Qawwal-E-Ashes

Victory Dance.

In a picturesque celebration after retaining the Ashes, right palm behind the ear, left hand stretched out with gusto, an interflow of tone and rhythm, keeping the notes high, Graeme Swann leads his troops in singing qawwali.

It’s the sprinkler dance of course.

Reflections In The Mirror # 4

This is my life, ending one minute at a time. Caught up in imbroglio, my will seems no longer mine. As reality sinks in, to shatter my dreams, I am being forced to surrender my will.

The Lifeline is a feasible option, though it’s not something that will alleviate the downturn. It will, nevertheless, provide temporary relief to the prevailing circumstances and the unrelenting trepidation. However, the entire process, while being perturbing, will bring about mortification. It will uncover the skeletons in the closet. The worst part is that I am not in charge of the process. I am a mere foot soldier who will act upon instructions.

Once there, with the interference, the scenario of the 2008-09 season will repeat. I am sick of having others control my life. Even though the Lifeline is somewhat advantageous — at least better than staying in the dark age — but the interference will ruin everything. It will completely subvert the recovery. It is deviating me from the core issue, on which I am unable to focus because of these uwarranted distractions. This is my life, ending one minute at a time. And I am a mere bystander, watching it wither away. I need to be in control: it’s my life, the only life to realise my ambitions. I have to focus only my goal, like an archer who sees nothing but the target.

Reflections In The Mirror # 3

Buzzards are encircling. Every buzz, every peal, every festivity transports trepidation. Every impending call-in seizes me with consternation. I am running out of ideas to get a breakthrough. The eremitical circumstances have prevailed for too long. I have had enough of a fugitive’s life — enough to reach a breaking point.

The attempted relief work from outside has only exacerbated the situation. It’s proving to be an unwarranted source of angst. I am unable to address the essential issues because of these distractions. I have to get the monkeys off my back, even if by subterfuge. I am beginning to lose perspective on life. The same cycle has been going on for two-and-a-half years. I feel as if I were living the same day over and over again. I wonder when I will get out of the whirlpool of monotonous disquiet. 

The canvas is a mess of colours and meaningless patterns. There seems to be no tomorrow. The state appears to have reached stalemate. On the square of a vulnerable King, nigh on to be killed.

Reflections In The Mirror # 2

It all began in 2004. It was the year of endings; it was the year of beginnings. It was a period of indecision; it was a period of clarity. It was an era of mistakes; it was an era of discoveries. It was an age of wisdom; it was an age of imprudence. There was stress; there was fun. There was insecurity; there was optimism. There was novelty; there was ingenuous sense of wonder. It was an epoch of inception. It was a prelude to the memorable years to follow.

Some chronicles from or after the winter:

Straddled on the grey Suzuki, togged in grey apparel, grey helmet with black visor, carefully manoeuvring through the teeming streets, then hurtling past the stadium on a long road, sparsely transited by vehicles, en route for the Hut. Back in a nearby, undeveloped vicinity, on the empty streets, twisting the throttle generously, zooming from one end to other every bright afternoon.

The thrill of rushing in assignments at the last minute after being awake the whole night. The feeling of looking forward to pleasant things during the days of worries and austerity, followed by the relief of finishing it was invaluable. 

Walking on roads that were congenial for walking.

Going to the campus past midnight to complete unfinished errands.

Waking up on chilly Sunday mornings to watch wrestling.

The ingenuous excitement of buying a new book or DVD. 

Will 2010 be a prelude to the great years to follow?

Reflections In The Mirror # 1

Out of Time
It’s a dark age: the age of downturn, despondence, diffidence and mortification. Buzzards are hovering around. The commission has been an absolute letdown. They have been so aloof and inaccessible in the early stages that it’s futile to expect them to direct one to the patrons following the culmination. Moreover, since the commission will end in July, it will take them a few extra months to dispatch the permits. Six months have gone waste. I am in a tight spot. I haven’t moved an inch. How can I find the path that leads to my destination?

