The men from U.N.C.L.E.

Every single day we become a bit more older than we already were and every single day offers myriad colorful experiences, some of which may be memories that last for a lifetime and some others might be inconsequential things that would never occupy our cranial space anymore. One such event happened today. For long I have been a proponent of the motto “Be Youthful, Be Exuberant” (*I created this motto, to obviously honour my selfish prerogatives*). Today at IBM T.J. Watson Research Center, at around 12:12 P.M. and 30 seconds, near the microwave, I suddenly realized something! “I had packed lunch!” *Ding*,Not just that! I was heating it as well near the microwave! *Ding Ding Ding*. A quick glance around me confirmed my fears. There were men, whose faces were a clear indicator of the years that they dedicated for science. Obviously a selfish guy like me doesn’t see that. I look at the superficial, the grey in the hair, the wrinkles on the forehead and the kind. A very sad prospect indeed, I thought. All these years, without a care in the world I used to stroll in and out of office spaces sans a lunchbox. That meant lightness of being, freedom to choose your own platter. Freedom to socialize with young people of your age and freedom to eat what you wanted! Today I felt the same predicament my ‘Guruji’ Shreyas Sekar finds himself every single day. A veteran of bringing lunch to the lab, I understand how heavy his heart feels,when we call him to join us in youthful activity. The dedication that he puts into cooking his lunch the previous night, fending off hungry wolves like 'Josyula', is quite an achievement in itself. Today I realize how difficult a situation he has been put in. ‘Uncle’ is not just a feeling, it is now an emotion! Once inside you, it is etched into the very firmament of existence!

As I take the long walk to my lunch table to join fellow ‘Uncle’ Vinay Venkatraman, a tinge of sadness comes over me. I have been called a ‘kid’ for long, ‘Anna’ (*Big Brother*) for a bit more. I did enjoy them, but this new title I fear is going to never sound pleasant. I spot a little kid in the distance. Instinctively I hide, lest in the case he addresses me as *Uncle*.  Keats once said, “When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe, than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know”.

The very thought of me bringing Keats into this discussion gives me the shudders! Why can’t I just bring in a ‘Bieber’ or a ‘Taylor Swift’. Gah! Anyways I have to go now, My mobile has been constantly buzzing. Turns out that ‘Guruji’ Shreyas Sekar and ‘Uncle-in-waiting’ Sujoy Sikdar figured out that this is a good time to get vegetables from the market as they come in fresh at this time of the day *What did I say? Being an ‘Uncle’ is an emotion’!*. Until the next status change see ya folks! Oops! I see that kid around **hides instinctively!**.


PS : As a newly converted serial basher of Kamal Haasan, I try to maintain my dignity, so the title of this blog is a shameless flick from Guy Ritchie’s yet to be released movie. However, just like ‘Ulaganayagan’, I have altered it to suit my conveniences 

One night of Cricket

March 25th, 2015,10:00 P.M. EST

The residents at 438 Hoosac were awaiting this mouth watering encounter for quite a while. In their innocent hearts they had decided the outcome already. Preparations were in full flow. The ‘usual suspects’ were invited for a grand dinner and dessert treat. This was a momentous occasion. After all it was their first ‘World Cup’ in a foreign land. Fervently hoping that their team would lift the trophy they decided to follow all the superstitions in the book of life. The tallest member of the apartment was the designated ‘chef’. During all the previous matches, he cooked the ‘same’ dish and that turned out to be a lucky charm for their team. The entire house wore a very festive look and was expecting  a ‘cracker of a game’. (Quoting a famous commentator ;-) )

