Shane Warne.... all men are that way?

Today's TOI:

View

And

Counterview

Will publish my bigoted, illiterate views on the same today evening. Till then, then.

(Edit: Here's the bigoted, illiterate reply, dated 30/07/2005

Internet at home is not working, so this small little snippet has to do. A long post on this some day, maybe (BTW, I support the counterpoint totally):

Why should cuckolded men insist on paternity tests when
their spouses explore other relationship options, even as betrayed women do not
seem as obsessed?

Hell, because the child that she will be rearing has to be hers, for chrissakes. And betrayed women do not seem as obsessed? They do, I would like to think. It's just that at times this does not lead the woman to take drastic measures like leaving the husband, in cases of the man being the single bread-earner for the family. It is not a gender problem, it is not a behavioral problem, it is just a logistical issue. Where is my next meal coming from? And thus, in countries with social security, there are more divorces due to a wife leaving a philandering husband. And correctly so.

It is so typical of Shane Warne's wife to despair that he is yet to grow up: That's what women say when their men go astray. They turn into mothers trying to reform their overgrown sons, giving up only when they realise that the man is an irredeemable rake.

Yes, it is typical of her. But not because it is because she needs to mother her husband. It is because, simply, Shane Warne has, actually not grown up. He has actually not grown up to his social responsibilities. A basic pre-requisite of human beings as social animals is social behavior. Marriage, a social phenomenon, requires fidelity from partners. And if person A is philandering, that is not as per social norms. It is not as per the rubrics of marriage. Thus, it is wrong.

Females are more circumspect in their sexual habits because in them vests the responsibility of reproduction and nurture.

And where are the numbers to support your claim? ou just throw an arbitrary scenario from the air and tell us to believe in that? Give an STP kind of a scenario (sorry, I did study science once), where men and women meet and interact regularly and normally, and then give me the analysis. And then, and only then, will I even consider this statement. You give me the numbers for India, and I will fume. I'd say a lot of women in non-metropolitan cities never leave their houses, where will they meet men to philander with? For all the free-sex shenanigans, philandering is wrong. Is wrong. Is wrong if the husband does it, and is wrong if the wife does it. Thank you.

And incidentally, we are not blessed Sea-Horses. And (shamelessly copying a quote from the counterpoint) there is a reason neither Sea-Horses, nor Chimpanzees are ruling the world.)

Read this, please.

Courtesy Prem Panicker's Blog.

Favourite Ashes Players

For me, it is Allan Border, the person who taught the Aussies never to dream of losing, and the Brits never to dream of winning. The man who fine-tuned to perfection (ed: it WAS in existance earlier) the art of 'mental disintegration', much before it was given a name by Steve Waugh and co. The hard little man, unemotional, rugged, moderately talented but extracting every ounce from it. The person who first emphasized the importance of attitude over talent in selection of players for the national team (Tim Zoehrer comes to mind as an example). A leader of men and a strategist. Oh, not to forget, also the best batsman in the team. And he won without Warne and McGrath. Well, he won the World Cup (in India!) with a team that could be, at best, called average.

The man who started it all, the creator of the Relentless Aussie Juggernaut.

Munich 1972, and Spielberg

And Spielberg I can trust to do justice to what I think was the most shocking moment in Olympic history and as Speilberg says, the

defining moment in the modern history of the Middle East

.... why, I think this was one of the most shocking moments in the second half of the last century.

Also, could anybody verify this piece of information? I have heard that after this incident, the Mossad guys got their revenge. They searched and murdered each and every of the Black September guys, the last one happening as late as in the late 1990's. Or is this another urban legend too?

(Ed: Thanks to the rogue planeteer for informing me of this.)

Yoo Hoo!

Robbins! Robbins! New Book! New Book!

And here's a sneak peek.