Threads
Tinted in white, on a cool morning, the first epistle wended its way through the window, a year ago on this date. In a week it developed into threads and has continually expanded since then.

The threads give me something to look forward to every day. They palliate the downturn unknowingly. They believe in me when I give up on myself. The threads are going strong and have improved in productivity, though, on the whole, the tie may not have room for progress anymore, courtesy preclusion. Regardless of the preclusive circumstances or the possible inertia, I will always look upon it as a quantum of solace and a glimmer of sanguinity in the age of darkness.

Day 5: Laxmania Again

The turnout was good. There was buzz and excitement in anticipation of the final day of an evenly-poised match. After Zaheer Khan’s catch, Laxman walked in at number seven, followed by his runner, Raina, to a warm reception from the crowd. An effortless single on his very first delivery towards deep midwicket region got him off the mark. After limbering up with four deliveries, he punched consecutive boundaries in Hauritz’s next over. Thereupon he kept the scorecard moving with a steady rotation of strike and occasional boundaries. Within a few overs the match looked within India’s reach until they lost three quick wickets, staggering at 124 for 8. Laxman showed no signs of getting bogged down and kept up the flow of runs. Ishant, on the other hand, channelling Jason Gillespie, showed a robust defence. A tense moment came two balls before lunch: a run-out apeal for Laxman. A long, anxious wait followed. The crowd erupted after reading “Not Out”.

Post lunch, he pulled the second delivery that he faced to reach 52* from 48 balls. He maintained a strike-rate of over hundred for a large part of his innings until towards the end when he had to refuse a few easy singles after Ishant’s discomfiture against Johnson. Crowd buzzed and applauded every run and after a while they quietened for a few minutes. Another twist came with Ishant’s wicket. Ojha, the number eleven, joined Laxman and survived four deliveries of that over. Laxman stayed calm, refused three singles off Johnson but couldn’t retain strike. An overthrow proved fatal and two byes down the leg side by Ojha channelled India to its narrowest victory in terms of wickets.

A great test match, which looked to be heading towards a draw till most part of the third day, came to an end. Albeit a draw would not have had any impact on the viewing experience as in the autumn and the wonderful spring.

Day 1: Back To The Future

"Back To The Future" has rereleased today at selected cinemas in view of its twenty-fifth anniversary — perhaps to remind me of what I am missing out on. To make up for it I decided to go elsewhere.

I was there. Inside the tunnelled entrance roofed aslant by the steps, I beheld the spectacular, lush green vista and recollected the ambience of the autumn and the spring. The grand spectacle in the morning, under the scorching, lemon-coloured sunrays had a reminiscing effect of the spring of 2005. 

I chose the side-view; the other side was cluttered. The score perhaps was 76-1 in the seventeenth over. Watson dived and skidded to make it to the finishing line. Ponting scored fluently and ran himself out, while attempting a quick single, when he looked poised to get a hundred. Afterwards, the run-rate dropped inexplicably but Watson stayed calm, perseveringly defended elegantly down on one knee. He spent thirty-six deliveries in the nervous nineties. (He has scored three nineties and a score of eighty-nine in four consecutive tests in the 2009-10 season.) Then a nudge towards square leg brought up his century.

2004, Winter

It was the winter of 2004: the winter of endings, the winter of beginnings; there was beer, vodka, whisky; there were bikes, zooming past the stadium and the empty roads of 70; there was stress, there was fun; there was fear, there was procrastination; there was insecurity, there was a sense of wonder; there were mistakes, there were discoveries; there were setbacks, there was freedom; there was hope, there was inception. It was unlike other winters. It was bright and invigorating. It was a defining winter.  

It was an epoch of beginnings. It was a prelude to the memorable years to follow.

Review: ‘We Are Family’

© Dharma Productions

Family Fatale

Five minutes into the remake, before the characters get a limbering up, the one-sided strife begins and drearily continues throughout the full-length. The power is skewed towards Maya. On the other hand, Shreya (Kareena Kapoor) is an embodiment of a humanitarian, who despite facing hostility and disapproval from everyone in the family, renders herself to their service in quest of their acceptance, notwithstanding that Aman (Arjun Rampal) had unceremoniously dumped her. The children surprisingly do not get on nerves, unlike the pesky kids in Thoda Pyar Thoda Magic. 

