Famous Last Words?

To Fattu (alias Six Foot Three): I think I just saved your last penalty in the insti. (At the main football ground)

To Sushi: Hahahaha, Soosma! (At Nescafe)

To Kaka: Accha, to hum chalte hain. (Outside his room)

To Sunky/PG: I’ll see you guys in Ravindra. (Over the phone at 3 am from Azad)

To Dela: Bye, man. (At the Azad gate at 6 am, near the rickshaw to the railway station)

To AP: I don’t think a Hello is the best way to begin this. (At the railway station, aboard the Jan Shatabdi)

Watch her go as she sings...

Settled comfortably in V’s cushy pillow, I stare with the slightest of smiles as he playfully strums that famous guitar intro from Romeo and Juliet. After Shakespeare and Mark Knopfler, I speculate on the magnitude of the disgrace it is that someone with the song-writing abilities of Taylor Swift gets to put her ignominious pen to this blessed title. Disregarding such eventualities of terrible anomalies, I applaud fulsomely when he’s done, and he brushes it off with a blushing wave and moves on to play it on his iTunes. A minute into the song, I, as always discussed with an Arbit Prat, mentioned how my idea of a perfect proposal was “You and me, babe- how about it?”. V notices the longing of immaculate romances in my eyes, and quickly catches the geek in me off guard with a quip on his acquisition of a book called “The origins of words with their romantic stories”. I laugh at his smart diversion, and quickly delve into the yarns of how I learnt the word decoy when playing a computer game called Commandos... I wonder what brought us together- laughter, pain or just a mutual friend, but our chats remain outlined with the common desire for that which we cannot have, an uncontrollable fancy for things that aren’t, weren’t meant to be. Knopfler brings his voice down to almost a whisper, in those lines that kill me each and every time; we talk about how songs we like are very different, on the contrasting planes of acoustic likeability, and emotional connections. He plays Julia Dream from a Pink Floyd album I hadn’t heard of before as we dissected Wish You Were Here, making the conversation itself the perfect example of what we were talking about.

Over three hours later, after negotiating the minefields of dogs in front of the E&C department crossroad and Ravindra Bhawan, I return to the conversation, and despite my best efforts to control the habit, I revisit the events of the night gone past, and start my playlist with Lady Writer once again, knowing only too well it’ll end with The Hardest Part.

P.S. - If the Arbit Prat and the Delanged One are reading, I couldn’t help myself when typing this post, and listened to Piper To The End more times than good for me.

P.P.S. - The title is from the chorus of this song I’ve been listening a lot to lately: She’s Got A Reason, by The Coral. Yeah, of that Scrubs song Dreaming Of You fame.

(Originally posted on 21st August, 2010 at 6:11 a.m.)

...and, we're back!

Continuing the trend set in the past two years, the first month of the new academic year has once again flown by at a speed that would frighten an already threatened Usain Bolt. The wounds from the champion's loss to Soderling at Wimbledon seemed long-healed when Murray upset him again last night. India were playing Sri Lanka yet again as the rest of the cricketing world- the Twenty20 World Champions in particular- got down to some actual work. For example, Afghanistan is now not just playing an insane amount of cricket, but regularly beating other Associate countries, too. I figure it won't be as long as some predict before we have another subcontinental Test-playing nation.

Most significantly, though, the mostly-horrible advertisement for football that was the World Cup ended without too many memorable incidents, and the Premier League returned to my relief. The transfer window was typically Fergie-ish once again, but the slight frustration of not picking up any stars was more than wiped off by the impressive pre-season showing. Chicharito looks like one hell of a find, and even 10 million pounds for a 22-year-old now seems like a bargain. Even then, my instinct tells me Bebe will be another one to join Kleberson, Eric Djemba-Djemba and Juan Sebastian Veron on that infamous list of terrible, expensive buys.

The late Monday night kick-off meant the Azad TV room would be where I watched United's season opener for the fourth year in a row, although it's zilch when compared to the fact that this was the 15th season in succession that Paul Scholes started in a season opener, or that Ryan Giggs continues to be the only player to have scored in every Premier League season. At the stroke of Chris Foy's whistle, there were just four people in the room, and me the only United fan, with the others following the fortunes of their Fantasy League selections or there to wind me up in case we drew like two years ago. And despite their joy at seeing their rivals misfire, the opening half an hour had them all disappointed as Wazza didn't even look close to getting a shot on target, leave alone scoring- their captain was failing them.