What a mouth watering encounter it was. The Men in Blue were simply stunning. Their ‘Captain Cool’ had done it again. Not surprising was the fact that he finished the World Cup with his trademark ‘Helicopter’ shot. It lacked all cricketing sense and purity, it looked more like a hard worker scything the ball out. But heck! who cared, the residents were up in joy. The ‘Desserts’ were distributed rather gleefully. There was talk about getting more ‘Desserts’ and some more drinks ( Orange Juice and Carrot juice - our boys were health freaks obviously). Something unique happened during the presentation ceremony, ‘Captain Cool’, who received his trophy from the ‘God of Cricket’, dedicated the trophy back to him, saying that all he ever wanted to do was give the ‘God of Cricket’ more trophies. The whole nation erupted in joy! This was not enough for ‘Captain Cool’ and the other members of the team. They decided that they’d take the ‘God of Cricket’ on a victory lap again in that ‘sledger-friendly’ but ‘cricket-loving’ foreign land. Indians all over the world watched this scene gleefully. In fact a lot of them even started online petitions in change.org for the ‘God of Cricket’ to come back and play. The benevolent ‘God of Cricket’ said that his time was over and just like how Goku never came back in DragonBallZ, but always remained an integral part of the franchise, our man(oops God) would also remain an integral part of Indian Cricket. The protagonists of this tale, our humble residents, even benevolently decided to split the bills of the day among themselves, thereby giving the invitees a special party. Oh! it was a wonderful feeling to see their country win…

March 26th, 2015,10:00 A.M. EST

Alarm Tone : Maa Tujhe Salaam

Mobile Phone : Nokia Lumia 1020

ramA woke up to the mess in his room in a jolt. He hadn’t bothered to clean up before dozing off the previous night. I mean after all India had lost the encounter with Australia. The team capitulated very quickly. It was only their captain who gave any semblance of a fight. All the ‘usual suspects’ who were invited were actually asked to split the bill (Duh, India lost, come on! pay up for what you ate). He had enough cricketing reasons to give for India’s defeat, but the first thing he did was to point fingers at the ‘tallest’ room mate and say, “You cooked Pizza yesterday! All the days India won, you had cooked Chole!, It is all your fault”. All the poor room mate could do was remain speechless. In fact he actually started wondering if that was the reason! Motions to ban cooking of Pizza in the apartment were given serious considerations but at the end of the day graduate student life beckoned and all that was left was a feeling of sadness. “The next World Cup is in England”, the other roomie chipped in! “Lets not make Pizza again then”!, chipped in ramA. A hearty laugh ensured!. Whether they stay in 438 Hoosac or not, some of them would remain cricket fans forever!

PS : Please close your eyes and listen to this from 'Lord of the Rings', as the curtains draw down.

Twelve Years a Fountain Pen...

Watching The Wonder Years always rekindles many an old memory of mine. This time it is nothing fancy *of course the previous memories were all tales of grandeur :D* but just an association of mine with the humble Fountain Pen. As kids growing up in the '90s India we were all forced to use Pens from the 4th Standard. *roughly 8-9 years old*. There were the ball pens and there were the Ink Pens ( not Fountain Pens you see, Indian English at its very best). Ball Pen enthusiasts would of course reminisce over Reynolds 045 or Rotomac, remember this?  Ink Pen lovers like me would resort to the trustworthy Hero Pens, Parker and India's very own Camlin pens, In later years I did experiment with Montex Handy.

The old timers

For some reason deigned by powers above me *read teachers, parents, elders...*, handwriting improved only when one used Fountain Pens. Turning back the pages in my life I remember a younger me walking alongside Shobhanamma *my mother : Shobhana + amma*, who would dutifully pick the pens herself.  Many a pen was bought in this process.I still remember some of the stationery shops and her arguments on how the pen should write smoothly and not like a needle! She would carefully take her time in the selection process i.e. colour, make, body, nib (iridium tipped) and test write it. Finally after all this careful selection I would be the proud owner of a new pen. I think I remember my first Ink Pen. A brown coloured one with a silver cap. Pretty good one it was until I dropped it and the nib just snapped. Of course, one did not have to worry. We never replaced a lucky pen. We always got a new nib for it.  Replacing it yourself was quite a marvel for the young nine year old kids *I am sure even a 4 year old would have done it himself*.

One such prized possession for a long time was a fountain pen called Senator . This blue coloured pen was a wonderful thing to hold. Thin and slightly built, it completely changed the way I wrote. The moment I held it in my hand I knew, that I had to possess the best handwriting to be deemed worthy to write with that pen. I used it for quite a long time, perhaps four or five years until one day I misplaced it.

Many a equation was solved, many a poem was inked , many a exam written by moist ink laden fingers those days. Oh! how can one forget the times when we ran out of ink! and indeed many a friendship has been forged by sharing a few drops of ink.