There is understated contempt towards career-minded single women, which eventually manifests when Maya exhorts Shreya to accept that maternal instincts seize a woman they day she is born. Shreya accepts the “challenge” and gets apprenticed under her. Even so Maya continues to be capricious towards the propitiator, alternating tolerance and hostility. The bickering keeps resurfacing from time to time.

Deigning to the sanctimoniously feministic vein of the contemporary society, We Are Family also genuflects the patriarchal cinema of the eighties and the nineties: a woman’s primary purpose in life is to get married and have children. There ought to be no regard for choice in a herd-minded, snobbish world.

Laxmania

Elegance with excellence forms the gist of Laxman’s batting. Dexterous wristwork, a glance of elegance; a dainty cover drive, a gentle tap that orchestrates a boundary: it’s poetry in motion.

A few days or weeks after India had won the first ever Twenty-20 world cup, an overenthusiastic fan — much like the overenthusiastic news channels — prophesied Laxman to be out of the test team for the forthcoming tour of Australia in a talk show at a news channel. His assertion couldn’t have been more imbecilic, in view of Laxman’s extraordinary record against Australia. Even a daftest of selection panel wouldn’t drop him against Australia. (He went on to score one pugnacious century and two fifties in the test series in Australia, including a match-winning 79 at Perth.) Any doubts that I had had over Indian selectors were erased after taking into account Laxman’s consistent retention in the team, notwithstanding the tough competition for places in the robust middle order of India. And he made his place worth the selection by scoring consistently and expediently series after series.

Later on when Kumble took over the test captaincy in late 2007, before home series against Pakistan, he expressed absolute disagreement over the calls for Laxman’s omission: “I don’t know why there is always a sword hanging over his head.” And underlined his importance in the team: “All these speculations are from outside. Inside the dressing room we all know how valuable he is to the team.”

Siddharth Moga, Cricinfo writer, has emphasised the same: “VVS Laxman has spent almost all his career as the most disposable member of the team. He has one bad Test, and the knives come out. Fans and critics alike find Laxman’s the easiest place to question. Thankfully, his team-mates and the selectors know his worth.”

He scored over 1000 runs in the year 2008, and in that year media — yet again — cried out for his exclusion after the Sri Lankan tour that India lost by 1-2 and the middle order struggled to cope up with Sri Lankan bowlers. Even then he scored two fighting fifties, including one with a swollen knee. Selectors never allowed such inane suggestions to influence their selections.

It is quite ironic that two years after the Sri Lankan series, which had customarily reignited the calls for his retirement, his career average has ascended from 43 to 47. And he has finished the series with match-winning 56 and 103* with the latter coming in the fourth innings. Laxmania is still going strong.

Cynics may complain of a low conversion rate of fifties into hundreds: 16 hundreds and 45 fifties. (Why care about cynics? Had he brooded over their remarks his career would have been over right after 2001.) Batting at number six for most of his career has often stranded him at unbeaten half-centuries. And India’s feeble tail hasn’t helped the cause either. He may not have the imposing statistics of Jayawardane, Sangakkara or Graeme Smith but he makes that up with the sheer quality and in-hour-of-need speciality of his innings.

Threads

Running out of ideas to write posts, after hours of intermittent ruminations in front of the screen, I will first congratulate myself on the six-month mark: one small milestone for an affinity. It’s been a magnificent cadence of threads during the great depression. Alas, the magnitude of this chain may always remain oblivious.

If MOU works out in some way, the absolute downturn can be alleviated. I will jump to another tangent, as the second-string team prepares for its next assignment. How many more matches with Sri Lanka are they going to play? What is the purpose of such a series? ICC is finding it hard to let go of its fixation of ODIs: perhaps the ulterior motive is to protect the records of their influential players. The scenario is turning into a travesty of the game, riding on the coat-tails of the short-term-memory movement.

