2S
Techie. Writer. Photographer.
December 9, 2007 at 9:00 pm · Filed under cricket
A run riot. India ended the day at 350+, Ganguly still unbeaten and a jittery Karthik for company. That was yesterday, all about recovery.
Today, they plundered.
Considering that Karthik isn’t exactly the most confident batsman around right now, his twenty-odd runs were valuable, in the sense, they contributed to a fifty-run stand with Ganguly. With Karthik gone, one would think that Kumble was simply waiting for Ganguly to make the double century that was long overdue, and then make the declaration himself. In walked Pathan, who - without causing the slightest of distractions - went on to score big himself. As everyone’s eyes turned to Ganguly, who did cross the two-hundred run mark, Pathan danced down the track, sending many a sphere into the stands.
At 198, Ganguly pushed one into the covers, sprinting the first one. As he tapped the willow on the crease and turned back, it was starting to sink in: maiden double ton for a fighter, who, with this innings, has sealed his case in what could be termed as the finest comeback ever in the history of Indian cricket. Brilliant attitude, and the runs did the talking, prompting a name-change from ‘100rav Ganguly’ to ‘200rav Ganguly’.
Pathan, meanwhile, was on the verge of his century too. With Ganguly departing - as Bangalore stood to acknowledge the finest innings they’ve seen in recent times - and Kumble and Harbhajan doing little to worry the scorers, Pathan stood at the other end at 96. When a nervous Ishant Sharma walked out to face Arafat - who, on debut, had devoured five Indian batsmen, a feat that cannot be appreciated less - Pathan walked with him. ‘Stay put’, he must’ve said. The 6″4 Delhi pacer saw a few ones out, bringing Pathan on strike at the start of the over.
Irfan Pathan might’ve thought he’ll never get another chance ever. Stepping out, crashing the ball over midwicket for six, he raised his bat in acknowledgment, as a few Paki cricketers went up to congratulate him. It was a fine innings, finer that it seemed, because it came quickly and it allowed a certain Bengal Tiger to score his maiden double.
Interestingly, eleven Pakistani cricketers had silently clapped when Sourav Ganguly scored his two-hundredth run. They weren’t even around when Yuvraj Singh made his century, which - with all due respect to the bowling that doesn’t deserve it - was an innings that demolished both, the bowlers figures and their morale. But when Pathan - with four sixers to his name - made his hundredth run, yours truly was a tad surprised to see the Pakistani players all buddy-buddy with the batsman. Hello? Talk about favoritism.
I don’t expect much webspace to be wasted on this incident, and if truth be told, it might not even be worth the ink. But it pains me to see that on a cricketing field. Batsman walks in, scores a ton and raises the bat. Reason enough to appreciate, one would think. Well, whatever.
The tail didn’t wag, it just didn’t, and India wrapped up well in excess of six hundred, three lefties doing the trick. It gave India a shot at the Pakistani batsmen, with a little under thirty overs of play left, Pathan and Sharma were expected to be in business. While a few tough chances went down, and Sharma struggled to find his feet - literally - before bowling a few beauties at Hameed, Kumble brought himself on from one end, and Ganguly from the other.
Well, the first Kumble over was bludgeoned apart by Butt. Crashing him on the leg side for boundaries, respect for the local lad be damned. But Anil Kumble is the kind of man who brings more than sheer bowling to the wicket. With the leggie comes unmatched intensity, patience and perseverance. Hameed eventually fell, as India had drawn first blood, before Younis Khan walked in, sending a message to the team. No night watchman, folks, I’m here and I want to bat.
While the scoreboard remained stuck on 59/1 for thirty deliveries, and as the scores took a nap or two, the intensity in the match and amongst the Indians was diminishing as quickly as the fading light. Not just the Indians on the field, but the ones off it too. We stifled yawns as the curd-rice from lunch was taking effect, before yawning away to glory, and were about to fall asleep ourselves before the umpires put us out of our misery and clipped the bails out.