Sunny and Kishore-da

Our cook, Sunny, is a cool guy. Talks real loud, cracks the funniest of jokes, and has this knack of endearing himself to new people real quickly. And all of us 186ers (there has been about fifteen-twenty of us, I guess. House no 186 has a sort of a permanence: for people may come and people may go, the house is there forever) would agree that Sunny has been more a part of this place than any of us. Has been cooking at this house for the last three-and-a-half or so years, and has been an integral part of House no. 186. Well, he has a key to the house, we are more than relieved at giving him the money for the electricity and water bill and he has been depositing them to the respective offices for the last three years, and from staying in the hospital for night vigils for a critically ill roommate to helping in packing and carrying luggage to the railway station for another who is leaving the house and the town, he has been at the thick of things all the while. An addition to the whole Sunny paraphernalia has been a newly acquired cellphone. So now if one doesn’t want to eat at home for the evening, or if friends are coming over and extra food needs to be made, or worse, if one has forgotten to take along the room keys in the morning and the other roommates are still in office, Sunny is just a call away.

So this Sunny gets a VCD of some Kishore Kumar songs today from some other employer of his, and I get to hear, after a long time, one of my favourite songs, Aaj Unse Pehli Mulaqaat Hogi. If I have to describe this song with one word only, refreshing it will be.

Commie movie

Pardon my McCarthyism, but this movie's more Communist Manifesto that Love Story. Funny, that ten years ago, when I read the book, I never thought so.

A foreign field no more

Book: A Corner of a Foreign Field
Author: Ramachandra Guha
Genre: Society/ History/ Sports.
Publishers: Picador India 2002
Pages: 496.


I love social history. I love sports. I quite like cricket. So I picked up “A corner of a foreign field” with hardly any trepidation. I had to like the book…. And you know what? I did.

Now I am not a greenhorn in the cricketing history of our country. I remember actually identifying Palwankar Baloo’s snap at some quiz somewhere. I did know him as the first in the line of great spinners that India has produced, and had read of the famous unofficial tour to England in the early part of the last century where this great dalit cricketer, with only two English words in his vocabulary (How’s that!) wrecked havoc among the best of the English batsmen (After reading Guha’s book, I tend to believe that this story of Baloo and his command over the queen’s language was more of romanticised urban legend that anything else). I did know him as one of the first few truly national figures among the dalits. I had in fact heard of the Triangulars (of Mumbai) which eventually became the Quadrangulars and then the Pentangulars. I have heard and read of the exploits of CK Nayudu, and the paeans written for him by musty-eyed old cricket writers. I had heard of such names as Buchi Babu and Lord Harris and CB Fry.

And there were many take homes for me from this book. In a clipped, honest, sturdy rather than poetic style, the writer details for us the whole history of Indian cricket, especially of its pre-test status era. Ah, and would a social historian just give one the facts and figures? Would he stand back from analysing the data that he has collected? Thankfully, Guha does not. His analysis is precise, correct to an extent of assurance most of the times, and I should not really complain, for the only situations where I differed with his views completely in the first three parts of the book was about Calcutta football, clearly not one of Mr. Guha’s fortes.

The book is divided into four chapters to indicate the four great social waves into which Indian cricket could be divided. To start with, the establishment of cricket in the country, and the osmosis of the stiff-upper-lip fish-and-chips sport into the spicy kitchens of India ( a simple example: the conversion of the popular proverb “it isn’t over ‘till the fat lady sings”, often used in the game of glorious uncertainties, to the manifold more colourful “it isn’t over till the fat sardarni from Bulandshehr does the bhangra” which I happened to read somewhere); the opposition Indian cricket had to face in its infancy from the British rulers who hardly considered Indians capable of ever playing the game at the standards of the founders of the game; a nice analysis of why this game more than any other, took the fancy of the Indian public in general, on how the nature of the game was perfectly suited to the Indian’s tastes and behavioural idiosyncrasies; are all perfectly reproduced in the first part of the book, termed ‘Race’. The next chapter deals with that bane of the Indian Hindu society, caste. As cricket grows in the country, so does the country develop and try to eradicate the bane of untouchability from within it. Rather, how the dalits make their presence felt in the arena of sports, this serving as just a precursor to their presence at all other segments of society, in spite of all the despicable methods adopted by the higher castes to keep them from the mainstream Hindu folds. It is here that the chief characters of the book, the Palwankar family, are presented to the reader. The third part of the book deals with the most direct intermingling of the freedom struggle and cricket in the country. Religion, an issue which was hardly a major factor in the previous two parts of the book come into serious focus in this part, due especially to the times (the 30’s to the 50’s), and the religious uncertainty permeating the country at that time.. CK Nayudu, possibly the most dominant Indian sportsperson (definitely in the minds of the public) in pre-independence Indian sport, comes to us with all his spectacular brilliance as a sportsperson and with his most human flaws. The fourth part does not deal so much with the cricket as with the fans of the game, and how they underwent the transformation from a genuine cricket-loving race, appreciating good sport and yet wanting their side to win, to rowdy partisans, who want the team to win at any cost; now putting the cricketers on a pedestal as national heroes, now unceremoniously pulling the images down after one shoddy performance.