The Class of ‘99

It’s not that difficult. Follow these guidelines:

1. Have No Opinions of Your Own: Suspend all your opinions and camouflage them in the colour of your social circle. Mould your beliefs and preferences as per your group, even if it means contradicting the beliefs imbued by your previous group. You are allowed to be yourself when you are alone as long as you don’t admit it in front of anyone.
   
2. Short Attention Span: It’s mandatory to have a short attention span. Condition your mental faculty in a way that you cannot concentrate on anything for more than five minutes. Whenever you watch a movie, never forget to say “it’s too long”. If you are a University student, ask your instructor for a break after every fifteen minutes. If you don’t have a low attention span, then as Alfred Hitchcock, in his intonation, told his actor who was unable to emanate the desired emotion for a particular scene, “Fake it.” Just pretend to have a low attention span. Nobody will catch you, because the chances are that they too feign it.
3. Loud Music in Car: While driving your swish car, turn the volume of your music-player, exuding sonorous clamour from the latest hip hop or country songs, at a very high level so that the bass and treble are audible to the outsiders. Gloat about how your hearing has been affected by constant earshot to loud music.
4. Driving Instructions: Disregard traffic laws. Jump red lights frequently. When joining a main-road, just dash in, bisecting the ongoing traffic, without even pausing and looking at your left or right; expect the traffic to stop and make way for you. Zoom through narrow lanes at a minimum speed of sixty kilometres per hour. Be allergic to seat belts and bear them only to elude traffic police.
   
5. Be Ashamed of Ethnic Languages: Have a strong aversion towards Hindi and local languages and label them “lowbrow”. Go about telling people how comfortable you feel with English. Pretend to be weak in your national language and gloat about how you always flunked it at school. Make fun of people who speak it fluently and call them villagers. You can add a few European languages to your repertoire as long you maintain strong distaste towards the local languages.
6. Mental Slavery: Mental slavery and bigotry are also necessary. Feel inferior to “superior” groups and never spare an opportunity to disparage “inferiors”.
7. What Will People Say: Spend your entire life worrying about “what will people say?” Make your important decisions keeping that in mind even if it means spending an eternity in hell. “Everybody is doing so” is a good enough reason for you to do it even if it is irrelevant and entails no benefit to you.
   
8. Laws Are For Mortals: Have no regard for laws. Share your misdemeanours with the same pride that army officers ascribe to serving their countries. In public places feel free to scatter waste anywhere you want. If someone questions you, retort, with a finger pointed towards them, “Nobody tells me what to do.”
9. Never Stand in a Queue: Take no notice of people standing in queues and amble towards your destination parallel to the queue in your ostensibly high-and-mighty comportment.
10. mk ur own dkshnry: Dumb down your writing skills on purpose. Minimise the usage of punctuation only to full stops and ocassional usage of commas and questionmarks. Disregard sentence case. It’s blasphemous to spell correctly. Spell “you” as ‘u’, “great” as “gr8”, “music” as “muzik”, “for” as ‘4’, “what” as “wot” etc. While addressing women, use “man” repetitively. Limit your vocabulary deliberately and pick on two-three lame words to express almost anything in every sentence you utter. 

The first rule is the most important. Whatever you do, have no opinions of your own. It can degrade you to the lower echelons of society. Just follow the crowd. There you are, now a part of the coolest echelons of society.

Poetry In Motion

Yesterday’s hard work, preceded and propelled by days of ruminations, has paid off. It worked where it mattered the most. The feedback has transcended my expectations. Such an encomium amounts more than any award or review.

It was that advice — given, while in Filbert’s Theme, two years ago — that did the trick. It decluttered my mind and allowed me to set down the nascent ideas before they could perish in the warrens of day-to-day psychological hindrances and tumults.

Some moments make one’s day and some can turn those days into life. This is an unforgettable moment. I have read the encomium umpteen times today; I will let myself bask in its glory.

