Draupadi

X told me recently that my blog’s a bore.
I tend to agree.
I find it pretty boring to come here myself.

X’s logic?
My blog doesn’t have pictures.
(Now you know why I have called him X.)

Sad.
Today if you have a mobile phone,
you’re a photographer.
And can talk at length on skies.
On flora and fauna.
On composition.
And lighting.

But never one to give up easy,
I have decided to have photographs.
Yup.
Me, yes.

But unlike the phonegrapher,
I need a subject.
I need an idea.

Much thought.

Draupadi.
This woman has always fascinated me.
She’s Shakti herself,
having risen fully-grown from the yagna kund.

She’s a paradox.
For trying to strip her, a lusty Dushasana gets a death warrant.
But Ashwatthama, after he slays her five kids, she pardons.

On the one hand, she’s the voiceless Bharateeya naari.
When she’s distributed among five testosterone-dripping, heavily sighing brothers who have been alone in the jungles for some time now, she doesn’t utter a word.
On the other, she’s a feminist’s flagship brand.
“Polygamy? Pah!”

Imagine, a five-day week.
And on the weekend, you hunt for roots and berries.

You got to hand it to the lady.

And she’s the subject of my photo feature.
Here goes.




Honest.
This is not a Photoshop job.
It exists.

The Chanderpaul Men

Swaroop has this endearing knack.
When at the store, she forgets everything that she needs.
And when I am watching cricket is when her memory does the flooding in thing.

You are informed.
You are told.
You are warned.
And you realize that this can’t wait for tomorrow.

Then Chanderpaul ambles in.
And you get up to go to the store.

He’s around 32.
Not many years left.
And as uninspiring and ungainly as he was when he debuted.

You had the grace of Lara.
You had (yes, had) the aggression of Gayle.
Even the elegance of Sarwan.
Who wants to watch Chanderpaul?

He’ll go about it with the enthusiasm of an RTO clerk.
He grafts, he accumulates.
He sweats, he drinks, he blocks.

He stands there, shifty and fidgety.
Weirdly, facing his long on, tapping nervously.

As the ball arrives, an ungainly arc brings the bat bang in front of the pads.
More like a scared kid would keep a pup off his feet.

An ugly tap in front of square.
A hop as he plays it off his feet to fine leg for a single.
Square cuts one that just rolls down the slope to the rope,
touches it and stops, bored.
Chanderpaul is the viewer’s drinks break.

Frankly, nobody sits up nights to watch him.
(Or Collingwood, for that matter.)
(Or Dinesh Karthik.)
Uninspiring, in a word.
Blenders.

Last night, the Windies lost again.
The last man out?
Chanderpaul.
On 70 from 163 balls.
This, following up his 136 n.o. from 257 balls.

In the series, Chanderpaul has scored 448 at 148.66.
He’s joint man of the series with Monty Panesar.
After 2002 and 2004, this was the third time he remained unbeaten for more than 1000 minutes.
And he is the first man to have done that.
Ever.

Yet, the paeans and the odes are all about Monty.
No articles, no blogs about good old Chanders.
Imagine if this had been Lara.
Or Sachin. Or KP. Even Dravid.
But this was Chanderpaul.

I tried to explain my anguish to Swaroop last night.
And all she asked was:
“Do. I. Really. Have. To. Sit. Through. This?”

Without the swash and the buckle.
Without the hoopla.
Without the PR and the endorsements.
Without the ads and the odes.
They stand and deliver.
And get forgotten.

Here’s to the Chanderpaul men.

Encounters of the Indian kind.

No more gripe.
No more points of view.
No more -isms.

I am just going to sit back and laugh.

Announcing...
My top 3 road stories.
Cymbals and flashing cherubim.

Riding in a rick to work today.
Ahead, spot a parked Scorpio.
Spot a green and yellow govt. plate on it.
Rick stops next to it.
Get a chance to observe it at 3 feet.
It says 'Street of Karnataka'.
Legal? Yes.
Street smart? Yes.
Gowda? Yes.
Ingenuous? Yes.

We had a Bihari carpenter do up our office.
(Do down, rather.)
He has a moped.
I ask him if he has a licence.
He shakes his head.
Verbatim:
Self - "Toh aapko police nahi pakadta?"
Carpenter: 'Pakadne hi nahi deta hoon!"
Self: "Woh kaise?"
Carpenter: "Woh sir police yeh (left) side pe rukta hai. Hum doosre side pe chalata hoon."
Croak: "Hamesha?"
Carpenter: "Haan sir."
When in Bihar, drive on the right.

In Ahmedabad.
Am riding down the street on a Kinetic.
After a Sunday 'buying bazaar'.
I see a black Zen reversing out onto the road.
I wait for the driver to use his rear-view mirror.
Then, I honk.
Then, I stand on the hooter.
Then, he hits me.
I pick myself up.
Next to the black-tinted driver's window.
Assume my most menacing pose.
(Kinetic between legs, arms across chest.)
45 seconds go by.
Power windows roll down.
Blasts of Daler reveal 45ish Surd.
Wearing still darker glares.
Silence and glares.
Self: "Can't you see?"
Surd: "AC on, window closed."
Self: "Toh horn sunai nahi diya?"
Surd: "Music system on, can't hear."
I get out of his way.
Somewhere out there is a Daler fan.
Driving down the highway, blind, deaf and turbanned.

Am sure you guys have more.
Put them down.
I shall compile, edit, publish, make my moolah and retire.

Tomorrow, Top 3 Advertising stories.

A few statistics.

Gen. J.J. Singh, in a press briefing unrelated to J&K, mentioned last week's toll.
78 Indian soldiers declared dead.

In Assam, official reports place the number of migrant labourers killed by the ULFA at 61.
But then, who counts migrant labourers?

The Nithari serial killings - media claim 40 disappearances from the area.

5 people died on the streets of Bangalore yesterday, inseparate accidents.
Last week, a little girl was eaten up by stray dogs in Bangalore.
Bangalore envy?

Few weeks back, over 70 Vidharba farmers commit suicide over the weekend.
Pawar's backyard.

I might have missed out on a few here and there.
Never had a head for numbers.

I just got back from a holiday.
Happy New Year everybody!

P.S. Not that no one cares.
When Saddam was hanged, Kerala observed a flash hartal in protest.