Heroes, herrings and heartburns

The herald of the last decade of the second millennium saw the winds of change blowing through India. The nation was finally going to shed its protective traditionalism and give way to economic reforms. That yearly horde at the airport grew larger as more plucky Punjabis and sharp Gujaratis flew to the West, leaving a sizeable imprint on both sides of the Atlantic, and giving a fillip to the use of the word ‘Diaspora’ back home. Even at the movies, the era of Bappi Lahiri-fuelled disco hits was slowly but surely fading into a newer form of cinema, with the audiences being treated to the likes of Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak, Andaz Apna Apna and Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron. In a more morose change, the Indian cricket team was readying to let its ageing golden generation give way to a newer set of hopefuls. Little did anyone know, though, what was to become of that diminutive sixteen-year-old who, till the beginning of that decade, with twinkling eyes, was carrying drinks for the household names that were Kapil Dev, Sunil Gavaskar and many other legends of Indian cricket.

It was the time of a generation seeking to put behind years of underachievement, reclaim its glorious- and more prosperous- past and move towards a future of economical, social and technological advancement. Yet, it was a generation starved of recent past success, save the cricketing community, on whom the realisation that its championship-winning capabilities were under the threat of geriatric decay was dawning. In a way, people were looking for someone to show the way. Even including the cricketers, it was a generation looking for idols. For heroes.

Right at the start of this decade, on a typically dry July night in the capital, I was born. And true to the prevailing zeitgeist, I, too, longed for icons. Even before I turned three, the little master was enthralling crowds all over the world. I probably couldn’t even understand what that swing of the blade meant, but I am told I clapped with glee, jumping up and down in excitement. That was the start of a worship that still goes on unconditionally. More on that in some other post- that story has so many chapters and anecdotes; it wouldn’t be complete till Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar takes the heart-breaking step of retiring.

I studied nursery in a small school in Kawas, a town a few kilometres off Surat, in Gujarat. A feisty little boy I was, throwing the deadliest of tantrums when my mother made her valiant attempts to get me to the school, adjacent to the hospital where she had to go. Even after the sapping battles I fought to get there, I would never be short of energy in class, picking up fights with anyone and everyone for no reason at all. But, mere pugnacity wasn’t enough- my frail frame made me get beaten time and again. Even at home, my elder brother always had the better of me. In such trying circumstances, I looked for heroes to guide me on my path to claim glory.

Cue for the stars of the World Wrestling Federation to step in. Carrying imposing bodies built from the street fights in the Bronx, the stunts of Hollywood, under the tutelage of Samoan wrestling legends or sheer Texan tenacity in their blood, these men not only entertained, but inspired many a child to fight like there’s always next Monday. Even if there’s blood from that chair-shot, or the twisted ankle from that submission manoeuvre, you don’t give up until the referee bangs his bare hands into the canvas three times as you’re pinning down the enemy. And not just that, these men also brought their quick-witted imagination into play, winning many a battle without raising a fist, with the power of their words. The Rock, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Bret ‘The Hitman’ Hart, the ‘Heart Break Kid’ Shawn Michaels, (my present namesake) Triple H and a host of others enriched my childhood with words, gestures and finishing moves. Oh, standing triumphantly in a full classroom, raising an imaginary belt high in the air, one eye acknowledging the raucous crowd, the other scouring the corridor for a hint of the teacher’s arrival- the WWF, just like Tendulkar, filled our hearts with delight, inspiration and hope.

A few years into the new millennium, I saw a show on the TV called ‘Pro Wrestling’s secrets revealed’. What seemed like a damning attack on my childhood addiction, turned out to be the dark truth. Yet, I couldn’t seem to think The Rock’s impromptu Samoan drop to Triple H at SummerSlam, Shawn Michaels’ death-defying leap of faith from the top of the first Hell-in-a-Cell or Stone Cold’s audacious beer bash in a monster truck could’ve been staged or, in fact, were staged. My idols couldn’t be fake. Making the reasonable assumption that it was the present crop of pretenders that were the culprits, I quit watching the form of wrestling branded as sports entertainment.

Till today, that show’s revelations resonate in my heart. My confidence was shaken, my belief shattered and my abilities questioned. As defining as that event was, it wasn’t to be the first of its kind. As the dawn of a new age saw this upturn, the end of teenage saw another. Thank God, my mother clarified that Shahrukh wasn’t cheating on Suchitra Krishnamoorthy by running away with Kajol. And thank Ramesh Tendulkar and his wife for Sachin Tendulkar.