Sketchy Ruminations

As I thump my keyboard, in an endeavour to inscribe my incoherent ruminations of the day, I convey my gratitude to you for being there for me. You have been one of my saviours in this unremitting depression. Thanks for imbuing me with your words of wisdom. It has become a therapeutic practice. You have given me a glimmer of purpose in a once abject and aimless life.

The story is still in abeyance. I haven’t found my ambience congenial enough to ruminate over its structure, notwithstanding the fact that I’d had my opportunity, to ensconce myself to a propitious milieu, which I frittered away. Furthermore, the frequent disruptions of power and the inexorable bouts of melancholy have encumbered my free flow of thoughts.

I search for a name every morning: the missives enliven my day.

I hope that normalcy will return to our lives, and I can wend myself to a world where dreams are not only born but are also fulfilled.

Music To My Ears

It's a marvellous song: sublime and earthly. I am still listening to it. The movie itself wasn't great but worth viewing for sure.

It is pious and full of platonic amorousness that it took me to the past and then to the future that I would have had if I hadn't put myself in the paradox. Life could have been different. At least, it would have been life.

R.F. has gone stale and has lost its aura. It doesn't seem the same anymore but it's still enjoyable nevertheless. Perhaps it's because of my prolonged turmoil that has eclipsed everything else. Summer used to be my favourite part of the year, but now I dread it. It's the eclipse after all.

His life fell apart when he took that decision. All he wanted was a simple life.

P.S. Power cuts are causing more and more nuisance. Even the nights aren't peaceful anymore. I deserve that.

Mind Crime

My beliefs have always formed my conduct. Mind has been the scene of crime or triumph — it chose whatever I shot. The Obstacle reappeared because I had never believed that I could get rid of it. I had myself vanquished by 7210 because I never believed that I could surmount it. For the same reasons I struggled throughout Moment.

The reel isn’t all about despondency. The mind has also been the scene of triumph. After 7209 and 7202, I had lost hope about everything — but for two or three days only.

Friday, 18-1: After concluding the latter, in a state of hopelessness, I first updated my address in the office and embarked on a marathon walk on an unfamiliar road. I had taken an alternative route to home and lost my way by mistake. After walking on a long, straight road, I found myself outside the city. Thereafter I turned and walked back towards my original starting point. The entire journey took more than an hour (I don’t remember the exact time).

During the walk, I had thought of several possible strategies to counter the disarray that I had put myself in. One of them was to take advantage of the clause that allowed me to pick my options, and sign up again for one component even it would be 7205. Its sanctioning, however, seemed highly improbable; moreover I lacked pecuniary resources required for that. I returned to the Site, however, with the intention of discussing the matter with my advisor, Thomo. As my luck would have it, Thomo wasn’t in his office at that time, so I left for home. Incidentally that day was also a child’s birthday. Outside his building, I received a phone call about it and felt vindicated.

I deleted my account on a social-networking portal, which was, in a way, symbolic of isolating myself from world. And I went to sleep. I slept for several hours, woke up and slept again. I don’t remember eating anything that day, nor do I have much recollection of other details due the extreme amount of stress and despair I was in.

Saturday, 19-1: The next day was pretty much the same. I wrote an email to a friend. At night I went to Ode and decided to let go of my worries for a few hours.

From the next day onwards I decided to continue that momentum and deal with that issue on the date of Judgement and ‘live’ until then. I actually lived to the fullest — perhaps it was the last time when I had done so. I dealt with Aon on 21 and acquired layers of WM. I savoured them for next few days. After a few days, the momentum, propelled by a sanguine and propitious ambience, channelled positive energy. I believed that 7209 could be surmounted and that there was light at the end of the tunnel. I rejoiced for the next 17–18 days.

In that process I ignored 7201 completely. I had no other option. Otherwise it would have revivified the negativity and recidivated my pessimism. Furthermore, 7201 expedition appeared to be tentative because of the apparent debacles of 7202 and ‘09.

