Denial

by Anuranjan Roy

There was the slouch and there was the swagger. The open top button of his cricket playing uniform be it Tests or ODIs, the amulet around his neck he let hang out to watch his 'supple wrists' come into play. The TV commentators' repeated use of the words 'soft hands' when he was batting and 'sharp catch' when he was on the field. The unique all-white helmet he wore and the routine "The boys played really well today..." nature of his post-match presentation talk irrespective of the match's outcome. My first clear memories of watching Indian cricket sometime back in the early 90s didn't feature victory too much. Yet they have staying power as if bound to my psyche with strings of silk.

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Then came that dreadful night of 1996. Why? Why would anyone choose to chase under lights at the Eden Gardens, notorious for being the wrong place to chase runs under the lights? Why in the World Cup semi-final? The whispers grew louder. Psssttt... do you know what happens in the Sharjah matches? Psssttt... did you not wonder why so-and-so played in such-and-such manner? The accusations were horrifying, the crimes were unspeakable. Whether that particular match had any undue influences exerted in its sad result will remain a debate quite irresolveable, rearing its head up even recently but the fact was our way of looking at and investing real emotions in Indian cricket would change forever in the next few years to follow.  

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I refused to believe. No, no. Not him. I thought of the reluctant ease with which the bat was held, almost unwillingly and the casual flash it took to reach the ball. The unlikely angles created when a fullish delivery outside off stump was dispatched to any of the leg-side boundary boards. I remembered the time when, on his favourite ground of the Eden Gardens, Lance Klusener, taken for five consecutive Hyderabadi fours in the first over after lunch, looked flabbergasted. How he walked up to the youngster  immediately after the over to tousle his hair, smiling and offering his commiserations to the beleagured debutant. Once when he didn't catch Curtly Ambrose cleanly in the slips, even though the batsman had walked, he called him back to the batting crease. He the ever cheerful sportsman, a gentleman cricketer, supremely and dominantly competitive in the arcs traced by his bat but never a trace of ugliness in his on-field behaviour.

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Children are creatures of instinct. Swinging conditions or sharp bounce or footwork were fancy terms too much for an immature brain to process. The appreciation of those handling such conditions via technique would come as I grew older. All I understood and appreciated in the beginning was the flair. And that, he had plenty of. Our heroes, sporting and otherwise tend to be put up on high pedestals, especially the ones that drew us in our formative years, aiding the belief that they were not subject to other worldly human flaws. To the unbiased logical mind, the facts of the enquiry were clear-cut and so was the decision. But in a place where there should be searing anger, there is only a dull pain and a lasting refusal to accept reality. No, no. Not him.

Spider Sense

Bertie Wooster spent his life sidestepping devious plans of his aunts to tie him up into nuptial knots.
However, the modern generation is not completely free from such perils of partnership.

by

Anuranjan Roy

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"Don't hang around with your buddies after work today. Try to come home early."

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A reasonably innocuous statement at breakfast time on a workday but I don't know why spider-sense is tingling, warning me of imminent unseen danger.

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"Why?" I ask Mom "What's the deal?"

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"Mr and Mrs. XYZ are visiting. Our very good friends from our days in Mysore. They've recently moved back to Kolkata."

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My parents' 1 year in Mysore was just before I was born so at least I'll be spared the regular "Oooh! The last time I saw you was when you were wearing nappies. Look at you now!" routine... I think. "No, you did not see me in my nappies. I wasn't born the last time you met my parents."

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"Will try to." I say and grab my motorcycle keys heading out to fulfil my quota of work owed to the world, a debt I shall have to keep paying up on till I reach retirement age.

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It's a routine day at work by most definitions - chit-chatting, work, lunch at the canteen while simultaneously cursing the food as we eat it, deadly post-lunch drowsiness, attempts at work, "EOD is here and I haven't got half as far as I was supposed to..." tensions etc but I still have to get to the bottom of the spider-sense warning. So I decide to dilly-dally a little bit more at office than head back home.

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I don't have to wait for too long after my regular departure time before my cell phone starts ringing. It's Mom.

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"When are you going to get home? These folks are eager to see you."

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"I'll be heading out soon." I reply while waiting for more obvious clues to their enthusiasm.