Guha’s style of writing befits that of a historian with a knack for writing. For all his love for the cricket of the Palwankar brothers, he never goes at lengths into the beauty of Palwankar Baloo’s follow-through, neither does he go ballistic in his praise of Vithal’s batting and fielding. He presents the facts exactly as they are. Economical with his words, he says what he has to say exactly the way he wants to say it. His analysis is almost always supported with facts and numbers and reliable anecdotes. I was really glad to see that he does not go into comparison between cricketers of different ages, a common bane of sports writers. He presents the facts as a historian, does his analysis as an analyst, with the help of numbers and vignettes rather than any pre-conceived notion, and is convincing throughout.

But if I could say, the bane of this book, and of Guha himself, is the bane of most historians. Very true to the facts in his analysis of history, he never overshoots, neither does he miss any single strand of information in his accurate analysis of Indian cricket before Independence. The first three parts ring true because of the meticulous research and impartiality of his observation and analysis, And this is precisely where he misses out in the last section of the book, where his personal feelings come in (obviously so, for how can you be impartial and observational as a historian to something you have yourself seen with your eyes), making this part more strident, clearly taking sides, the Ramachandra Guha in him comes into prominence with his preferences and dislikes, his political and his social beliefs; the impartial, impassive historian in him gradually sliding into the woodwork. The voice, economical with words, clipped, with an honest ring to it, becomes shriller, with the analysis becoming more and more the case of one trying to prove his point by hook or by crook. And that has to be anticipated too. Historian or no historian, no Indian, especially someone with so much passion for the game and the country, could be completely impartial in their observations of the two major panacea of the country, cricket and politics.

What comes across the most at the end of this book is the intense love for a game by the author. It is possibly because of this love that he is able to be impartial and honest in his analysis in the first three parts, and even more so, this great love could be sited as the reason which prompts his to sometimes be a bit opinionated in the last part of the book.

All in all, a knowledgeable, intelligent, researched read, which thankfully never becomes tedious in its pursuit of the unrecorded and unregistered. I would call it a definite success, Guha did reach where he wanted to in the end. I think it's quite a landmark in the Indian sports writing arena, and would suggest it to everyone who has a love for either of social issues, the Indian freedom struggle or cricket, and can atleast appreciate the other two. It, I guarantee, will be quite an enchanting read and a rewarding experience. Thank you, Mr. Guha.

Contentment a very short story

They will tell you that I am absolutely incapable of creative writing i.e. writing fiction. I will second them. Yet, this was what came out some eight-nine months ago. Pan it to your heart's content. folks.

He would certainly have been happier had it rolled down. But well, that was a little too much to expect anyway.

He was amazed how predictable it has all been for the last hour or so. And now, sitting in this open-air terrace, watching the sediments slowly settle down the bottom of the tumbler…. Red wine, they say, is classy, and it is those sediments which make it so….. failing, rather refusing to make eye-contact, looking around for something to hold one’s attention to, failing to find any, sharing a sudden glance at each other, and looking away the moment there is realization that the glance is mutual; just waiting, for there is nothing to happen…. waiting for time to just pass by….. he realises that …

… that this specific moment is his, and his only. And yes, it would not last for very much longer. And fifteen minutes is all that he has got to … to do nothing at all….

Cutting short the precursor to a deep breath, he chances a look at her. As he had expected, she looks back at him, and then looks away. Ah, half a second more, please …. when he sees it. That tiny little glitter, at the end of one of her eyes.

