The Atheist

The party of people gathered around the table had just finished their supper. As is usual in such parties, the focus shifted from the food to conversation. The gathering broke up into groups and sat down on the numerous armchairs and sofas.

Mrs. Singh, Mr. Kumar and Mr.___ sat down together in a corner of the room with their steaming cups of tea.

Mrs.Singh asked Mr. Kumar "What are your plans for next weekend, Mr.Kumar? I am planning to go to Thirupathi. Maybe I could interest you in coming along?"

Mr. Kumar scratched his stubble and said. "I was kind of booked for the weekend but I ought to make a concession for a spiritual trip. After all, where would we be without our spiritualism, right?"

Mrs. Singh smiled appreciatively and turned her attention to Mr.___. "And you Mr.___, wouldn't you like to come along and bow down in front of the Holy One?"

Mr.___ smiled at Mrs. Singh's expression and replied "No thanks, but I am an atheist. Besides, had I even not been an atheist, I am sure the Almighty would understand if I did not wish to bow down before him."

Mrs. Singh and Mr. Kumar almost dropped their cups of tea in horror. Mrs. Singh was the first one to recover. "An atheist, Mr.___?! A good man like you! I don't believe it."

Mr. Kumar, more forthcoming, shook his head deprecatingly and said in a righteous tone. "Mr.___, do you realise what a bad example you are setting your kids? If everyone thought like you, the world might as well cease existing. For a godless world is as good as doomed."

Mr.___ did not like Mr. Kumar's righteous reproaches but stayed calm."Mr.___ I thank you for your concern for my kids. But please rest assured that I am even more concerned for them than you are. And I have no intention of preaching my beliefs to them. It is best for them that they make up their own minds about what to believe and what not to believe. All I can teach them is to think for themselves and not be swayed by what people want them to think."

Mrs. Singh cried in an almost pleading voice. "But think about what you are saying Mr.___. Kids cannot decide between good and bad. It's our responsibility to guide them in the right direction. Without us telling them what to do, they would definitely go astray."

Mr.___ smiled and said "Mrs. Singh, I do not believe that kids are too naive to decide between good and bad. Of course, they will make mistakes initially. But they will learn eventually. Age is often foolish when it underestimates youth. Isn't it downright arrogant of us to assume that we are wiser than our kids? Yes we have seen more of life. But more often than not, how we perceive what we see is governed by the limited viewpoint of our society and our times. So age need not necessarily make us wiser. Rather than me telling my kids what to believe, they would be much better served if they made up their own minds. Let them decide for themselves on the existence of God."

Mrs. Singh, now clearly disturbed, said. "But aren't you scared as to what kind of people they would grow up to be if they did not believe in God? Aren't you scared for your own soul, Mr.____?"

Mr.___'s smile now became wider. "I am not worried for my soul, Mrs. Singh, if there is any such thing. Mrs. Singh and Mr. Kumar, both of you have known me for several years now. And in all these years have you ever seen or heard me do or say anything remotely evil? I believe in good and I do or say only what I believe in. Yes, I am not a god-fearing person. But why do I have to be a god-fearing person to be good? Does it mean that only the fear of retribution from God scares people into being good? If it is so, are these people really good? I believe that belief in God and belief in good are two totally unrelated things. One can very easily be one without being the other. And we can see it everyday around us - so called god-fearing people who carry on the most heinous crimes against society."

Mr. Kumar who had been quiet for some time now flared up."What you are saying is utter rubbish! Everyone believes in God. Why should you be any different? Why are you needlessly trying to be a rebel?"

Mr.___ replied in an even tone. "Mr. Kumar, losing your temper with me is really quite unnecessary. I assure you that I am not trying to be a rebel. I would never go around advertising myself as an atheist. It is not an issue which I consider to be of any great significance. I know that you and Mrs. Singh are ardent believers. But I would never dream of questioning you on your beliefs. What you believe in is solely your concern. Likewise, what I believe in is solely my concern. My beliefs are not hurting anyone. Then why would you wish to impose your opinion on me? My atheism is a purely an opinion, to which I am perfectly entitled. By no stretch of imagination is it a rebellion against anyone or anything."

