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.

A few lanes.

A little after sunrise.
The sun was hungover, though,
and peering through bleary eyes.


The kind of lane that god created
in his divine wisdom.
Exclusively for morning walks.


Yes, this lane exists.
Yes, the flowers are real.
No, I didn't PhotoShop it.



They cattle walked past into the field to graze.
Then the man's wife walked out of the hedge with packed lunch.
And both set off to work.
Hopefully, they'll never need the NREGA.


I stood there for about 10 minutes.
Not once did he look away from the lake.

Lanes, lanes, lanes.

Here I am, walking down Moyenville Rd.
Just out to get a pack of smokes.
What I get though, is much, much more.