She is feeling sorry. Sorry for in about fifteen minutes, she would have to hurt this gawky, fidgety boy by getting up from this rather comfortable sofa, away from the atrocious music that’s made even worse by being played softly, and walk away.

He would certainly have been happier had the teardrop rolled down her cheek. But well, that was a little too much to expect anyway.

Parineeta

Brick-and-cement are temporary, class is permanent.

The 1960’s. When Calcutta was not Kolkata. When Calcutta was still one on the most important cities in India. When old-world values and morals coexisted with the new-found bohemianism of the swinging sixties of the West. Where Tagore coexisted with Elvis. When Calcutta was splendid, glorious, and we will pardon the hedonism, ok? The period just before the eventual (and rather rapid) decline.

A tacitly portrayed social commentary of those days which does not for a moment take one away from the tender love story which is the chief theme. Tugging away at the heartstrings, with the undisclosed love, the lure of the lucre and misunderstandings which do get sorted out somehow in the end. Now this has always been a feature of Saratchandra’s family novels. Exclude “Srikanto”, and most of the others, infact all of the other family novels that I have read of his, have real, earthen characters, everyday men and women, who when somehow caught in the midst of misunderstandings, get their own judgments warped; but eventually the good in them allows them the vision to see reality for what it is. At least a few of the misunderstandings get resolved. This is no different. And as for the bong background: yes, it does not keep to Sharatchandra’s story. I don’t remember reading Parineeta, but as per what Ma tells me (in my discussion with her about the movie) there was a Brahmo angle to it. I guess Lolita’s uncle converts himself and the family, to get some respite from poverty, and also such that Lolita could be married well. But then, is that relevant in today’s context? It isn’t, however much the only Brahmo reader of this blog might insist. So these little liberties with the script are allowed to be taken by the director, IMHO.

The movie is handled well no doubts. No glaring flaws in portrayal as such. The nouveau riche uttor-rahriyo, who has crossed the kaala-pani, so has become an untouchable to the classy sophisticated old-world dakshin-rahriyo Calcuttan; the utterly ruthless bong businessman, a species that was still in existance in the ‘60’s; ...ah, the Phaeton, THE car of Calcutta in those days; puchkas in front of the Victoria; Trincas, Moulin Rouge; hell, the Flury’s cakes; the dhunuchi dance (hell, how did you manage to do that, Sanjay? Good job!); mosquito nets which look like mosquito nets; the grand piano; “Phoole phoole dholey dholey” … (ouch, the tune is hardly Tagore’s, child, that was a lift from ‘Auld Lang Syne’ BTW); the old mansions with extended corridors (this house looked eerily like one of my friends’); it all adds up to a compact whole.

But the ending, the ending! A momentary lapse of reason, I must say! A Parineeta would certainly not need a “Kachhra, maar/ maar Bhuvan” ending. We bongs tend to be a peaceful, quiet people, hardly given to drastic physical action. Especially those mild, cowardly dakshin-rahriyo folk.

Sanjay Dutt as the brawny nouveau-riche uttor-rahriyo contrasts brilliantly with the delicate poet-musician of an authentic Calcuttan in Saif Ali Khan….. umm, bongs never have such sharp features, I must say, though. Back to Sanjay Dutt, his eyes have the pathos and the pain that is so much a requisite for the role of the unrequited lover. Umm…was it courtesy the cocaine those years ago, Sanjoo? Saif ali Khan, apart from his tendency to blend into the background at the presence of another leading man, is good indeed. He has this little-boy-lost presence which makes him ideal for this love-in-the-midst-of-family-problems, friend-in-the-midst-of-two-other-estranged-friends, lover-who-thinks-he-is-not-good-enough kind of roles. And he CAN act. Vidya Balan is exquisite. Pretty as a painting, can act, and has this warm, human element to her beauty which is a rather difficult thing to find in the Mumbai film industry of present times, with mannequins, fakes and frost maidens ruling the roost. And she does a decent job as this proud ghoti bombshell. Hmm, live happily dominated ever after, Mr. hubby? (And o, one small miss here, Lolita is not pronounced in the Vladimir Nabokov- Humbert Humbert way, please! The o in Lolita is not an ‘aw’, but a real genuine ‘o’ for us bongs). Diya Mirza, in a rather mis-represented role of a ‘90’s page three siren, is so on-your-face tacky that she actually ends up becoming rather desirable, which I guess the director was not really attempting to get at. Sabyasachi Chakraborty, as usual, is good. And was that Lily Chakraborty who played Saif’s mother? Hell, woman, get off the screen! Too much of Jatra has got to her, I fear. Raima, by far the better actress of the Sen siblings, is competent and it is to her credit that she does not seem out of place in the movie, where she had a rather background-decoration kind of a role.