The walk down memory lane also brings a smile as I remember my grandfather dutifully writing on his Hero Pen. In later days when he stopped writing, I ended up being the proud owner of that pen. I also remember my aunt having a lot of Hero Pens with her. How can I forget my dad coming to my rescue during the times I lost my fountain pen. Of course after all the scolding my mother would still buy me a new one. The picture of the elders in the house, dark rimmed glasses on, writing on a piece of paper with their fountain pens is something that most of us would have come across. Before I forget a special mention must be given to the Fountain Pen Inks. We had different brands like Chelpark , Camlin, Camel, Brill and we always picked the 'Royal Blue' ink.

Royal Blue

In the course of time a lot of things change. That which was central to us becomes something on the periphery. My 'writing' has evolved to 'typing' and I really don't worry about my scrawly handwriting anymore, after all there are the fonts that manage it. I don't have to worry whether my teacher would yell at me for the pathetic handwriting either. All that I care about is my typing speed and over the past few years consistently I range around 90 WPM. *Quite the transformation right?*. Moving forward in life sans the Fountain Pen our twelve year association shall always bring a smile on my face :) *like anything else doesn't? :D *

Growing up happens in a heartbeat. One day you’re in diapers, the next day you’re gone. But the memories of childhood stay with you for the long haul.

When it was 'Madras'

That, which is eternal...

Here comes the sun....

"Forgive me, Majesty. I am a vulgar man! But I assure you, my music is not."

As the ice is slowly melting and the warmth of the sun slowly begins to hit us, there is a sense of a renewed energy to do those things which the long cold lonely winter did not allow me to do. One among those is to update this *very popular in my dreams, of course* space. Every now and then after reading some great piece of literary work, the mind begins to wonder if there are enough crests and troughs in my brain to produce something that people can read and enjoy. Ah! Well, obviously I believe I have enough crests and troughs to tell me that I won't, Nevertheless throughout the winter, which I would call as a winter where some of my musical abilities have crossed the kindergarten level, I have been plagued with the thought of what makes a particular piece of sound 'eternal'.  Sample this from the movie Amadeus. In my opinion of the best movies made about a musician. This particular scene had a profound effect on me. So profound that ladies and gentlemen, here I am in front of you writing this *inconsequential, of course* note. 

That particular scene confronts jealousy and reminds people that retribution for things done out of spite takes a longer time to arrive but when it arrives you have nothing but regret for that which has been done. It also addresses the question of something that is eternal, of course in this case it is Mozart's music. Salieri, who is shown to have the classic case of jealousy against an accomplished Mozart ruins his life and uses his power to silence the music of Mozart. In later years, long after Mozart has died, retribution comes in the way of the not so musically gifted Priest, who recognizes Mozart's music but not Salieri's tune. Today as I listen to this  and the melody that it gives to the ear and soul, I just can't stop but think of poor Salieri and the epiphany that dawned upon him. 

Like what John Keats would say...

When old age shall this generation waste,       

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe     

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,  

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all       

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

The socially conscious 'slacktivist'!

 Slacktivism (sometimes slactivism or slackervism) is a term formed out of the words slacker and activism. The word is usually considered a pejorative term that describes "feel-good" measures, in support of an issue or social cause, that have little or no practical effect other than to make the person doing it feel satisfaction. The acts tend to require minimal personal effort from the slacktivist.

I have been wanting to write this for quite some time now. I am sure the more sensitive of you would want to say something as well. Of late, most of our social media timelines have been hit by these waves of activities, that request us to sign petitions, ask us to 'like' certain pages of some 'noble' endeavor and ohh well even in some bizarre cases change our display pictures. 

I have always wondered how Social Media influences every facet of our daily lives. Certainly a lot of it is beneficial but what do these Social Causes on the Internet  achieve? Well if I see rising dissent to this 'note' citing examples like the Anna Hazare revolution in India then I have have to ask you all to take a step back and look at the revolution carefully. Probably P.Sainath here is a better starting point. In a country like India where the access of internet is restricted to a fraction of the literate masses, do you really think the 'click' of a button would solve the burning issues that affect the under-privileged? 