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"Their daughter is here too. She's getting bored"

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Aha! Spider-sense gets stronger.

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"We wanted to give her something since this is the first time we are seeing her. Ummm... let's see. Why don't you get some chocolate for her ***on our behalf*** on the way back?" she continues.

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"What?!! Chocolate? How old is she?" I enquire.

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"About 23-24, I guess..."

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Smooth.

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"[Cough! Cough!] Oh no! Something came up at work. Probably won't be able to take off right now. Will call you later. Bye!" I say before hanging up and dedicating the next 2 hours to reading random articles on Google News via my office desktop.

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Its 10:30 at night by the time I feel safe again to get set for the return journey. Any 'eager' parties should have taken the hint by now.

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For all the traps and set-ups in the world, I've only got one message. Spider-sense never fails.

Friend Feed Overload

by 

Anuranjan Roy

I almost quit Facebook yesterday. I really did seriously consider it. No, not because I am among the unfortunate few whose mom is on FB and have to deal with questions like "Who is that?" or worser still "What is that?" on every picture or comment posted. That's a pain I have learnt to live with in this, the information age. I like getting on to Facebook and Orkut too much to really quit it whole-sale. Commenting and album surfing are too much of a fun activity to give up completely. The only reason the thought ran across my head was that I came online on Yahoo Messenger after many years and ran into a very rare kind of friend.

Rare because this buddy of mine is not on any of the social networks be it Orkut or Facebook or any of the others (Are there any left alive?). Back in the day, he mistakenly signed up for Yahoo and that's where he remains. One of my closest friends, we had spent the majority of our school life as part of our regular crew of pals hanging out, playing terrace cricket, early morning cycle races, pre-tuition post-tuition video gaming and all those wonderful things that only kids can get away with. Growing up sucks (Boo hoo) but that's a different issue and here I will get back to the topic. It was so awesome to get in touch with him again. Where are you, what are you up to, how's the old hometown, remember how we used to sneak past the stadium security guards to religiously play our game of evening cricket, you went to the US?, you bought a Pulsar - hey me too, mine's red! - all questions and answers put forward with an intention of actually listening and filling in the gaps. Waves of nostalgia and a uber cool buddy-buddy feeling swamped us both.

As opposed to if he were on FB. Every week or so, his face would pop on my news-feed or if he were as hyperactive as me, he would pop up daily! I would know where he was, how he was and all those details without ever having to talk to him as in virtual terms he'd be shouting about it from the rooftops. When I'd talk to him, there wasn't much to talk about now because "Hey, I went to the US!" would be met with "I know... (those pictures you uploaded stayed on my home page forever)", "Hey! I bought a red Pulsar" would be replied by "Yeah, I saw your status message...(and the 10000 comments that followed below it)" So boring, so meaningless would be our conversation since there wasn't anything to really learn and laugh about. 

Facebook, Orkut and their brothers have driven a real thrill out of our lives. To bump into somebody from our past in a foreign city, to jump up in joy and to negotiate the stream of questions from both ends - all that is unfortunately something that happened to people in the past. Now that someone is a friend, he/she stays on your life's home page and within easy contact forever. Forever in this case is boring because it is just too much information. Almost everything you wanted to know or did not want to know is on public display. Sometimes a long separation is necessary to make the old connections even stronger. In an ironical twist, this post is going onto my FB status, but I was tempted, really tempted yesterday to get the mystery and adventure of not knowing back into my life.

*

Anuranjan Roy is a regular contributor to Scroll. He blogs at http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com

Imagine

Imagine - Anuranjan Roy

Anuranjan Roy is a regular guest contributor based in Kolkata, India.

He blogs at http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com

Imagine... that you are Sachin Tendulkar, 20 years of international cricket experience behind
you, walking in to bat.

It's early on the windy first day of a Test match at the Newlands stadium,Cape Town, South
Africa. Two quick Indian wickets have already gone down but the crowds have poured into the stadium for exactly the situation you find yourself in. You absorb the noise, the atmosphere, the excitement and the expectations of the watching thousands plus the millions catching the action live on television; gather a deep breath and take guard.

