digs a bigger hole in the pocket than the male. Fashion accessories for the female body are a hundred fold more than the male version, both in quantity and cost. And in our Indian society, we still live with another old evil called 'dowry' (the bride's family compulsorily having to give money or expensive gifts to the groom's family at the time of engagement or marriage). Therefore, the family of the girl child needs to start saving with these in mind, right from the day the daughter is born. Then there are the social stigmas and safety issues of women, what with all those desperate male bastards galavanting the streets. Anyway, the problems are another whole issue by themselves.
And the solution? Abolish dowry for starters. Guys, shouldn't you be ashamed at taking money from a girl? Comeon, where are your male egotisms when needed? And thinking about it logically, shouldn't you be the one paying something to the girl's family in return for taking away their daughters?
Secondly we could educate the women about their rights in all those far flung villages and make life for women as good as it is for the men (I know the respective bodies have already started out on these). I'd even go on to suggest government sponsored, free porn shows for those desperate male bastards like us to reduce those desperation levels somewhat. And while we are at it, let's get more men to have gay relationships in ou country, and lets get those lesbian women out there to consider us perpetual bachelors for a change. Yeah, I know these are some crazy ideas, but atleast the point is made.
PS: Please do not let the humour and the quips divert any attention away from this serious issue. A female child is as good as a male child, if not better. Please do not kill our future lovely ladies.
Here's the link to the article -
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=393896&in_page_id=1770&ct=5
Monday, July 9, 2007
The Mayor must have built the Taj
A Swiss millionnaire, who apparently has too much of money, forms a foundation which decides to take upon itself the onerous and benign task of hunting around the globe for the Seven Wonders of the World. Ofcourse, someone had already 'discovered' the Seven Wonders of the World, and so this noble quest becomes a hunt for the 'New Seven Wonders of the World'.
With adequate hype and advertisement, complemented all the way through by the media's support, nearly a hundred million 'learned' people from around the globe, obviously after a lot of education and research into human history, culture, art and architecture, voted from amongst twenty one sites, the Seven New Wonders of the World.
The Taj Mahal, located in India, no doubt one of the finest illustrations of human creativity and man-made beauty, has gotten selected into this elite list. Now, India's population is a little more than one billion, of which eight percent or, in absolute numbers, eighty million are unemployed. Most of these unemployed persons live in the cities, where there is adequate access to the internet and television. Add to this the fact that Indians decide to vote for the Taj, as evidenced by the Indian media and the numerous e-mail forwards I received myself, more on patriotic grounds, rather than for the heritage, architecture and beauty of the monument.
Now, take the rest of the World population of five and a half billion. The majority of these in China are busy duplicating everything made in the west, at one tenth their prices and selling them back to the west. The Europeans and Japs are busy making economic and industrial progress. The Arabs are busy fighting each other and the Australians are busy playing sports (the Aussies are too few to make any difference anyway). The Americans are busy 'enforcing' peace in the world, while one square meal a day and staying alive are all the wonders the Africans care about. So, was it ever in doubt that the Taj Mahal wouldn't be in this list of the 'New Seven Wonders of the World'?
What I find funny isn't any of this. A newspaper article goes, 'The Agra Mayor Anjula Singh received the award' (on behalf of the Taj Mahal, I guess) 'amid thunderous applause for the monument of marble that is hailed as a symbol of love and passion'. Reading this, I did google to find out if Ms. Anjula happens to be a descendant of Emperor Shah Jahan, (who built the monument in memory of his deceased wife), inspite of the trouble with the surname. Apparently she isn't. Perhaps Ms. Anjula personally visits the monument every morning with soap water and mop.
With adequate hype and advertisement, complemented all the way through by the media's support, nearly a hundred million 'learned' people from around the globe, obviously after a lot of education and research into human history, culture, art and architecture, voted from amongst twenty one sites, the Seven New Wonders of the World.
The Taj Mahal, located in India, no doubt one of the finest illustrations of human creativity and man-made beauty, has gotten selected into this elite list. Now, India's population is a little more than one billion, of which eight percent or, in absolute numbers, eighty million are unemployed. Most of these unemployed persons live in the cities, where there is adequate access to the internet and television. Add to this the fact that Indians decide to vote for the Taj, as evidenced by the Indian media and the numerous e-mail forwards I received myself, more on patriotic grounds, rather than for the heritage, architecture and beauty of the monument.
Now, take the rest of the World population of five and a half billion. The majority of these in China are busy duplicating everything made in the west, at one tenth their prices and selling them back to the west. The Europeans and Japs are busy making economic and industrial progress. The Arabs are busy fighting each other and the Australians are busy playing sports (the Aussies are too few to make any difference anyway). The Americans are busy 'enforcing' peace in the world, while one square meal a day and staying alive are all the wonders the Africans care about. So, was it ever in doubt that the Taj Mahal wouldn't be in this list of the 'New Seven Wonders of the World'?