When the ever-improving Valencia charged back to win the ball from behind, and a disappointing yet spirited O'Shea passed it to the Ginger Ninja, I, like most of the Stretford End, screamed "SHOOOT!". Yet, he calmly found Berba at the edge of the box, and the Bulgarian's finish was met by my yell of delight and relief. As the celebrations for United's opening goal of the season died down, the fact that I had no fellow fan to high-five began to prick me, though I knew that be it Bangalore, Hyderabad, Mumbai or Gurgaon, Dela, Sushi, Gulati, Manki and Kaka would probably be jumping out of their chairs and yelling, too. The rest of the game, thankfully, was a breeze, with Scholes especially in imperious form. It would have been a perfect night had Berbatov put an end to that lovely one-touch move involving Scholesy and Rooney. 3-0 was still an auspicious start to the season, and definitely the boost we need before that ever-tricky visit to Craven Cottage.

Let's hope, in the year that marks two decades since Liverpool last won the League, we decisively knock them off their fucking perch. Glory, glory, Man United!

Old dope and lost hope

He had little idea when he was woken up from an uneasy sleep that the time was four in the morning. After some weeks’ rest, the rain gods had decided to get back to business, springing a rude surprise on the few residents who were enjoying these dry days. From the vantage point on the uncovered top walkway looking up to the stars, he drowsily dawdled down the dusty steps. The dust kept reminding him that this area wasn’t inhabited anymore, not for the last few months at least. How it mattered to him was anyone’s guess, though, as no one knew if he could keep track of time. Those two months could mean a fleeting break, or an ever-lasting epoch. Few could care about what he felt, but anyone who’d have noticed the drooping ears and those longing eyes would know it was the latter.

He cursed the clouds as he unsuccessfully tried to settle into another walkway. Sleep disturbed is like a child ridiculed: it just isn’t the same ever again. Then, a door opened, and through the slowly-fading darkness, he spotted a small light. The noise from the sources nearby suggested familiar revelry. Even though a more rational part of his heart asserted it to be a red herring, his hopeful part convinced him the last two months were just a small break from the routine. He scrambled down the stairs; the very stairs he’d acquainted himself with along with his master, along their many varied sojourns across the land. He’d fed and fondled him, loved and lingered with him. And then he had disappeared, but the reappearance of that light he had so often near his mouth suggested he was back. His delight overpowered reason, and he ran across to the room’s closed door, looking for the mouth holding that light. The smell of another familiar smoke wafted in to his nose, and he was lost again. He was reminded of the first time his master had introduced him to the magical grass. The grass that could be burnt and its smoke inhaled, he remembered light-headedly as he sauntered across to the back door, convinced his master had returned. That feeling of weightlessness was vivid in his memory; he recalled being on top of the world with just one puff of his lungs. The man with the light looked down at him doubtingly, as the sun slowly emerged from its reverie. The dark blue silhouette emerged to be a shorter, leaner man than his master, but his belief was unbroken. He feverishly turned to the open door, looking for the face he looked forward to the most amidst the overhanging layer of magic smoke. The man with the light shouted, and more came out from inside the room; an air of hostility around them. His master wasn’t one of them, but as he tried to walk into to the room to check if he still was in some unseen corner, they kicked him. They shouted curses, some laughed as they threw those very lights at him. The pragmatic part of his mind chose this moment to take over, and his hope was crushed. Beaten, humiliated and crestfallen, he walked out onto the wet grass, feeling slightly cold in the steady drizzle.

Jackie knew Noka had probably left for good.

Another drip in the wall?

There were damsels in distress,
There were bright shining knights
There was garbage in excess
And heroes in tights

In the middle of the night
And the blinding sunny day
Under the shimmering moonlight
Were sold shady tales

Of eyewear worn by superstars
And belts by their dads
Weary of hefty men with bars
Collecting cash in wads

There were starry-eyed girls
And single-minded guys
With their hands roaming in twirls
Remembering failed tries

There was a rich man on a bike
There was a pauper with pink paper
One another they didn’t like
On the flip sides of a taper

Not beaten by trick or treat
Our subject has a ball
As he cracks open that zipper
And pees on the wall

(You can sing this quite like those Irish drinking songs.)

The Sultan of Swing- Part II

Eagle Studios sounded a shady enough name for a film studio in Uttar Pradesh. I hadn’t heard of a Film City anywhere above the Aravalis, and it was with this sense of doubt that I entered the vehicle that was to take us there. Past acres of land supporting omnipresent apartment buildings, the Sumo lunged and leaped to a more open road, to the relative relief of my seemingly claustrophobic co-passengers. The road was finally smooth, and I reached down for my water bottle, before the oily teacher from the previous night’s dinner gasped “What is that huge golden statue of Lord Shiva?”. I smirked at his self-answering question, and continued to look for my bottle, as the driver explained in his gutka-chewing sideways voice, “Gulshan Kumar’s studios. T-Series, you know? Lots of good music.”

