A Streetcar Named IPL

May I use this platform to raise a rhetorical question: Is the Indian Premier League as popular as portrayed by BCCI?

They have craftily inculcated a suggestion: “If you are a cricket fan and you don’t support IPL or T20, you are anti-Indian.” This ploy is effective in manipulating the impressionable masses. For Indian fans in particular, the fear of being ostracised or branded as unpatriotic triggers an obligatory concession for IPL.

Do Indian fans really adore IPL? Inherently, Indians watch cricket to support their country rather than IPL’s franchises — it does not surpass international cricket. Can IPL match the buzz of Pakistan’s tour of India in 2005 or the 2011 World Cup? Surely IPL draws crowd to the stadiums but the television ratings have plunged in the last two seasons. Watching IPL matches at grounds is like a picnic for the spectators, for it’s a short T20 format; it’s an outing, a deviation from their dreary routines; it’s a use-and-throw, watch-and-forget entertainment for them, like an intercourse without foreplay with a streetwalker. Indians are losing interest in “real” cricket, let alone the vaudville of IPL. But BCCI and its agents continue to flaunt a story of success. At times they open gates to let the indolent, ticketless throng fill the stadium. The dearth of T20 international matches — except for the frequent world cups — can be imputed to depriving people of T20 cricket so that IPL remains the flagship brand. Repetition is the key: the agents, in the form of media and commentators, keep hammering IPL’s tremendous stature, till it permeates the psyche of the peer-pressured consumers.

BCCI’s scullions crow and snigger whenever a foreign cricketer chooses IPL over his country. If an Indian cricketer chose Big Bash or county cricket over India, would they extend the same tolerance?

Red Carpet Cricket

Saeed Ajmal’s surprising exclusion from ICC’s awards has incited vehement remonstrations from Pakistan Cricket Board and sympathisers. ICC’s awards are as important to cricket as Oscars are to cinema. The winners of the last year’s awards are crystal clear in our memories, just like the awards from the years before. I clearly remember how we all waited with bated breath after every nomination, only to exult or utter invectives thenceforth, depending on the outcome. Don’t we remember watching the news channels showing enthusiastic fans carousing and revelling on streets? Don’t we remember the ubiquitous Ravi Shastri’s encomium, filled with his signature expressions, in the leading newspapers? How can we forget the winners’ parade in an open-air omnibus, a la Shahrukh Khan’s team’s victory march in Kolkata? It was the ICC’s award that enchanted England’s win in the T20 World Cup, 2010. (For those struggling to keep up with the T20 world cups, yes, England are the defending champions in the upcoming world cup.) It was the award that rocketed Vinay Kumar’s “price” in the IPL auction and fetched M.S. Dhoni a multi-million-dollar deal.

In one of other ICC’s vagaries, Australia have descended to number ten, below Ireland and Bangladesh, in ICC’s T20 rankings. The ranking system appears to be over-simplistic; Ireland and Bangladesh have more victories than Australia but all their wins have come against associate nations (non-Test playing nations); whereas, Australia’s comparatively fewer victories have been against superior teams. Cricket Australia should take a leaf out of PCB’s book and threaten to boycott ICC until the rankings are annulled thereof, and they are ascended to a more respectable position; moreover, preferably higher than New Zealand.

Everybody’s Got a Price

Kapil Dev has at last sprawled himself for the mighty BCCI. Two months ago he said that he wasn’t accountable to BCCI and now he is calling it his “parent”. It took a few snubs, thwarts and eventually $270,000 for him to prostrate himself before the dogged authority.

In all fairness, he is entitled to avail the pecuniary benefits from BCCI when others in the fraternity are laughing their way to the bank. But what’s interesting is his sycophancy towards BCCI. The man who had threatened to go on a hunger strike unless the ostracised ICL (now defunct) cricketers were reinstated by BCCI  is now eulogising their double-chinned administrator, Srinivasan. He is the same man who always vehemently criticised BCCI; now he is crooning paternalistic hymns, his hands folded in obesiance, in front BCCI’s simulacrum and Srinivasan’s adorned picture. The old school locution happens to be true: “Everybody’s got a price”.