I really hope the phenomenon cannot be attributed to the  instant 'gratification' that the Internet provides for the countless anonymous voices, which suddenly have a following. Probably it's the sudden urge of the lazy and impulsive internet surfer, who has time to kill and is not sure of what to do with it? Probably this creeps into every human being, giving him his '15 seconds of fame'  asking him to be part of something that is 'larger than life'?  

I guess the 'slactivist' feels that he needs to be recognized as a person in society who has a 'voice'. The idea of living in a shell of virtual reality might appeal to his conscience or probably gives him a sense of personal achievement. An achievement that arises out of the 'joy of clicking' or the 'joy of sharing a facebook post on social issues'. 

My only hope is that the next time I see some social issue, I'd rather lend my physical support than virtual support. Tweaking what Swami Vivekananda said , It is an insult to offer sympathy in the form of facebook to suffering people. What they need is hope and some help. It's alright if you can't do it, but just don't give them an illusion of which they are better of not having.

The Substitute

Sometimes, in days like today an old incident visits your otherwise vacant occipital penthouse. The trigger could be a scene you are watching from a movie, a dish that you are eating, a photo that you saw or perhaps this .  How often does one conjure up an anecdote with a web page of a player, whose only claim to fame is being a substitute and effecting a run out in the 2005 Ashes. I am sure, this would be one of those rare occassions. Well let me spit it out here. 

The incident occured once upon a dull and dreary day in the office, at around 4:00 P.M. My cubicle mate in those days, Prazy as he is known, wasn't around. I really wanted to do something and then out of the blue, I realized I could play a prank on somebody. A prank call maybe? I have done prank calls in my lifetime, a lot of them unsuccessful, but I wanted to erase that blemish and had to find the perfect sitting duck/guinea pig. After long and hard thinking I decided to call Anantha, a fellow cricket fan, who perhaps breathes cricket more than  some of the biggest fans I know. I call him from my office number. The unsuspecting chap picks the phone and all I say is "Hey there, can you tell me something about Gary Pratt".   Ah! I thought, one of the worst prank calls ever in life! Who in heavens name other than me can do this absolutely monumental blunder. Surprise Surprise, the voice on the other side of the phone prattles about the player so much so that the Wikipedia article would have been put to shame! I pose as an editor of a cricket magazine and ask the guy a few more questions. Not once did our Anantha ask me who I was. I had a question and he had the right answer. After that chat, I had to tell him who I was and I found myself in splits. Dont' worry if you don't!, it was just funny for me and for a change enligthening.That day a truth dawned on me. A fellow cricket fan is not a stranger and so nothing would be asked about him. You could be poles apart, but cricket would bind you together. What started out as a prank ended up being memory that was stored in the dark corners of an empty brain only to be recounted here. 

PS : Ananthasubramanian Narayanan is a die hard Cricket Fan, who in addition to being a cricket fan is also a Photographer(spams you with wedding photos). Before I say anything more, he is a writer at sportskeeda and also has this

O My Dear Cricket Fan! Where art thou?

A guy can change anything. His face, his home, his family, his girlfriend, his religion,his God. But there's one thing he can't change. He can't change his passion...
- "The Secret in their eyes(2009)"

We humans are a fickle lot. Our fickle minds can be as predictable as the waves in the ocean. Amidst this sea of predictability, if one were to look for a phase in our lives, where we just followed our hearts, then one of those phases is definitely as a passionate fan of sport. In this period of time we lose reason, we stop being angry, we follow our hearts. We rally behind our teams, even if they were the midgets of the sport. Our teams are personified as Davids fighting biblical battles with Goliath and even when there is a loss, we brush it off and look forward to the next battle. We live hoping for that rare miracle that would bring joy to our hearts. A joy that is unparalleled in comparison with the other joys of our life. For this is the only time we come close to being happy for somebody else, for this is the joy that we all celebrate in unity, for this is something that fills our mundane lives with hope and with a sense of pride.

Today as I pick up some remnants of my writing(on a very pedantic note, I would say typing), I realize it's the same fan in me who urges me to pen(er...key?) down some thoughts. Thoughts that I wish every other fan will echo. As an individual in his mid-twenties I realize that growing up in India was very eventful. Our generation can be looked at as the missing link between the India of the old and the India today. We were born before the liberalization era started. Some of us spent most of our teenage lives without the World Wide Web. We were close to finishing our undergrads when the mobile phone and Internet boom shook us.