Steaming in towards you, without the slightest hint of goodwill in his intentions, is the best fast bowler in international cricket currently in business, Dale Steyn. He can swing the cricket ball like its on drugs; bowl at speeds that will shatter your stumps before you can blink and also crack your ribs if you are caught unawares by one of his mean short of length deliveries. Accuracy and discipline is not something he can be faulted on, not to forget that this is Cape Town where the ball swings, bounces and bites anyway. Any other person in your place
would have just raised his hands in surrender and walked away. But not you. 

Because you are Tendulkar. You've been in tight corners like this before. Where there is Steyn running in, there was once a Wasim Akram or an Allan Donald or a Glenn McGrath
or a Shoaib Akhtar. If it's short and wide, cut it; if it's full outside off, cream a cover drive; if it's full and straight, punch it back past the bowler; if it's full on the pads, flick it away on the leg side; if it's short and heading towards your body, pull it; if it's really short, hook it or just weave away from it. You have an answer for almost anything. Almost. 20 years in the
business of extraordinary batting still haven't helped you prepare for the "corridor".
In fact, the thrill of the "corridor" might the only reason that you still revel in the challenge of playing cricket. 

Of all the expressions frequently used by cricket commentators, "Corridor of uncertainty" has to be the most evocative. The good length delivery in the narrow zone on or around the off stump, poses multiple questions to the batsman in that brief half a second it takes to get him. Back foot or front foot? Play it or let it go? Thump it or stonewall it? So many questions, never a definite answer. Uncertainty as defined in the English dictionary assumes the form of a live snarling creature. Being Sachin and the bowler being Steyn, you half expect what's coming. There it is, the perfect good length delivery at blistering pace in that doubt breeding region around the off stump. 

There are three South African slip fielders and a wicketkeeper waiting for a nick which they
will gratefully pouch. Your critics will then snigger behind your back ignorant of the reality of two decades of invaluable service to the team, "He is useless in critical situations." Maybe you should let this one go and wait for an easier one. But what if this comes back in towards the stumps? It'll be too late to react then! If you half play it, there is every chance of a thin
edge so why not smack it? A crackling boundary to start with works wonders for your confidence. All difficult choices but the truth is that you love being there, at that position of potential. There may be glory to be hoped for or sheer disappointment to be coped with, but the real incentive is not knowing what will happen, until you make your move.

Negotiating the bewildering path of life is so much like playing an infinite Test match as a
batsman. You need patience and you need judgement; you need anticipation and you need self-belief. Opportunities come and go, like zippy Steyn deliveries. On a bad day, you grit your teeth and try to weather the storm. On a good day, you middle the ones that are there to be hit, the short balls and the full ones. Yet anything in the corridor of uncertainty is always a mystery, no matter how long you play.

That is when you need that rare combination of pluck and luck as you shape up to face the
unknown. Rule number 1 is to accept that life is frequently unfair and you shouldn't be complaining about how you were handed a raw deal, especially since you are by far not the first person that something  ridiculously undeserved happened to. It is in the nature of life to slap you in the face for no reason at all, and all those years of hard work in the nets might amount to a big round zero on match day. There might also be wrong choices made, but it's
pointless to rue them for long. Of course being dismissed hurts, but the only option you have in this life is to back yourself and live to fight another day.
Then, there is the exciting possibility of things going right, of achieving a flow that keeps you at the crease for a long, fulfilling innings. People will say what they say anyway but at the end of the day, it's your life to live and your route to choose.

 Quoting Liam Thomas Ryder:

"Time sets the stage; fate writes the script; but only we may choose our
character."

Imagine that you are Sachin Tendulkar.

The Question of Homecoming

The Question - Anuranjan Roy

"So how do you feel about returning to India?" asked a friend from the seat in front of me as the British Airways flight from Boston to London circled above the bright night lights of Britain's capital. This was the half-way mark towards my return to India after one and a half years in the USA, and suddenly I lacked the gung-ho optimism which had been my constant companion till the second I had boarded this flight. I was rather circumspect in my reply, "I don't know!"

I was uneasy; like one would feel if every invitee gifted a deodorant on his birthday.

To put it mildly, I was having a blast in the States. An ever growing circle of friends; a significant number of well settled and welcoming relatives sprinkled across the country; one weekend in California; the next in New York City; U2 shows live; canoeing in the forests of Maine; sailing on the Atlantic; skydiving; driving hundreds of miles along spectacular open freeways in a variety of vehicles. Yet I would simply laugh off the suggestion of  "settling in the US".