The Usual Scapegoats

The mob is back with cans of paraffin and lighters with the usual scapegoats tied on bamboo poles. Sanjay Manjrekar is the principal campaigner, gyrating around the scapegoats, screeching and chanting mumbo-jumbo, supported by his mob of news correspondents and a few quondam cricketers. His hair burnished with gel; impish eyes wide open, filled with Schadenfreude; mouth open and crooning; head swinging left and right; a flambeau in hand, drooling to burn the scapegoats like they were the witches of Salem.

There is nothing new in the scenario: whenever Indian batting line up fails in a series, Dravid or Laxman are picked as the scapegoats. Rahul Dravid is temporarily spared due to his excellent run on the tour of England, though he is the next to be lynched. In point of fact, the fiascos in England and Australia cannot be imputed to an individual. The team has lost because of a comprehensive batting failure. Gambhir has been patchy in the last two years and hasn’t scored a hundred thenceforth. Everybody’s favourite Sehwag — a brilliant batsman, nonetheless — has struggled outside of Asia since 2009 with a meagre average in twenties. The skipper Dhoni has been downright inconsistent in Test cricket for a long time. Yet the mob hasn’t uttered a word against them and singled him out as the culprit.

The same experts talked about grooming youngsters in place of Laxman when he was only twenty-eight years of age. Their paedophilic eye only saw his place in the team as a blockage for young talent like Kaif and Yuvraj. (It’s hard to imagine how they would have accommodated two players in place of one.) They cried for his exclusion when the entire middle-order failed in Sri Lanka in 2008, even though he had done better than the other stalwarts. And he went on to play memorable match-winning knocks both home and away in the subsequent years. The rants stopped and an ephemeral admiration grew when his runs continued to flow in 2010; the moment the flow stemmed, out came the cans of paraffin. 

After purging the scapegoats following the tour of Australia, the scene will shift to the dead-pan, flat pitches of India where the mob will eulogise the replacements’ red-painted buttocks. Eventually the frenzy will end when the most important tournament of the world begins in April. 

These Darn Outages

Near the twilight hour, I heard the sound of a plastic bucket flutter against a wall, thud of doors along with thunder. Within a few minutes, the inevitable outage struck. In this country, all it takes is some drizzle or a little current of air for an outage to befall my perfunctory existence. A big part of one’s lifetime is spent awaiting its resumption. Power thefts are still thriving despite the anti-corruption hysteria created by media and masses. Fortunately the prospects of the harrowing 2009 seem unlikely, at least in the near future.

In all fairness, after some introspection, retrospection, insight, hindsight — does an outage really impinge on the scheme of things? If all, it perhaps exacerbated the downturn — and did nothing else apart from that. It hardly matters. As a doubting Thomas would say, “A dark age without outage, would still be a dark age.”

Dull Cup

The mill of cricket, in yet another attempt to save ODI cricket, is just few hours away from generating another world cup — the fifth in four years. Media and ESPN are trying their best to promote it but it seems like a hollow, insipid world cup. Besides an overdose of cricket, especially world cups, the format of the 2011 world cup is incorrigibly stupid. Are the cricket authorities suffering from mental slavery and low self-esteem by reverting to the flawed set-up of the 1996 World Cup?  They are trying hard to emulate soccer but soccer is far more competitive than cricket and has thirty-two teams, of which most of them are capable of winning the title. Moreover, they have to go through several qualifying matches.  

The rules have been carefully designed to make sure that the top draws have an easy sailing in the round-robin phase. As a result, the first four weeks will have virtually meaningless matches. The real competition will only last for ten days i.e. from the quarter finals to the final. ICC’s Champions Trophy has a far more competitive format in comparsion.

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.