Amidst all these changes, if there was a change that was talked about more often than anything, then it would be the rise in fortunes of the Indian Cricket team. We grew up watching a young 16 year old, taking on the world with his fearless batting. Touted as the "special one", he started winning matches for the country single handedly. He took the burden of expectations with a head that was as calm as a sage who had drunk deep the ocean of knowledge. For almost seven years he was alone, he carried the hopes of a nation. We all cried when he failed, were ecstatic when he succeeded. His joys were ours. He represented a resurgent country. A change in fortunes, an icon and more importantly a genius who was human. Cricket like all other games is a team game. A single player cannot win you any game. It is a combination of 11 players who sweat and toil to achieve victory. Just as we thought that this little champion would play the rest of his career as a lone warrior, emerged a bunch of players, who under his shadow started blossoming. We knew that something special was happening. We pined our hopes suddenly not on just one individual, but a bunch of steadfast players who had the gumption to fight. Our fathers would have witnessed meek cats, but we were part of a resurgent Indian team that had tigers. Suddenly when we thought all was going well, a scandal hit us before the new millennium could begin. Few of our countrymen were involved. The captain of the team was the main culprit. The team suddenly lost it's leader. A radical change meant that one of the players from that performing bunch had to become the captain. His exploits as a batsman were always going to be spoken about, but it is his term as a leader that changed the way we Indians played cricket. He was called the "Royal Bengal Tiger" and it is under him that our team started winning. We suddenly realized that the strong leader could rip his shirt off in the hallowed balconies of Lord's, which is the mecca of cricket. We joined him for we knew that the golden era had begun. The era of the "Famous Five" in Indian Cricket had begun. The Genius, The Bengal Tiger, The Wall, The Very Very Special One and Jumbo, were they called. Many a victory was forged at their hands. It was the time for us to hold our heads high and stand behind our teams. We came close to winning the world cup in 2003. We started conquering peaks that were never supposed to be conquered. We fought against the invincible Aussies and gave them a fight.

It was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels---
But give me your sun from yonder skies!"
They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"

But life is not a bed of roses. These great men were growing older. Their reflexes were becoming less quicker. They were not immortals but humans who would grow old. The Royal Bengal tiger soon grew old. He had to be sent out ignominiously. A great general he was. The treatment given was lesser than that what a peasant could recieve. He roared back like the tiger he always was.He fought till the very end, but the end was always going to be bad. A sacrifice had already been made. The great bunch was broken, but their wills weren't. They came back even strongly. A comeback that put kids 20 years their juniors to shame. Young at heart they were told. But not even these great men can stand the ravages of time. Time is all conquering and as they reach the fag end of the twilights of their careers, they suddenly realize that passing on the mantle is not easy, for these great men have walked a great distance. As they turned back to see, they realize that there aren't any young people behind their backs and they are stranded alone. But they have to go. With no young blood to support them, they realize that victories aren't going to happen. Their careers are not going to be the swan song that we all thought it would be.

But, as these great men lie stranded in shores afar, some of my fellow fans have started baying for their blood. It seems the whole world has forgotten their contributions. How can one forget the 2001 Kolkata Test, where greatness was achieved. How can one forget memories like Adelaide 2003, World Cup 2003 and many more till the crowning glory World Cup 2011. Have we forgotten that there is not a supply of young blood that could take the reins of these great men. Do we realize that the young blood that we all are supporting now did not have the same bravado as these men had a decade ago? In a utopian world I'd know that these great men would again show semblance of their greatness before passing on, but then this is the harsh real world. They would not end their careers on a high, but would rather be pushed into oblivion. Among all this chaos, when they take guard probably for the final time, their question to the fan would be, What have I done to deserve this fate? Have we all stopped being true fans? Or as is oft said, you are only as good as your last match. As Robert Browing, ever so sadly in his poem The Patriot wrote:

I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind;
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
"Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
"Me?''---God might question; now instead,
'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

PS : Thanks to Jayanth for reminding me that quote from The Secret in their eyes.