Life itself was some sort of adventure, the people were friendly and the work culture was awesome yet...

Not being able to justify this yet even to myself was frustrating. The long queues and confused noises at Heathrow added to the gnawing doubt that an objective answer to the question was not going to be comfortable. My parents had come visiting during the last two wonderful months of my stay and our collective luggage handling  kept me busy at the airport. Finding my seat on the plane to Bombay, I waited till the aircraft had taken off before burying myself in the in-flight movie entertainment platter just to escape my thoughts.

In the process, I ended up watching Pixar Studio's Up, an animated movie about Carl Fredrickson, a retired widower who had filled a lifetime with happy dreams of travels to faraway lands with his beloved wife but never got to fulfill them as the pressing needs of a regular life kept them rooted and locally entangled. With his wife having passed away and with old age caretakers knocking on his door, he ties thousands of multi-coloured helium balloons to his house making it float away for a highly entertaining and touching journey. To my relief, the story kept me completely engrossed.

Soon we landed in Bombay, a city that I had always adored blindly, at least till I had left the country. But now the airport looked like and sounded of complete and utter chaos. The luggage conveyor belts were mobbed  and it was hard to last ten seconds without a marauding trolley crushing your toes. Completely spoilt by my brief stay in a orderly nation, I could not help shouting at an overenthusiastic, self appointed porter who only wanted to transport our suitcases, cruelly ignoring the fact that all he was trying was to ensure his hard-earned daily bread.

It was past 3:00 AM when we left the airport and headed to my brother's flat down the empty Western Express highway. I noticed more than ever before how much of a work in progress my country was. There were flyovers and buildings in various stages of construction everywhere, a semi transparent shroud of dust perpetually in the air, families walking barefoot alongside the highway for an early morning tryst at the Siddhi Vinayak temple, our driver ignoring one red light after the other with speedy nonchalance. As expected, not much had changed while I was away and a deep seated dissatisfaction troubled me.

Suddenly the quiet of the night was invaded by what sounded like countless buzzing bees. We looked up to witness a dozen odd motorcycles loaded with whooping and joyful youngsters zoom past us. These were not imported super-fast motorcycles, but regular Indian motorcycles doing 55 mph at the most, yet the look on their faces said that they were having the time of their lives. The driver angrily blamed the Dhoom picture for misguiding the youngsters; mom was making her clucking sound of disapproval; dad I suspect was, like me, smiling. I smiled because I realized the very personal nature of happiness.

The place and the environment of one's nurture are inextricably entwined with his needs for happiness. I used to think that this idea was solely based on the romanticized ideals of patriotism and gratitude to the homeland, but now understood that this was also a very cold fact. All things put together, in a life overburdened with personal wishes and desires, without undue compulsion, the tricolour with a wheel in between had become my flag, the cricket team in blue was my team and a chunk of land in the south of Asia was my country.

I remembered being asked by curious foreigners to discuss Diwali, Eid, Royal Bengal tigers, the Mahabharata, Kalaripayattu and so on, and my limited but enthusiastic explanation of the same because an Indian was expected to know all these and more. I recalled hating "Slumdog Milllionaire" and the personal sense of guilt at being unable to deny that many people still did live like this in my country when an American friend asked. Was it fair to objectively compare what was irrevocably mine (both great and not-so-great) to the foreign standards and crib about situations that were partly my responsibility?

                                                                     Shubham Gupta

There was so much of construction-work going around - noise, bricks and cement flying midair, they thought it safe to move their dwelling to the middle of the road. Will the ‘big’ people who will soon move in ever know what some ‘small’ people went through?

So we have our problems of brutally real and politically projected inefficiency, injustice and inequality. We are like this only is a philosophy that should not be blindly encouraged. There is much to see, learn and implement from the world outside. I could easily give an arm and a leg to continue visiting foreign places and work there for brief periods. But all doubts were quelled and I was finally at peace. It was as clear as if Carl Fredrickson had floated the answer using multi-coloured balloons across the grey of the approaching Mumbai dawn. “Home. Heart. India.”

Anuranjan Roy is a guest contributor based in Kolkata, India. He blogs at http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com