A boring end to an otherwise interesting day, where Pathan and Ganguly made mockery of an attack that lacked any respectability except for what arrived in the form of Yasir Arafat’s five-for. And Bangalore had seen an international double-ton.
Incidentally, we met Chacha Cricket, who interestingly showed a bit of attitude to click a snap with him. Brotherhood and common-sense prevailed, and yours truly happily formed a frame with Vis, but not before draping the tri-color over the three of us.
Sorry folks, but chacha, yeh hai India ;o)
Here are a few other snaps of this blogger with the pals (Vis, PJ, N Murthy) and the crowd.
December 8, 2007 at 8:25 pm · Filed under cricket
Sunshine. Blessed, divine sunshine. The gloom, the trepidation of showers, and the possibilities of a juicy wicket and a slippery outfield were all gone. A day tailored, very timely by whatever supernatural force exists up there, for the lovely game of cricket.
The Kolkata stalemate meant that all eyes follow this city, for the third and final Test. India are one up, and would love to seal a series victory against the visiting neighbors. Pakistan, after a horrible start to the series, found a lifeline thanks to the twin-century stand between Misbah-ul-Haq and Kamran Akmal. In fact, that partnership didn’t just steady the Paki ship, it sprung the innings, the match and the series to life, setting it up for the final venue.
Bangalore. She had beckoned. And we were there to answer her.
Pakistan took the intensity right into the first session, as Arafat, with his nagging line and assistance from the track, snapped up the early wickets. One would think that Dravid had the perfect opportunity to break the jinx at this stadium, what he’d refer to as ‘home’ more than the structure he owns in Indiranagar. Arafat, however, thought otherwise. Four wickets in a hurry, and Bangalore went silent. Stunned, really. We watched, open-mouthed, as the ball scraped the bottom edge of Laxman’s bat, crashing into the woodwork. Arafat and the Pakistanis were celebrating as Laxman sauntered to the pavilion like a corpse to the coffin. To say that India were in the worst trouble they’ve ever been this tour is an understatement.
Until he came. And saw. And scored. And how.
As a nervous Karthik had padded up, expecting to see an early outing in the middle, out walked Yuvraj who in all certainty is in the form of his life. In Ganguly he found a stable partner, fresh from a Eden century, as one defiant, experienced lefty met the kind of batsman who murders bowlers effortlessly. Pure talent. Pakistan knew that they had to get this man early.
I can’t match the literature on CricInfo, so I’ll save the reporter’s version of it. From the stands, it was Yuvraj Singh all the way. A fresh, ironed-out white kit that didn’t need mere aesthetics to stand out. Almost every time willow met leather, the sound was sweet, sugarcoated. Ganguly’s timing was impeccable, but the flair, power and flamboyance that Yuvraj brought to the crease really set the tone for the rest of the innings. If Ganguly constructed, Yuvraj demolished. As the senior player milked the bowling, the youth drained it. A hundred run partnership, two fifties in the bag, and to the Pakis, the sunshine didn’t seem as inviting as it did earlier.
When Yuvraj did bring up his hundred - and in what style, I might add - he leapt, mid-air, punching it in delight. As the volcano of happiness erupted, the camera switched straight away to Dilip Vengsarkar. I have always maintained that, if there ever is a challenge that India has and shouldn’t mind, it ought to be which players to pick. The selectors now have an uphill task: with Laxman’s century and Jaffer’s double in Kolkata, and now Yuvraj’s century, who really are the best fourteen or fifteen to play?
Yuvraj raced to the hundred-forties in no time, almost unnoticed, as Ganguly crafted run after run, slashing the odd boundary through the off-side, an area of the field where, as someone famously said, he comes only second to God. When the century did come up, finally, the Bengal Tiger just took a few steps towards his partner who was sprinting towards him. Losing the helmet, he raised his arms and the bat, acknowledging the applause from his team mates.
