Sunday is for worship.

Mrs. Perumalythoma exited home at 5:30 this morning.
To participate in a 10 km run.
(For which she travelled 50 km to and fro.)

She came back, caught hold of unfortunate Family Dog,
gave him a scrub and shower.
Then (thankfully) took one herself.

Now she's in the kitchen, singing loudly.
And intends to go shopping in the evening.

Mr., as in self, read all the Sunday papers.
And is considering resting for the rest of the day.
To recover from the effort.
[Dozing on the couch with IPL on,
sounds like a plan.]

Go shopping?
Why can't we devote Sunday to worship?
Just worship self?

P.S. Here's more on the IPL.
http://www.yentha.com/news/view/5

The game-changer.

IPL has changed the game.
Whoever thought that a franchise in Kochi, would cost many times what Roman Abramovich paid for Chelsea a few years back?
That too in a state not known too much for its love for cricket?

Soon we will have 94 games where we have 60.
We’ll have a game or two every day during the season!

The boundary ropes have come in.
DJs are busy trying to get Mexican waves going.
We have been introduced to the Mongoose.

We see Indian players we’ve never heard of before, perform.
That’s helped a few players make themselves known.

It’s fun to watch.
(Even if you are not an ardent IPL fan.)

But I have a question.
What will this do for/to Indian cricket?

When Rahul, Sachin, Laxman are gone,
how will the new breed play Test cricket for India?
Who will even train himself for long innings?
And how, when the Mongoose is what you carry to the nets?

Will this be the end of tests as we know it?
Will we never get to see the likes of Gambhir batting a whole day to save a Test?
Will we even have 5 day Tests?

P.S. Also, if you have the time,
here's a new Thiruvananthapuram local search portal.

http://www.yentha.com/news/view/5/93

Mr. Perreira to IEDs

Life was so much simpler in the 80s.
All we Mals had to worry about was Jose Prakash.

Every single movie had Jose Prakash as smuggler.
His interests were restricted to smuggling,
pipes, badly dressed women and welcoming the ubiquitous Mr. Perreira.

What is it with the name?
I don’t have a clue.
In every single Mal film that featured Jose Prakash,
the smuggler from abroad was always a Mr. Perreira.
“HaLLo, Meester Perera!” JP would go.
Accompanied by much rolling in the aisles.

But then, those were simpler days.
All you had to worry about were smugglers.
Not one of which you had ever glimpsed.
One assumed they used the night and sheltered coves.

Later, we had Bhiman Raghu and the gang.
Men who wore tight shirts and tighter pants.
And looked like their villainous masters didn’t pay enough to keep them in clothes that accommodated their bulging physiques.
They would get routinely beaten up by equally corpulent heroes.
“Ninne pinne kandolam”, was their favourite rejoinder.
Whichthe King of Bulge, Arnold, copied in ‘I’ll be back!”.

But today?
Today you have intense looking young men.
Who talk about causes.
With Kalashnikovs and IEDs.

Men who work with blueprints.
And use extremely evolved technology.
(Which in Malayalam cinema means they perpetually open PowerPoint.)

The day before, I heard that Kochi was on high alert.
The newsreader spoke of 'commandos in Jew Street'.
In the 80s, we never heard things like this.

It was so much better.
The most you had to worry about was the college rowdy.
Or the guys with reserved tables in the toddy shop.
(Both of which, fortunately, were very friendly with you.)

It was so much better.
I wish we could have Mr. Perreira back.
With his endearing schemes to disrupt the national economy.
HaLLo, Meester Perera, where are you?

Nobody loves me.

I am a Nasrani, male.
For those not clued in into 36 million sub-sects of the Catholic Church, I am a Syrian Catholic.

I am not SC / ST / OBC.
So when it comes to school and college,
and jobs and promotions, no reservation.
In Karnataka, that means you are the slogging 50.3%.
Karnataka and for that matter India, don't love me.

That makes me a 49.7% unloved Indian.