Oh, and possibly the best music in a hindi movie for a long, long time. Drop-jaw awesome cinematography, capturing the best, the absolute best of the city of palaces. The brits certainly knew how to build, I will give them that much. A taut screenplay, and at times one has to take liberties with a novel written in the early nineteen hundreds, to make it relevant to the viewership of 2005. All in all, an appreciable performance from a debutante director.

Verdict: Don’t miss.

(p.s.: Was remembering Meshomoshai. Phoole phoole dholey dholey was his favourite song. And he did sing it well. Ah, those days of the harmonium and the tabla and our own private anurodh-er-aashor. A happy extended family. Just a speck in the memory now. Things change, don’t they?)

D

Complicated.

Yes, yes, it does pale in comparison to Company. But if those evil elements in ones mind which make one compare are kept at bay, quite a well-made movie. While Satya was all grit, grime and boorish, brutal violence … of course allayed with a tad excess of maudlin sentimentality, Company was the classier of the two. It, alas, tugged at fewer heartstrings, and that I believe is the barometer which determines whether a grit-and-grime movie (or for the matter, any movie) will succeed in the Mumbai film industry. A Godfather, with its spine-chilling and clinically ruthless storyline, would have been a failure, or at best a moderate success in India (now come on, we are talking Godfather here!). We in India need to feel our movie a bit more than them in the US, I guess. A movie which is all head, all clinical perfection and has a realistic portrayal of emotions, and which does or does not tug at the heartstrings as the situation demands, is not really to our tastes. We want our screen people to be what we want to be, rather than what we are. We are rather less expressive with our emotions in public, and that is precisely what we want our screen men and women to be. I guess the Americans, more expressive with their emotions in public, would quite like themselves being portrayed on screen. So even a Rocky Balboa would be expected to have the same expressions as any other common man when he is gleeful or devastated. Not so Sunny Deol in Gadar. But then, different societies, different tastes. An Indian will get drawn to the story of a Bhiku Mhatre and , or for the matter Sunjay Dutt in Vaastav (the biggest hit of them all gangster movies, but really a human story, infact quite a love story more than anything else). Even Ab tak Chhappan, which is more a tale of revenge than anything else. And that is where the reason for D possibly not ending up becoming a huge hit comes in. We want our chief characters to show emotion. A ruthless, cold leading man, with minimum explanations for him not wanting to be an honest man, and taking the plunge into the underworld is given, apart from a lust for power, is not quite the leading man we want on screen. And oh, before I forget, this is I guess the only one of the ganglord movies where there is no divine retribution, no final settlement, no “the ones who live by the gun, die by the gun” rhetoric. D did win in the end.

OK coming back to D, Randeep Hooda is a good actor. I think he has a future in the industry. One did almost miss him as a part of the large (and brilliant) ensemble cast in Monsoon Wedding, where he, like everybody and everything else in the movie, was flawless. But this movie is all his. The cold, emotionless, inert eyes just add up to the image of this ruthless ganglord who, more than anything else, is a man of reason. And yes, this movie has style, certainly much more style than Satya or even Company. It was heartening to see Chunky Pandey after a long time in a film. He would pass muster, as would Goga Kapoor as Hashim, the ageing ganglord, his judgment blinded by love for the kin. Yashpal Sharma, one of the most under-rated, one of the best support actors in the Mumbai film industry (He was spectacular in Gangaajal and Hazaaron, although his performance in Chhappan would have to take the cake), gives a flawless performance. The women are more arm-candy than anything else. Isha Koppikar, well, had a bit of a role, but naah, not much of an actress. Her best performance in a ganglord movie remains the “Khallas” cameo in Company. But watch out for Sushant Singh. This guy is really good at becoming the person he is playing. He was awesome in Jungle, and in this movie, there was not an expression that could have been played more realistically.