What I find funny isn't any of this. A newspaper article goes, 'The Agra Mayor Anjula Singh received the award' (on behalf of the Taj Mahal, I guess) 'amid thunderous applause for the monument of marble that is hailed as a symbol of love and passion'. Reading this, I did google to find out if Ms. Anjula happens to be a descendant of Emperor Shah Jahan, (who built the monument in memory of his deceased wife), inspite of the trouble with the surname. Apparently she isn't. Perhaps Ms. Anjula personally visits the monument every morning with soap water and mop.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
... and Federer goes on...
Federer is the 2007 Wimbledon Men's champion. So, what else is new?
He comes to Wimbledon, wins the Championship title, collects the cup, and goes home. This time, on the way, he also equalled Bjorn Borg's record of six consecutive titles. Was that feat being accomplished ever doubted? This is where I profess my total adoration for Mr. Roger Federer. I'm a huge fan, period!
The Swiss have a way of getting things done - with a quiet demeanour and clockwork efficiency. Roger Federer is Swiss, and so is his tennis. While the other stars grunt and neigh their way through serves and volleys and smashes and forehands and backhands, the Swiss lets out a little more than a silent breath. The tennis ball from his racquet does all the screaming as it scorches across the grass searching for and homing in on those boundary lines.
People say the best competitors never let an emotion show on their faces. While the other stars shout and fight and argue and throw punches in the air, the lensmen would be lucky to get such frames of Federer. Only at the most crucial of situations, when he digs into that confounding bag of shots he carries around, takes out one that rewrites the laws of physics, yet again, perhaps surprising even himself, does he display a rare clenching of fists or an even rarer shout. Mind you, the spectators and you and me and everyone else watching the match, aren't surprised anymore. We are left gaping in disbelief from game one, set one. The ball could stop midway, do an Irish hop-skip-and-dance, and continue on its way, and we'd still be expecting that from Federer's racquet.
What the normal players, on their best day of tennis, play as winners, Federer plays on his bad days. The commentators covering a Federer match usually run out of superlatives by the end of the first set, then step up a notch their expectations, run out of superlatives again, step up another notch and finally decide to let the Swiss' tennis do the talking. Anyway, who listens to the commentary when Federer's playing tennis.
Ofcourse, I was totally heartened to see the quality of tennis Rafael Nadal produced himself. To take a Federer match to five sets, and to give the Swiss, even playing at his best, more than a few worries, is nothing short of spectacular. But in the end, the Swiss is the better player, atleast on grass (which hurts me to say thus, as I hope he spreads his supremacy over all surfaces very soon).
What impresses me about Federer, again ie (am beginning to sound like a recorder thats got stuck), is that the Swiss does all this in style. His tennis is so artistic and creative; he floats around on court, painting strokes one here and one there - beautiful sight to watch. His very entry into centre court, in that spotless white blazer for every match oozes with class. Notably, for today's presentation ceremony, he also donned on matching trousers to complement his white blazer. Now, one must remember that he brings these things together in his kit to the court prior to a match. One also would never know if he would have donned on those trousers for the presentation had he lost. Therefore, what I'm also impressed with is his confidence and arrogance (which I mean in the most positive of senses) in the knowledge that he is the Champion. But hey, whats wrong with that? The whole world knows it, why wouldn't he !
Thanks Roger Federer, you made my day !
He comes to Wimbledon, wins the Championship title, collects the cup, and goes home. This time, on the way, he also equalled Bjorn Borg's record of six consecutive titles. Was that feat being accomplished ever doubted? This is where I profess my total adoration for Mr. Roger Federer. I'm a huge fan, period!
The Swiss have a way of getting things done - with a quiet demeanour and clockwork efficiency. Roger Federer is Swiss, and so is his tennis. While the other stars grunt and neigh their way through serves and volleys and smashes and forehands and backhands, the Swiss lets out a little more than a silent breath. The tennis ball from his racquet does all the screaming as it scorches across the grass searching for and homing in on those boundary lines.
People say the best competitors never let an emotion show on their faces. While the other stars shout and fight and argue and throw punches in the air, the lensmen would be lucky to get such frames of Federer. Only at the most crucial of situations, when he digs into that confounding bag of shots he carries around, takes out one that rewrites the laws of physics, yet again, perhaps surprising even himself, does he display a rare clenching of fists or an even rarer shout. Mind you, the spectators and you and me and everyone else watching the match, aren't surprised anymore. We are left gaping in disbelief from game one, set one. The ball could stop midway, do an Irish hop-skip-and-dance, and continue on its way, and we'd still be expecting that from Federer's racquet.
What the normal players, on their best day of tennis, play as winners, Federer plays on his bad days. The commentators covering a Federer match usually run out of superlatives by the end of the first set, then step up a notch their expectations, run out of superlatives again, step up another notch and finally decide to let the Swiss' tennis do the talking. Anyway, who listens to the commentary when Federer's playing tennis.