Technically, mine is a minority community.
But of course, 'minority' depends on how big a noise you make.
So I can't be considered minority, either.
You heard the Yadavs shout when it came to the Women's Reservation Bill in Parliament.
Muslims and OBCs were worried about.
Not this poor Nasrani.
Mulayam and Laloo don't love me.

That makes me an 'unspecified small slice' of a 49.7% unloved Indian.

To add to this, I made one big mistake.
I married a caste Hindu.
Which, now leaves me and future generations nowhere.
And Pramod Muthalik doesn't love me.

Which makes me an 'unspecified small slice' of a 49.7% unloved Indian who Pramod Muthalik hates.

So I slog.
And through sheer dint of hard work, earn some money.
Which promptly cheers the IT department.
And puts me in the 33% plus bracket.
The IT guys, if none else, love me.

Now I am part of an even smaller set.
Now I am an 'unspecified small slice' of a 49.7% unloved Indian who Pramod Muthalik hates who is forced to pay 33% taxes.

After the 33%, I can't share in the company's profits.
To do that, I have to pay another 16%.
Because unlike IT and IT services, there ain't no tax holidays for what I do.
Which, in Bangalore, makes me 33% of 49.7% of 20.2%.
On second thoughts, even the IT guys don't love me.

But hey, if I talk about profits and money,
that makes me a capitalist pig.
The red flag bearers don't love me either.
[That too, after all the writing I did for them in the romantic days of my youth.]

So here's an 'unspecified small slice' of a 49.7% unloved Indian who Pramod Muthalik and the Reds hate who is forced to pay 33% taxes + 16% of profits.

And soon, women will have 33% reservation in Parliament.
Which of course, is a great thing to happen from the empowerment perspective.
Didn't we all see how even though unlettered, Laloo's wife Rabri Devi could get empowered?
Didn't we see how Mulayam's son Akhilesh Yadav's wife almost got empowered?
Don't we know how Karunakaran's daughter Padmaja got empowered?
But then, one second, why are we referring to these empowered women in relation to their husbands and fathers?
That's unfair to women's lib.
And the Pink Chaddis might take after me!

So, let the Bill be passed, I pray.
Now I am an 'unspecified small slice' of 66% of 49.7% unloved Indian who Pramod Muthalik and the Reds and the Pink Chaddis hate who is forced to pay 33% taxes + 16% of profits.

What does that make me?
There's only one person who can answer that.
My CA.
And if I ask him that, I'll lose the only person in the country who loves me.

Phir dil diya hockey ko.

I had been watching the commercials.
With Viru and Rathore and Priyanka Chopra.
And, I liked the idea.

Phir dil do hockey ko.
There is an air of honesty to it.

I know how easy it would have been
to do a ‘jeetenge ya marenge’ or
‘duniya ko dikha denge’ or
‘hockey phir hamari’ or
‘chak de India’ campaign.
(I can almost smell the jingle.)

But someone had a better approach.
Whoever it was, thanks.

But in spite of the commercials,
in spite of Sunil Shetty’s Bollywood-ish appeal,
I doubt if hockey will ever catch on, again.

[For the ones who came in late,
Sunil Shetty, out of the goodness of his larger-than-life chest,
appealed that there was only one trick to save Indian hockey.
Rahul Gandhi had to step in!

Hmm… I can picture it.
Shot 1: Rahul Gandhi drives in, in a white Ambassador.
Shot 2: You see his sneaker clad shoe as he steps out.
Shot 3: He walks into a conference room filled with
fat ex-players, federation officials and assorted mavens.
Shot 4: He pulls off his sneakers and plonks them
on the conference table.
Shot 5: Mavens look at officials look at fat ex-players.
Shot 6: 6 minute monologue by Rahul Beta that begins thus:
“Main neta hoon, Kolhapuri chappal pehenta hoon, size 8.
Lekin aaj maine apna size 8 Kolhapuri jala diya. Aur yeh joote pehen liye.
Aur yeh joote main tab hi utaroonga jab
India phir hockey param koti par pahoonchega. Tab tak….”
Shot 7: After the 6 minute monologue, Indian hockey is on its way
to the top and ex-players, officials and mavens are singing ‘chak de’.]