As for the movie, I have talked about the stylish bit. The movie does have the sheen. But I would always insist, this would have been a better movie had it been four hours long, with all the explanations given; or one and a half hours long, with no explanations whatsoever. That does not mean that the storyline sags anywhere, it does not. There have been few movies from The Factory which have had sagging storylines. But that would definitely have seen to it that the movie reaches out a bit more to the viewers.

Verdict: Watch it.

Could you believe?

I scream riot. I threaten them with (in order)

• The consumer forum
• Some contact I have in TOI (I don't have any)
• Taking the modem out and selling it off

And being the nice polite gentlemen and ladies that they are... Here I am, blogging from home. After the 32nd complaint, after three months and two days of harassment, at last, it is here.

Well, I am off for training for the rest of the week, and am returning only on Sunday. So till then, chew on these, folks. Of course, you will be seeing dated reviews of Parineeta and D here, but hell, I wrote them to post on this blog, and if anybody could be blamed for the delay, it is Tata Indicom.

(p.s.: The connection though is quite fast, touchwood!)

When I gave up....

I give up.

Hi,

This is to inform you that a bill from Tata indicom broadband has been delivered to me at my residence, which asks me to pay Rs. 1180/- to my account no XXXXXXX.

Bill no: XXXXXXXXXX.

User Name: XXXXXXXX

It so happens that 3 months after applying for the connection from Tata indicom, I have not yet received the connection at my home. So do you expect me to still pay for a service which I have not received?

It is very unfortunate that after three months of asking for (and having already paid the installation charges for) the connection at Tata Indicom, I have still not been connected. It is downright atrocious to see, now, that you expect me to pay for the connection that I have never got.

Please do take back the connection (including the modem etc) from my place, and pay me back the initial installation charges (of Rs. 551/-) that I have already paid you. It has been a very sad and unfortunate association with your organization.

Regards

And so it stands.

Mamata-di prefers Mohun Bagan to BQC

Got this through email

In trivial news, our most "loved" quizmaster, Derek O Brien missed out on the Rajya Sabha ticket Mamata Banerjee wanted to give him. The party has now nominated "Mohun Bagan" and "Sambad Pratidin" 's Swapan Sadhan (Tutu) Bose. O'Brien would have to be content handling Didi's mouthpiece - Jaago Bangla.

For all my oft-stated loathing for Mr. O'Brien, Tutu Bose? The same Tutu Bose who fucked namma Mohun Bagan to smithereens? Who converted the national football club of the Dhiren Dey yore, to a supporterless loser shit club which struggles to save themselves from relegation?

But anyway, Didi was never famous for her common sense. And Trinamool is already in smithereens.

On Page 3 Economists (or When journalism and I met at an arm’s length)

One of the greatest back-handed compliments I have ever received came in last week. This was from a family member of mine whose judgments I value quite a bit. In native Bengali, it goes

“Tui pray.i kich.chui jaanish naa, khub ekta bhalo likhish.o na; kintu jara janey naa tader thekey ektu beshi jaanish, aar jaara jaaney, tader thekey ektu bhalo likhish.”

Translated, it becomes

“You hardly know anything, you don’t write well either; but you know a little more than the ones who do not know, and write a little better than the ones who know.”

Now whatever I might say to that, in my heart of hearts, I know it is correct. So there it stands.

On the same topic, this is what happened in late Jan ’05. Hilarious though it might sound, I did almost land a job as a page 3 economist. This was during the despondent days at my previous organization. Let me tell you the story.