Meanwhile, Bangalore had erupted, forgetting the Dravid dismissal. Local, shmocal. The city loves Sourav. Period.
Younis Khan and the rest of his team, in the process, were reduced to mere spectators. And if the damage could be mapped physically, Mohammed Sami and Yasir Arafat would have a bruise or two, surely. When the three-hundred run partnership came up, one would think that Yuvraj was favorite to get to two-hundred before lunch tomorrow, before he played a shot he would regret for some time to come. Pouching the ball safely, Faisal Iqbal ran to the bowler, Sami, as Younis Khan joined the huddle, not before congratulating Yuvi on the way. Shaking his head, the ‘irreplaceable’ left-hander walked back.
Needless to say, we were on our feet. What an innings! What strokeplay! I distinctly remember a particular pull-shot right after tea, High backlift, on his toes, shoulder coming into play, and as the ball met bat, it met a fatal blow for the delivery. The ball went scorching past the ground, smearing the ropes before crashing into the midwicket fence. Yuvraj’s willowed stick could not have been more expressive or authoritative. The bowler walked back, and though the cheek wasn’t red, the face showed that he had just been slapped. And slapped hard.
Dinesh Karthik ended the day without any hiccups, as India slumped, struggled, and then recovered in style. Breaking record after another, Yuvraj and Ganguly demonstrated to a thirsty audience what dominance and batsmanship is all about. As a spectator, I was more than pleased. I had come along to the stadium amidst contradictory weather reports that we would see rain today. The last time I walked into Chinnaswamy for a match, Australia amassed 306 before the rain-Gods ruined the match. I was wary of the showers.
Tell you what, it rained today. A torrent of boundaries, and sitting in an elevated stand behind backward point or mid-wicket, depending on which end you’re bowling from, I thoroughly enjoyed it.
There are two kinds of showers I love. One from the Gods. The other from the wicket. Today, I confirm. They’re both divine.
December 7, 2007 at 7:42 am · Filed under bangalore, personal
Had been ages since I’d taken an amusement ride. Roller-coasters, fast-springs, rotors, loved them all back in Dubai. Even the weird little ride in Mahabalipuram, where a little boat crawls to an elevated point and then comes crashing down into a pool. Suddenly, you’re all wet, your cellphone shows the wrong service provider, your i-Pod sounds nasal even if Himesh isn’t singing, and you’re in front of a board that reads ‘Funny Thunny‘.
For the lesser privileged folk non-Tamils, Thunny in Tamil translates to water in English. So, before I digress into Tamism, hush. Where were we? Oh, right, amusement rides.
My favorite amongst them, by far, were the bumper cars. Folks warned me to avoid ‘accidents’, but a few minutes in the park with arrogant Arab kids taught me otherwise. My plan was straightforward - crash into every car that didn’t look like an Indian drove it. An Arab was the norm, a Paki was a bonus. So I was a kid, I can be pardoned for being racist, relax. The point I’m driving home is, bumper cars were fun.
And they still are, especially in Bangalore. I can’t tell you guys how much I enjoyed my outing at the amusement rides today. Actually, I can.
For starters, I walked all the way from my office at EGL on Inner Ring Road till the stretch of Airport Road that enters Domlur, a distance of two-odd kilometers. It was cold, it was raining, and I managed it without a jacket or coffee. On the way, I asked several ricks. About six autos shook their heads when they heard me go ‘Chinnappa Gardens’. Like I was asking them to take me to Iraq or something. Three other autos asked for ‘twenty rupees more, saar’ to which I responded with a ‘thank you’ and walked on. Five autos actually had the nerve to go ‘one-and-a-half-saar’, and needless to mention, that didn’t even merit a response from me.