Sorry, couldn’t resist the digression.
But Indian hockey is in the abyss and it will take more
than the well-intentioned Sunil Shettys of the world to pull it out.

1. People, need to watch hockey.
2. Kids need to play hockey.
3. We need more Astroturf.
4. We need to eat beef.

Look, the game has changed.
Dutch kids play hockey on Astroturf.
The few foolish kids here, who still play hockey,
play on the little stony, unpredictable patches.

They develop, not the skills needed for power hockey.
But Rapid Eye Movement and knowledge of the Uncertainty Principle.
[Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle: If you determine an object's position with uncertainty x, there must be an uncertainty in momentum, p, such that xp > h/4pi, where h is Planck's constant.]

This, no give World Cup.
This give bruised elbows, bruised knees.

But then, but then.
Why worry about World Cups?
Can’t we just enjoy the game?

Which is what I did this Sunday.
I sat back and watched hockey.
Watched hockey after a long, long time.

In the many years that have passed,
from the 6 years I spent 2-3 hours a day,
6 days a week wielding a stick on rocky, stony grounds,
much has changed.

1. My knees and elbows have healed.
2. You don’t hear any off-side whistles.
3. The feints have changed.
4. The sticks have changed.
5. The corners have a better understanding of projectile motion.

In the stands, I could not spot a single person.
Who could possibly have had Zafar Iqbal and Mohammed Shahid posters.
Who would know a Jagbir Singh or a Jude Felix.
Who would have tried, time and again unsuccessfully,
Pargat Singh’s dash from outside his D into the opposition’s.

But the thonk of ball hitting back of board,
is still the same.
The exultation, still the same.
And so, the despair.

It felt good, to see the Prabhjots, Rajpals and Chandis
run rings around the Pakistanis.
And Mahadik display some really inspired moves
from the midfield.
Thank you, Brasa.

I felt old.
And I was watching a new game.
But maybe that’s our salvation.
The young people in the stadium will adopt what they see.
And a new generation of Indian hockey will take root.

After many long years, I cheered for Indian hockey.
And I will do it again, tonight.

We might not win the World Cup.
Hockey, might again go back into the basement.
But for a few evenings, I will be able to live through
the many evenings of my youth.

Phir dil diya.
Phir dil chillaya, muskuraya, roya.

Sachin, unencumbered.

At the risk of getting lynched, have to say this about Sachin.
One always felt that he held back a bit.

It could have been what is frequently referred to as 'the aspirations of a billion' on those shoulders.
Or maybe, under the sporting giant, were very human inhibitions.

I always saw this difference between Sachin and Lara.
Both, were immensely talented. Almost divine.
But while one reveled in his talent, I feel the other was overcome by it.

Lara strode out so that he could give you another opportunity to watch his divine self.
Sachin walked out with Gavaskar's ominous prediction of a 100 centuries ringing in his ears.

So one went the flamboyant way.
And the other, started looking at the numbers.
Almost as if, it would be numbers that would ensure him his greatness.

And you can't blame him.
No, you can't.
Because in no way, that did mean a disservice to India or to cricket.

It's only that you felt that he was holding back a bit.
Most obvious when he got into the nervous nineties.
(I wonder who the 'nervous' refers to, sometimes.)

But over the past few months, Sachin has changed.
It is almost as if he's now convinced.
That nothing, no one, can ever upstage him in this game.

And you see that in the way he plays.
You see a Sachin free from all that has held him back.
And the centuries are piling up.

And yesterday, was the most phenomenal of the lot.
200*? Playing out 50 overs? At 37?

Now this, is a man free.
This is a man who will cost me many, many beers.

I only wish he had not dedicated this 'to this nation that has stood by, behind me, through these ups and downs'.
And had said 'I had a ball'.

But then, who am I to wish.

Yeddy, The Honourable Nawab of Loony.

Last evening, there was a fire at Carlton Towers, Bangalore.
Which as all honest men know, houses TGIF.
Which is Thank God It's Friday till the cheque arrives.
At which point it’s Thank God I'm with rich Friends.