You know, there is a whole huge difference between the job they offer at Bschool campuses, and the job you actually get to do when you land up over there. And a HOT brandname does not ensure that you will like your job. So I hated work. So I was applying to whatever job I could come across. My CV must have been received by every bloody organization in India. After the first fifteen days of hunting down Monster and Naukri and the Bschool e-group and Timesaccents of the two previous months, I decided that I could relax the chip-on-my-shoulder ‘Business Analyst job only’ stuff of mine a little, and just apply. Applied for a core Finance job, even though I was a solid B- to C+ in BSchool in Finance (cracked the job too…. I do gab well…. But that’s a whole different story); applied for core Operations jobs, and obviously did not crack those… if miracles would happen every time, they would not be called miracles anymore, would they? Marketing jobs, sales jobs, shady jobs, too-good-for-me jobs, 5 years-of-experience-needed jobs (I had 0.5 years) … oh yeah, tried them all. And then come the sudden plateaux in activity. By that time, I had applied to all of them I could apply for. Gave all the interviews I could. Now wait for the results/ confirmations to come in…. and that gets a) boring and b) scary. And since

1. I had an MBA (haha, I was not a nobody, OK? Top 5 institute and all that, and shameless as it might sound, I would brandish the Top 5 thingie too); and since
2. I like reading about economics (and not EcoTimes, at least not often, but that is again off the topic, I guess); and since
3. I thought I could write (I think so no more), I applied to the aforesaid page 3 thingie.

The written round (Times of India office, MG Road… was it the second floor?) was tailor-made for me, since to start off with, there were Biz-GK questions. Now I am sure I have bragged enough in this blog about my quizzing pedigree, so to cut a long story short, I answered almost all of them. And then there was an essay to write, on the positives and negatives of globalization. Ooh-la-la…right up my alley! I talked about everything on earth, from Glasnost and Perestroika to Michael Jordan to kids in Somalia to the origin of the Blues to what not! I even quoted from “The lexus and the olive tree”. On the pre-submission I gave it a read, and realized that it makes as much sense as a normal Govinda movie. But hell yeah did it sound cute! Hilarious at times, poignant at others, stirring no hornet’s nests, mocking, slimy, oily, sexy, very much like one of those latino lovers of a rich old man’s wife… oh yeah it worked. Again, to cut a long story short (I was talking about my writing, remember?), I did eventually get an interview call.

But then by that time, I had already got the job that I am currently doing. I really like my present job. I often insist (or rather, brag) to my friends that my weekdays are better than my weekends. I wear my access card with pride. But…. but I do wonder at times what would have happened if I would actually have become a page 3 economist.

The MIT media weblog survey

...as long as I do not go beyond the six-sigma. You do it too, ok?

Imagine

...that you are building a pyramid out of a pack of cards. You are getting there, getting there... 60% there, when somebody sneezes very close to you. And there goes your card-house. Undeterred, you start again. this time, again at about 60%, the same shit happens. You start again, and then again the same result follows. Damn!

At the risk of grossly oversimplifying, that is what is the state of the India-Pakistan peace process.

One is best

Seen on the back of a lorry. Down Bannerghatta road today.

But one is best? One is best ... when? One is best .... doing what? ... Now c'mon! The message at the back of a truck is normally 'OK TATA' or at the most, 'Burey nazar walley tera muh kaala'.... What the hell is this One is best?

And then realization hits me. This is a message for One child per couple. Oh my god!

Loneliness

in all its splendid melancholy. The craving to be heard and understood. Whoever's reading this, pick up and read this book. There are few books which implore one to write a review, to tell the world what one felt reading this book. This is certainly one of them.

How live8 was relegated to the background

Because of:

The GREATEST one-day match I have seen. And 350+ by team A chased successfully by team B does not make a brilliant one-day match. Bowler-slaughter on a dead-buried-mummified track, for heaven's sake, is not quite cricket.

A great final match. Happy that Venus won. Ungracious in victory (Q. What do you have to say about Lindsey's performance? A: Umm, she was good, she made me play well to win, and... oh well, thank you Serena, Thank you Mommy, Thank you Daddy... thank you rest of the world...), rude, but well, a character in a game which does not have too many of them.

But as for live8, did watch Dido live. Dido singing White Flag live. This woman has this weird creepy-haunting voice which really gives me the chills. And the lyrics! And also, U2 was rather subdued. Duran Duran has grown old. Greenday was quite OK though. And that's all I saw of live8.

What do I say? Good day for the couch-potato. Even ordered pizza home. So there.