Ofcourse, I was totally heartened to see the quality of tennis Rafael Nadal produced himself. To take a Federer match to five sets, and to give the Swiss, even playing at his best, more than a few worries, is nothing short of spectacular. But in the end, the Swiss is the better player, atleast on grass (which hurts me to say thus, as I hope he spreads his supremacy over all surfaces very soon).
What impresses me about Federer, again ie (am beginning to sound like a recorder thats got stuck), is that the Swiss does all this in style. His tennis is so artistic and creative; he floats around on court, painting strokes one here and one there - beautiful sight to watch. His very entry into centre court, in that spotless white blazer for every match oozes with class. Notably, for today's presentation ceremony, he also donned on matching trousers to complement his white blazer. Now, one must remember that he brings these things together in his kit to the court prior to a match. One also would never know if he would have donned on those trousers for the presentation had he lost. Therefore, what I'm also impressed with is his confidence and arrogance (which I mean in the most positive of senses) in the knowledge that he is the Champion. But hey, whats wrong with that? The whole world knows it, why wouldn't he !
Thanks Roger Federer, you made my day !
PS: Image copyright -Getty / C. Brunskill
Monday, July 2, 2007
Not mine... but beautiful all the same
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
PS: dated 23 Apr, 09: This poem is by the late Lebanese American artist and poet Khalil Gibran. Thanks to my beautiful friend Aarthi for pointing this out.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
A Horse is born...
The problem with having a blog is to think of something to write in it every now and then. The problem is all the more complicated if you've already had a blog that people have come to not just read, but also appreciate, which is when you start thinking you are William Wordsworth and worry about a writing standard that needs to be maintained.
And for a person like me, upon who these creative pockets of energy descend at the most inopportune of moments, only to disappear for years to come, (something like Sania Mirza's tennis triumphs (note I mention tennis specifically)), and whose memory span would make a goldfish feel proud of it's own, blogging surely is one of the things I wasn't designed for. The last time I was struck by a barrage of ideas was when at a traffic signal. I do carry tissues around in my car, but they're kept there only to show the rare lady passengers my cleanliness traits and not to withstand any writing stresses. The other time I was blessed by the creative shower, (for the prudes among you, kindly excuse me) was when on the potty at a public place. Anyway, these are but minor examples to validate my point (as no one seems to trust anyone these days, without proof or bribes).
However, me being a person who just wouldn't give up, (unless offerred lots of money or a deep cleavage), I decided come what may, I will have a blog, or to be more precise, I will continue blogging. And born out of that gallant stupidity is this - thehorsesmouthistaken.
Strange name for a blog one would say, or wouldn't one, given the strange names people come up with these days to be different. I chose this for purely proud reasons. I'd like to be called the 'stud', to the vexation of everyone who knows me. And since they still haven't come up with any idioms with stud (haven't checked on Freud though), I decided to use 'The Horse's Mouth'. Apparently there was already a fool who thought of himself a stud, and took up the blog name 'thehorsesmouth' before I could. And me still being the one not to give in (unless accompanied with the cleavage and money and all that, yeah yeah, i remember), did the very 'innovative and clever' modification to come up with this.
So, with great humility and greater arrogance, I welcome one and all with open arms. And before you read any further, like I advice prior to watching any Bollywood movie, kindly keep your brains at home !
And for a person like me, upon who these creative pockets of energy descend at the most inopportune of moments, only to disappear for years to come, (something like Sania Mirza's tennis triumphs (note I mention tennis specifically)), and whose memory span would make a goldfish feel proud of it's own, blogging surely is one of the things I wasn't designed for. The last time I was struck by a barrage of ideas was when at a traffic signal. I do carry tissues around in my car, but they're kept there only to show the rare lady passengers my cleanliness traits and not to withstand any writing stresses. The other time I was blessed by the creative shower, (for the prudes among you, kindly excuse me) was when on the potty at a public place. Anyway, these are but minor examples to validate my point (as no one seems to trust anyone these days, without proof or bribes).
However, me being a person who just wouldn't give up, (unless offerred lots of money or a deep cleavage), I decided come what may, I will have a blog, or to be more precise, I will continue blogging. And born out of that gallant stupidity is this - thehorsesmouthistaken.
Strange name for a blog one would say, or wouldn't one, given the strange names people come up with these days to be different. I chose this for purely proud reasons. I'd like to be called the 'stud', to the vexation of everyone who knows me. And since they still haven't come up with any idioms with stud (haven't checked on Freud though), I decided to use 'The Horse's Mouth'. Apparently there was already a fool who thought of himself a stud, and took up the blog name 'thehorsesmouth' before I could. And me still being the one not to give in (unless accompanied with the cleavage and money and all that, yeah yeah, i remember), did the very 'innovative and clever' modification to come up with this.
So, with great humility and greater arrogance, I welcome one and all with open arms. And before you read any further, like I advice prior to watching any Bollywood movie, kindly keep your brains at home !
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