We reached the venue after five more minutes- in the final stretch, the car had once again gone off that good road, and hit bumps that propelled our heads through the roof, almost. I mentally patted myself on the back for not having had too heavy a breakfast, and stepped out to a building not very different from the ones surrounding it- only a storey or two smaller. An overly-fancy fountain welcomed us to the side entrance of Eagle Studios. A neat garden on our right was full with smartly-dressed school kids. Across the salmon facade of the building, near the edge that bent away to the even more fancy front entrance, stood a small table bearing a water container and a coffee machine. Huddled around it, and up ahead in front of it, were a group of teachers, chattering politely. I noticed a couple of lookers in there, but was disappointingly reminded that I had no one to point them out to. A dinner and breakfast didn’t give enough time to make acquaintances, and my partner seemed anything but interested in the fairer sex (I’d heard he was committed; I hadn’t much of an idea of the class one year senior to mine).

The guy who’d accompanied us asked us to wait as he ran inside screaming on his walkie-talkie. Before anyone could move, I grumbled to our teacher “Look, none of them are wearing blazers. Why are we being forced to wear them when they’re not part of the school uniform? I’m burning in here”. “Oh, come on, don’t be a baby. When they’re inside, even they’ll be wearing theirs. Don’t be impatient. You can take it off if you’re not comfortable now. But once we’re inside, you better be in that green coat!” As I continued to make a face, a couple of people beckoned us inside. The otherwise dully-coloured walls were replete with movie posters, with a small glass-framed plaque below each showing the year and room it was shot in. I could only spot a few I knew- Mrityudaata and Shahrukh’s Chamatkaar, amongst others. The irritatingly catchy title tune of the eponymous TV series started playing in my head. Trying to shake it off, we walked on towards the lounge, where we could watch the proceedings, as a huge applause resonated from the wall beside us. A few metres ahead, a door opened, and out he walked. “Phew! That was a close one, wasn’t it?”. He seemed to be talking to no one in particular. We walked into the lounge, where faces with contrasting emotions stared at us from cushy sofas. I was still smiling in the glory of finally seeing the man I’d previously only admired on television. The nine of us took some spots, and looked to the guy who’d ushered us in. “Sonia will be here in a few minutes. She’s the producer. Yours is the first episode tomorrow morning; the first one for the South Zone. Make yourselves comfortable.” We snuggled into the couches, as the crowd from the previous episode barged into the now-jam-packed lounge: it was time for the West Zone finals of the ESPN School Quiz 2003...

The next morning began with me complaining about our blazers again. “This is my brother’s. It hasn’t been used for almost five years, and just barely fits me. When we joined in the winter and wore this, we weren’t even allowed to go in with this! And now, suddenly, it’s the pride of the school. Those Chennai schools don’t even have ties, for goodness’ sake, forget blazers! They’re fine with coming with their collar buttons open, but we have to wear blazers. Show-offs, I tell you!” My partner calmly heard all of this, and proceeded to have his breakfast in relative peace after that...

Our episode was good, our teacher said. “You shouldn’t have gone for the win, though. Respectability could’ve been fought for. I mean, after last year’s -1, -6 isn’t...”, he stopped as I glowered at him. “Sir, in quizzes, you go out to win. If not, try keeping your school’s pride intact by giving a good show. I know -6 is a horrible score to end up at, but do you intend to insult our commitment out there?”. As soon as I said that, I feared a harangue, and bigger problems at school, but he smiled and said “I know you guys gave your best. Don’t worry, you’ll do much better next time, I know”.

Then, it happened. Harsha Bhogle (yes, it’s him centimetres from you, I pinched myself) came out of nowhere, patted us on the shoulders, and said “That scoreboard doesn’t always tell the true story. You’re a good team, DPS Vizag.” He smiled and walked to his room. My day was made, or so I thought.

As our teacher walked back to the lounge, I and my partner stayed back for water. The water cooler in the studios was just outside the main set where the episodes were shot, almost obscured by the stairs. I passed my partner a glass, and a clear voice said from the top of the steps “Yaar, thoda mere liye bhi paani lena.” A long flashy pair of black pointed boots strutted down, topped by a blue denim jeans. A tight black shirt clung to a tall muscular body, and as that left hand with a Rolex watch came for the glass in my outstretched hand, I finally saw the face with the sunglasses. It was unmistakeably clear, yet distinctly unreal, that the Sultan of Swing, and ODI cricket’s highest wicket-taker had just said “Thanks, man!” to me and shook my hand. Wasim Akram stood for a moment sipping, when Harsha walked back and said “Ah, so you’ve met the man already! Come, everybody, let’s go have a little intro session in the lounge”. The word had spread, and before they reached the lounge, Wasim was bombarded by pens and scratchpads. My teammate had run to find his bag, too. I still stood at the water cooler, dazed. I never even got an autograph, or even a photo. But, I somehow, couldn’t care less.