In any case, this is not about TGIF.
That their Chicken Wings Suck To High Heavens, also not.
Let's take a deep breath of the stale, beery air in the place and retrospect.
(Oh, ouch, many headaches.)

Many moons ago (as all horror stories begin),
a scheming developer hits upon what schemers hit upon, a scheme.
Prime land. Close to airport. Commercial complex. Tons of money.
Till here, it's still a scheme.
Which does not make the developer a schemer.

So here’s where.
Screw setbacks, he tells the architect, let's have more sq.ft. to sell.
The architect thinks about the new car he wants.
He thinks about stepping out of it in front of the office.
And nods vigourously.
So vigourously, that his hands shake and the foundation gets drawn closer to the boundary.
Ah, now. Now we have two schemers.

So they put these plans and much grease into a plastic bag.
And go to the BBMP or whichever MP sanctions plans.
Plans go Over The Table. Grease goes UTT.

So up goes a multi-storey building.
With not enough space for fire-tenders to turn or pirouette or do whatever it is that fire-tenders tend to do.
(Fire-tender? I can barely turn my friggin’ jeep there after a few.
And it takes a combination of Gabriel, The Archangel and Gobind, The Security Guard to get me out of this tight, dark corner where pillars seem to sway into my way.)

There are a whole lot of important looking functionaries who come in government vehicles when a building is being constructed.
Their function, is to look the other way.

And thus, a fire hazard is constructed and is ready for occupation.

So, who leased or bought out this office space?
On the higher floors, where people jumped to their deaths?
Why didn’t the managements of these organisations figure that they were walking into a fire-trap?
How did they think they would evacuate people in the event of an accident?
A question even more pertinent when you read that the staircase was barred. On every single floor!

So now, we have many schemers and some irresponsible idiots.
But wait, the list is not done yet.

The primary reason help couldn’t reach on time was because there were tons of rubberneckers parked on the flyover loop and on the adjoining roads.
Which resulted in a dreadful traffic block.
And traffic jams cannot distinguish ambulance from idiotnecker.

I know for sure because I got a call from one of those.
His morbid fascination gene was on orgasmic overdrive.
He could barely articulate his sentences.
"Edare’sFIREnadingonportrd. EeplJUMPINGdowswn.”
Then he cleaned his pants and am sure, called the next contact under ‘T’.

So that’s that.
Many schemers, many idiots, 9 people dead.

Enter, stage left: Yeddy, the Nabob of Plenty (and Loony).
One doesn’t know whether Yeddy’s morbid F gene took him to the site.
But he was quick to share his pain with the bereaved family.
And he was quick to calculate pain as well.
2 lakhs each to the families of the bereaved and 50k to the injured.

What I don’t get is this.
Who allows Yeddy to be so benevolent with the taxpayers’ money?
Or is it that now, with our votes, he thinks he’s not CM but monarch?
With a divine right over the state’s treasury?

Train accidents, fire, flood, bar-room brawls, serial killers’ victims, starvation deaths, genuine lathi charge, not-genuine lathi charge, road accidents, everything is compensated these days.
With immediate effect. And taxpayers’ money.

Like a Sheikh, Yeddy will set out and flash cash to express his sympathies.
Dole out cash that is yours and mine.
All his to dole out and wipe his tears on.

What kind of pathetic solution is this?
A developer cheats, officials cheat, and cheat again.
And the solution is always a dole-out?

Tomorrow again, something like this is bound to happen.
And tomorrow again, we won’t do shit about it.
All that will happen is that Yeddy will ride out in badly-stitched Whites like a mythical Angel of Mercy (but with various masalas on his forehead) and dole out public money again.
So who does this man think he is, some Angel of Mercy in Badly-Stitched Whites?

I know that the money will help the families of the bereaved.
But here’s what I don’t get.
Why does it go out of the taxpayers’ pockets?
When the guys who led to this disaster, are the ones who need to pay?

That besides, what’s with this entire feudal thingy about doling out cash
(never your own, of course) as a gesture of sympathy?
Or empathy, idiothy, whatever.

These days when I see a large pothole, I put stones around it.
(Large = deeper than 6’. XL = depth of average Magic Box Underpass.)
So that some moron riding his bike while messaging on his phone does not fall into it.