Before one guy, God bless his soul, took pity on me and mercifully jerked his head towards the interior. That’s where the ride began, during which I witnessed the following stunts:
Stunt #1 - Missed-by-a-Whisker - the rickshaw on the left lane, upon seeing a BMTC bus halted at the bus stop ahead, and seeing a Qualis speeding on the right lane, floors the accelerator and screams the three-wheeler past the oh-so-tiny gap between the immobile bus and a Qualis on the far side, approaching at over 60kph. Two seconds later, the rickshaw driver’s state remains unchanged - absolutely unperturbed - while the passenger manages a few million Hail Marys. The driver in the Qualis comes up with an equal number of the choicest of Kannada swear-words including the much-revered and intense T-word which is a direct reference to the rear of the human anatomy.
Stunt #2 - Kiss my ass - the rickshaw, in bumper-to-bumper traffic, attempts to overtake a ABS sedan just ahead, and in the process, does not brake hard enough. The result? A broken tail-light, a scratch on the rick, some paint lost, violence, vulgarity and profanity. And a meter that refuses to pause.
Stunt #3 - Side-scratch - now, this one takes immense skill to execute, but once mastered, is the most useful in terms of inflicting damage and agony. The rickshaw brings himself to a very close position next to a crisp-smelling, fresh-from-the-showroom silver Civic, and stops at the signal. Sedan in question sees the green light, and in enthusiasm, starts moving. Just then, the rick makes that slight change of angle to induce a huge scratch on the Civic. The sedan thinks he’s at fault, but hey, we know better.
Stunt #4 - Break-the-speed-breaker - the rickshaw simply continues speeding upon seeing a speed-breaker. The passenger in the rear jumps as a result of the force from the impact. On the rare occasion when his head doesn’t bang against the rick’s ceiling, he has avoided a shock, and in the process, is in a better state to detect the sharp rise in the fare as a result of that jump. Let’s not even mention the spilt coffee. Most Indians would continue praying in such a situation, although a foreigner might search for the seat belts. Well, dude, we don’t make seat belts in rickshaws. Too bloody bad for you.
Stunt #5 - and this is my personal favorite - the two-wheeler-mimicry - in which case, the rickshaw lives under the dangerous assumption that he is, in fact, a two-wheeler and attempts to fit the vehicle through the most absurd nanometric gaps in traffic. Gaps, which Andrea Stancu on a diet would struggle to fit through.
Seventy rupees, non-inclusive of meals. Nothing better than a few hours at the amusement park on a drizzly Bangalore evening, I tell you. If you’re lucky, you’ll also pick up some crunchy, unwilted Kannada swear-words, including this by richksaw-dude Ajith at a certain Devegowda: to suggest that he isn’t educated enough, when translated, this is how it goes:
He doesn’t have two letters on his ass, and he came to rule the state? Somebody tell him to shut the hole in his rear and go back to eating his spherical finger-millet paste.
Entertainment. Thrill. Guaranteed.
December 3, 2007 at 9:48 pm · Filed under fiction
The first few days of the month always see the longest queues at the teller. Understandably. Breadwinners, after all that work, line up outside the ATM, each one running the same question through their minds. It doesn’t matter what your CTC is, how many people you support, where you live, what rent you pay, or if your vehicle runs on diesel or space-fuel.
Everyone in that queue have the same question. How much? The answer decides what enters the pocket.
The first withdrawal of the month pinches you. Always. After sweating bullets at the workplace, and earning your reward, it takes a heart and a half to walk up to that miserly box of steel and pull funds out of your account. Of course, you’re usually forced to it. Rents. Bills. Medicines. The cable guy. The milkman. The maid. A cousin in need. An uncle departing on a pilgrimage. Something, somehow, someone and somewhere almost always shows up with the need to eat out of your hard-earned money.
Thank goodness for mobiles. Long queues could get boring, and we’re lucky to have the cellphone double up as a means of infotainment. As the queue slugs forward, everyone in there are up to something, fingering their phones. The ones at the far end of the queue are usually playing a game, or checking out a movie review on GPRS. As you move closer to the entrance, people are texting their loved ones, or in some cases, the home ministry to figure out exactly how much dough is needed that evening. The folks on the threshold of their shot at the machine constantly switch focus from the clock on the cellphone to the guard, and then, to the door. The door itself is opaque, except for a little bit of a transparent portion, through which the frontliners burn their gaze.