The Sultan of Swing- Part I

The round, friendly Kashmiri at whose once-home we were staying called out to us all from downstairs, and I shouted from the couch to my companion in his bed: it was time for dinner. Ever since we had been driven from the Hazrat Nizamuddin railway station after an exhaustingly boring forty-hour train ride to this quaint little three-storey guest house, I had been starving. While the others all crashed to sleep, my hunger kept me up through the three hours or so till dinner. As I sped downstairs, a dozen other fourteen-year-olds and a handful of adults stood waiting near the steaming, but closed containers. As one bespectacled, oily-haired adult groaned “It’s a good ten minutes past nine. Late again. When will we sleep?”, the round Kashmiri’s even rounder wife turned up panting. “The curd you wanted. The helpers mixed things up in the morning. I had to set the milk again, and...”. “Alright, alright! What do we have today?”, barked another teacher in front of me. As the Kashmiri with the greying beard and wizening, yet bright hazel eyes took off the lid, I breathed loudly Kamal ki kakdi. The teacher turned around as if I’d cursed him in French, but the man with the lid in his hands was glowing through the steam. “Lotus stems in spicy red gravy, sir”, I answered to no question from the teacher, quickly adding before he could point that out “A Kashmiri specialty”. He walked away to get himself rice, and as I served myself, the host couldn’t hide his glee. “Are you South Indian? Then how do you know about our dish?”, he asked. All I came up with was “I like food, from anywhere.” He moved along to tell me about their chicken special, when my vigorous shake of the head brought a slight dip in his spirits. “You’re vegetarian, too? Those people should’ve told us they’re sending all South Zone people here. They always...” “My friend here, though, will love this”, I said quickly as I dragged my partner, who was then told the story of how tender the chicken needs to be in Hindi tinged with Punjabi. He nodded on and smiled nervously, even though he couldn’t get a word. I couldn’t afford distractions as I poured ladle upon ladle of piping-hot rajma onto my plate.

One would have to be as dumb as Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua to not notice the tension in the air. The large portico behind the guest-house’s entry gate served as the dining area, which was torn through the middle by a silence best described as killer. An occasional spiteful glance here and there would be met with equal acrimony: the two sides mentally murdered each other repeatedly. Before we could think of a way to avoid it diplomatically, we were right there, in that deserted centre. Stuck in no man’s land, we had to decide which side to take. As my partner nudged me in the side to help decide, I made the soundest decision I could think of: stay close to the food. Our choice was made, and we, too, were now being quartered and battered in the other side’s mind. I went up to the nearest soul who didn’t look like homicidal, and asked why there were two sides looking at each other like wolves about to tear into each other. He replied with a question- “Where are you from?”. As quizzical as it seemed, I answered Visakhapatnam. “Didn’t they put the Andhra guys in another place?”. I wondered how long till I’d have answers instead of more questions. After three more, he bothered to help me. “Those cocky asses- they’re all from Bangalore. Think they’re like bloody Americans. Keep making fun of us for no reason. Think that 50Paisa guy is cool, and we’re not...” and he launched into a tirade of expletives, ending in Tamil. I nodded on, carefully picking out the chillies from my raita, and swallowed one when he asked “You’re with us, right?”. I grinned and said “Bloody Northies put too many chillies in curd, don’t they?”, earning his widest smile and silently praying to God for mercy.

For as far as I could remember that early in the morning, I woke up in a room before anyone else did for the first time ever. My roommate and partner proved to be a tough log to shake, and I was all clean, dressed and ready when he finally got up. It was five minutes to the end of breakfast time, and he rushed down with me as a thinner crowd stood having buttered bread and boiled eggs. I could notice no one of the Chennai side from last night and my partner yawned loudly. “Here comes another one from In Da Club”. That comment elicited a roar of laughter, as more jokes, almost all ending with da or something to with Rajnikanth, ensued. We took a corner and spoke softly in Telugu, when one of them walked up to us and said “You guys aren’t speaking Tamil. Not from Chennai?”. “No, we’re from Visakhapatnam, actually.” “Come on, you mean Vizag! Don’t make it so long! Hi, I’m Easwar.” Sides were asked to be chosen again, and we side-stepped again, but the rest of the meal did go smoothly. Both the sides weren’t too bad actually, and when my partner asked me who I preferred, I couldn’t pick one.

Before we left to crash in front of the TV again, I went up to the landlord and asked where we’d be taken, and when. He said “Those who had their slots today are gone already. All but two Chennai teams, and most of the Bangalore crowd. It’ll come back to pick you all up in about two hours. You’ll be going to Eagle Studios. That’s in Film City, Noida. Not too far from here.”

(To be continued)