Because if he does, the contractor won’t suffer.
The PWD officials won’t suffer.
The guys who run tipper lorries on roads meant for Nanos won’t suffer.
It’s the taxpayer, who always pays.

A healthy life sans style.

The Mrs. decided.
Sometime between 1:10 and 1:12:16 pm, Saturday last.
That my lifestyle needed change.
(The sans style comment is reflection, wholly my own.)

I know the time for sure.
1:10 is when I reached home after the football game.
Feeling half dead and looking all the way done.
1:12 is when I pulled out a can of beer.
1:12:16 is when I crushed it.
(Well, temperatures did go up last week.)

And when the Mrs. starts listing,
you wish your worst enemy would drop in to visit.
Yes, Medha Patkar even.

I smoke, yes.
Like those Mississippi steam boats, yes.
That's out then, yes.

I like my drop of whisky.
Also whiskey.
Not much of it, mind you.
Just the tinkle of a little amber after a long day's work.
That's out, yes.

Now tinkling is for weekend weekends.
But wait, weekends are when we socialise!
So there go comfort evenings in my comfort chair with my comfort whisky meandering about a few comfort cubes in my carefully procured comfort glasses.

I like my meats.
Ok, I love my meats.
Show me one honest man who doesn't!
"But red meat...."
So that's that, brothers.
From chomping, it's down to chewing the curd.
The toothpick, is now an accessory.

Now we come to the small matter of the panting.
Recorded between the time I reached home that fateful Saturday and the time I crushed the can.

Health clubs! I hate them!
To me it is an expensive way to burn the effects of expensive tastes.
And the pre-capitalist in me explodes with indignation at this indignity!
I'll take the road, I say!
But between you and me, before the traffic takes over, this city sucks.
At 5:30, it smells like one big pit.
Yeah, like cess-pit, like septic tank, like crap.
As for getting multi-gyms and treadmills home, am firmly against it.
We have tons of space around the house for drying clothes.
So I amble around, exploring the pre-dawn eccentricities of the colony.
Jolly good, I say.
Yes, 'thande safed chadaron pe jaage der tak', is out.

By the way,
crushing cans on forehead and going 'buuuuhahahahaha'
is also out.

I like to take off on a bike, every now and then.
A couple of days with the gold old steed.
And the blissful monotony of the road.
"But what with your bad back...."
Yes, now it is the blissful monotony of the garage.

Thou shalt not buy more books when the great unread gather dust on thy shelves.
There goes the only reason one likes books.
The possibility that some day it might be a good read.
Now that I have, oh well.
Yes, fortnightly donations to Landmark are out.

Let's come to the immediate provocation.
I have just been sent an apple.
To be had at 1700 Hrs.
It's one of those varieties a middle-class, Catholic upbringing warns you about.
The ones with stickers on them.
Cost of apple: Rs. 50 (approx.)
Cost for driver to come and drop apple in a car that offers 7kmpl in city = 52 x .8 = Rs. 41.60.
Depreciation/wear and tear = Rs. 20.

I have with me a very healthy apple that costs Rs. 101.60 (approx.)
(This is not counting the many monsters that Pranab Babu is, at this moment, planning to shove down my pants.)

At 1700 Hrs., I shall stare out of the window.
Inhale deep.
And wait for the weekend, 76 far hours away.
I ain't eating that apple.

It's summer, fer Chrissakes!

What's wrong with Kolkata?
Basuda's gone, Mamatadi's quiet and it's raining.
On the 17th of Feb!
As the rest of India transits from blanket to terrace!

As it is, the light was bad.
And now!
Just when poor Mishra was becoming Mishraji!
A few strands of down even turning whiskers!

Christ, what a day.
If it rains tomorrow, I ain't gonna like it.
But if would be preferable to bright sun.
And the sight of Amla, Prince, de Villiers, Duminy playing out about 40 overs and strutting off with a series victory.

Come on Viru, look up!
Do something.

Sehwag! You sly bastard!

