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.