Thursday, 7-2: The deadline for registration was 8-2, though 7209 would later be terminated after the day of Reckoning. I had to look into the proposals and start the formal procedure even though the entire exercise seemed futile. I would have looked into it much earlier and met the modulators in advance, if the scripts had not been altered. On Thursday night I started frantically looking into the proposals and emailed Rico at night (or past midnight, Friday).

Friday, 8-2: On the R-Day, I woke up early to check my email, but I found nothing. An hour later, I saw Rico’s email, who informed me that someone else had taken up that vacancy. I felt dejected and irresolute, fearing that I would have to charter unfamiliar territories. However, post-script slightly lifted my morale: he casually stated that I was free to contact other superintendents involved with it. I would not have done that, as I had believed that they were jointly in charge of it.

I subsequently emailed Emilio and Steven and waited for their response, in a state of my customary nervous inebriation followed by sporadic naps till evening. Thereafter I decided to savour the weekend and shelve the matter till Monday.

Monday, 11-2: I received Emilio’s email in the morning, with an apology for the delayed reply, asking me to meet him at his office in the afternoon. I had to wait outside his office for a few minutes. And as the miracle would have it, Emilio became the bearer of a propitious piece of news: he unofficially relayed the triumphant outcome, a few days in advance and gave me the nod to embark on 7201. He expressed his inability to superintend it himself, and hence, relayed me to Arthur. Despite the jitters that I had felt on the Thursday night (which was natural for the condition that I was in), the outcome didn’t come as a surprise to me, only due to the transformation I had undergone before.

Preliminary tender was on Friday, 15-2 and Seminar on Wednesday, 20-2. Emilio, however, exercised flexibility in my case and extended my deadline for the former to 20-2, on the date of the Seminar. I stayed a bit apprehensive and deferred looking into Artur’s 7201’s scenario until I formally received the news from Thomo on 18-1.

I had done it. My mind was the scene of triumph. My only discontentment was that I couldn’t really celebrate that moment, due to the dual-deadline of 20-2. But all was well that ended well: I had surmounted that hurdle with my self-belief and sanguinity.

The Butterfly Effect

"The hardest thing to learn in life is which bridge to cross and which to burn."

"Choices are hinges of decision."

"Life is the sum of all your choices."

It all comes down to decisions. It's the butterfly effect. Today I am not referring to my despondent existence but a decision made in a momentary fit of rage that unruffled my 'healing'. By not managing my lunacy I have not only stooped several steps lower, but also deprived myself of the event that I looked forward to regularly since November. Had I not lost my temper, I wouldn't have stayed awake. If I hadn't stayed awake, we wouldn't have met. If we hadn't met, I would have got it.

Those sporadic correspondences have been quite helpful in this unremitting depression. Whenever I am dejected, they come and unwittingly cheer me up. They took care of February. And when the phone call came in March, they again reappeared. On this 13th they would have had a similar effect, but I blew up that opportunity. It was like bowling a no-ball in the final over and losing a match that was mathematically impossible to lose before that. Moreover that burst has left me with deep guilt. A moment of aberration has caused a major upheaval. I keep wondering what have I become.

I am feeling better for the last few hours and I have decided to dedicate myself to an important writing task due later this year. But it's essential that I lie low for a few weeks or a month and continue the chain again.

Quotes:
[1]Edwin Markham and Pythagoras.
[2]David Russell.
[3]Albert Camus.

Most Wanted: The First Line-Up

It's book on cinema, I thought to myself after being drawn to the first book on the top shelf, the moment I saw Alfred Hitchcock's famous silhouette on it. A closer inspection revealed it to be a book of fictional short-stories. I took it nevertheless, expecting something in the lines of his TV shows and movies.

It turned out to be a cheap work of literature. The stories are from Alfred Hitchcock's "Mystery Magazine", conceived and published posthumously by the producers of his show "Alfred Hitchcock Hour". They possessed the rights of his name and merely used it to sell that cheap work of fiction.

It's full of deliberate grammatical fallacies in every story to give it a "realistic" touch:

"I don't not need none of this."
"She don't know me."
"I don't learn nothing."

One only feels like strangling the writers who wrote that twaddle.