For years, I have prayed that India wins the toss.
Because then, Sehwag strolls in.
Not that one doesn’t like to see Zaheer homing in.
(Surely if there's a certain Smith at the other end.)
But one just likes some adrenaline first up.

But have I prayed with respect?
Or has it been just for the entertainment?

I confess, I’ve been a little condescending.
About Sehwag, that’s right.
You haven’t?
Good for you, then.

We built a few pedestals.
For Sachin, the genius. For Rahul, the academician.
For VVS, le artist. For Ganguly the roaring cub.
Sehwag?

Well, Sehwag is just a marauding Jat.
He’s a basher. He rushes in where….
You don’t expect finesse here.
You don’t expect him to be responsible.
Or change his game.

You just hand him the bat.
And ask him to go out there and swing.
Wham! Bam! Thank you Mendis.

Winning games, playing out time, winning series….
That’s what Sachin is for.
That’s what Rahul is for.
That’s what VVS does.

Sehwag? He just makes you groan.
Because you can’t believe
the off-cutter that just got onto an express train
and booked its tickets to long-off boundary.
His Ridiculous Highness, you say.
With admiration, of course.

And he’s played along.
That sly bastard.
With the ‘ball dekho, balla ghumao’ logic.
With the ‘I sing bhajans when I bat’ story.
With the absolute disregard he displays
for personal triumphs.
Missing a triple hundred going for a hoick,
he shrugs; ‘another day, another chance’.

He plays along.
And he plays us all, all the time.

He’s left his shoulders free.
Free from the burden our pedestals bring.
He keeps them free, to swing his thwacking wand.
Which time and again, in the half hour,
swings a game India’s way.
He’s never there, when the gods we appointed
talk at the post-match ceremony.
At best you see him, in the corner,
hanging over Gambhir’s shoulder,
cracking what one supposes would be a colourful joke.

You wouldn’t expect him to wax eloquent, would you?
Or expect an erudite assessment of the day’s game?
He’s the basher. He’s comedy.

In the first Test, India succumbed.
Sehwag scores a useless century.
And India is handed an innings defeat.
And in their dreams, Indian champions
see Steyn twist his ankle playing soccer,
and stain their pants.

And come the second day, second Test,
Sehwag strides out, purposefully.
And before lunch, Steyn wants to twist his
ankle playing soccer.

How many times has he turned the game around?
By taking off at a 4.5+ run-rate?
By so intimidating strike bowlers,
by so demoralising them,
that by the time the remnants of the Fab Four
come in, the bowlers just want to go home.

And I do feel, that every single time,
if it’s not this basher showing the way up the order,
we wouldn’t have been so successful in the recent past.

There was a time when Sachin’s wicket
was celebrated by the opposing team.
Have you seen how they celebrate Sehwag’s wicket?
The word, I think, is orgasmic.

And at team meetings before an India series,
I have a feeling I know who coach and bowlers
are sketching plans to counter.

You know what I think?
I think he doesn’t give a damn for what we think.
He loves the game. He reads the game.
And then he goes out and does what needs to be done.

And I have a strange feeling.
That once he retires, we'll never hear from him.
No commentary, no books, no BCCI politics, no match refereeing.
One day, he’ll hang up his boots.
And go do what he next wants to.

That will be a sad day.
Because you Sehwag, are a class all by yourself.
You, are a Fab One.

Wired, totally.

I have to remember to charge my phone.
I have to remember to charge my laptop.
I have to remember to charge my camera.
I have to remember to charge my iPod.
I have to remember to charge by Bluetooth device.

Being a slightly weird individual,
I also have to remember to charge the spare battery for my camera.

And then, I have to remember which cables to carry.
For the phone, one charger, and one transfer cable.
For the camera, the charger cable and transfer cable.
For the external hard-disk, a transfer cable.
For the laptop, the charger cable.
For the iPod, the charger cable and the earphones.
For the Bluetooth device, the charger cable.

This, is just what I carry to work.
And once I get there....
Let's not even go there.

My name is Khan.

When you think about it, my local fishmonger ain't too wrong.
He's dead cold, has expressionless eyes and prefers to go around bare-chested.