The atmosphere gets volatile soon enough. Machines sometimes dispense only hundred-rupee notes, and the limit is forty at a time. This could lead to an extended waiting period which, in a fast city like Bangalore and a restless race like the Bangaloreans, doesn’t go down too well with the tech-savvy masses.
On luckier days, the machine dispenses hundred-rupee notes as well as thousand-rupee notes. But there are a few people in this world who will never be satisfied in life. The guard had to face the wrath of one such stubborn brat.
‘Why doesn’t this machine dispense five hundred rupee notes?!’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘What do you mean you don’t know? Aren’t you the guard here?’
He thought about it, and came up with a logical explanation.
‘Sir, in this area, only the rich reside. They have no use for five hundred rupee notes sir.’
The guard, at this moment, is busy aligning the queue. It’s like that rough draft in Microsoft Word with arbitrary spaces that doesn’t really need an alignment, but is a constant source of irritation, an itch, when left the way it is. I finally get my turn. I walk in, and in an uncomplicated manner use the fast withdrawal option. As my hard work vanishes electronically, making its appearance through the flat, thin, metallic cavity in the machine, I pull the notes out and shoot a look at the last line of the receipt that just printed itself out. I curse and crumple the slip before chucking it into the bin and heading out of the cube.
The queue is now longer. Same question, though. I manage a smile.
On the way back home, I have the option of picking between two routes. One is well-lit, a ‘link’ road, home to slums, strays and a pungent mixture of cow dung and human urine in a field. The other is darker, and hosts more drunkards than you would find outside Purple Haze on Saturday night. With a bad cold, I had made the choice: the link road any day.
The slums are, contrary to popular belief, very organized. It’s absolute chaos within, but there’s a method to the madness. The one I walk through, for instance, has a person they refer to as ‘anna’, which translates to ‘big brother’ in Kannada. Anna manages everything operational in the slum, including rations, logistics and scheduling the consumption of utilities.
While I step aside and hop on to the sidewalk, a tempo comes spluttering in. Anna walks out and whistles. Thrice.
Whistle, whistle. Pause. Whistle. Three sounds, when timed accurately, suggest that the week’s supplies have arrived. Anna was here, and he brought with him the grocery.
A call for the hungry. For the starved. Like water seeping through the cracks of earth, they rushed in from every corner of the slum. Children, carrying steel tumblers. Women, with jute bags. Some men too, although more relaxed. It isn’t a queue, but a huddle around a tempo that catered more to survival than mere hunger.
Ironically, everyone in that huddle too have the same question. Only this time, the answer decides what enters the stomach.
November 23, 2007 at 9:05 am · Filed under cricket
When in search of an answer, you first turn to God. In which case, you turn to Google. I tried to figure out, in the last twelve months, who’s the most popular amongst India’s big three from the Indian internet users.
This link suggests that it’s Tendulkar, hands down.
Ironically, the only time Dravid extracted more popularity from the Little Master was when he resigned as captain of India! Shows what it takes to get the crowd away from Sachin.
GoogleTrends also suggests that the only city he loses as Mr. Popular - to Ganguly - is Calcutta. Bangalore, however, still has Tendulkar ranked higher than Dravid. It figures - the Bongs are more loyal to the son of their state than the Bangs are.
Personally, I dislike Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar for one simple reason: he makes blogging difficult. I mean, you’ve written this awesome piece on why he should be kicked out, you go to CricInfo and hunt for his stats, you spend days tweaking them to sell your absurd idea of leaving him out, you refine your blog posts, you get people to proof-read it, and just before hitting ‘Publish’, lad walks out cool as a cucumber and scores a 90 or two.
A waste of time, effort and draft space on the blog, I tell you.
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