Mrs. Singh, now much calmer, said. "Come Mr. Kumar, It is true that Mr.___ is perfectly entitled to his opinion and he is not forcing you to change your opinion. Let us finish this discussion amicably right now."

She then glanced up at the clock hanging over the mantlepiece and exclaimed. "It's already 11! My! how the time flies. I really must get going now. I wish both of you gentlemen a very good night. And Mr. Kumar, please do not quarrel with Mr.___. Goodnight."

She then got up and walked away to take leave of the hosts.

Let the right one in

This is a Swedish movie. The title of the movie is derived from the vampire-myth that a vampire can enter a room only if invited in. Yes, this is a vampire movie. But labelling it as a vampire movie would be gross injustice. Because in reality, it is one of the most beautiful and touching movies made in recent times. The movie is based on the novel by the same name (in Swedish of course).

The movie tells the story of Oskar, a timid and sickly kid of 12. He is bullied by his mates in school and spends his evenings fantasizing about violent vengeance on his tormentors. His parents are divorced and it seems neither parent wants him. He is desperately lonely and you can actually feel his loneliness seeping into you.

One evening, while acting out his imagined vengeance, he comes across Eli, a hauntingly soulful and pale-as-death kid, a vampire kid as is gradually revealed (It's not really meant to be suspense). Eli is strongly suggested to be a girl in the movie. But you are never actually sure. In the book, Eli is a boy who was castrated. And in the movie too, Eli says twice to Oskar "I am not a girl.". But in the circumstances, that could easily have meant "I am not just a girl. I am a vampire." Anyway, I myself prefer to interpret Eli as a girl. And probably, that is the way, she should be interpreted.

Eli and Oskar strike up a heart-warming friendship, which seems to be perfectly natural even though Eli is a vampire. Both kids are so lonely and unloved that gravitating towards each other would be quite inevitable. After a point, they decide to "go steady". The scene in which they come to this agreement is really beautiful. There are several more interactions between Eli and Oskar which are worth watching again and again. Unspeakably beautiful and heart-achingly romantic.

There are other side-stories like the story of Oskar getting back at his tormentors, the story of Jocke, Lacke and Lacke's girlfriend. Then there is another very intriguing side-story. The story of Hakan, Eli's middle-aged friend. In the movie, Hakan's relationship with Eli is not explained. His duty is to procure human blood for Eli. He could be her father, a sympathiser or just a follower. In the book, Hakan is described as a paedophile, who loves Eli but is never able to get close to her. Hakan's attempts at murder and getting blood for Eli are comically inept and he fails more often than not. So Eli has to fend for herself very often, which results in some blood and gore in the movie. But the horror in the movie is depicted very naturally and in fact, very honestly. Due to which, it's impossible not to sympathise with Eli even if she is a pretty cold-blooded killer.

The setting of the story is a cold and snowy suburb of Stockholm. The cold white snow and the dark surroundings actually just mirror the loneliness of the two main protagonists. The dialogues are minimalistic yet very touching. And the direction is quite superb. The two 12 year olds in the movie deliver brilliantly nuanced performances.

This is an absolutely must-see movie, one of the best in recent memory. I have revealed as little of the plot as possible, because I want this movie to be seen by everyone. I hear there is a Hollywood remake to be made very soon. I hope the project falls through. I am sure they will just end up making another "Twilight".

The Sector 4 Sunday League

You must have heard of the once-extremely-popular English Sunday League. It was a source of great entertainment for the cricket-loving inhabitants of England in the Seventies and Eighties. The Sector4 Sunday League was a much smaller league played in the late nineties in the Sector 4 neighbourhood of Namrup, Assam. It was as keenly, if not as widely, followed as it's big brother league was in the Queen's land.

My neighbourhood in Namrup primarily consisted of two lanes of pretty houses arranged back-to-back. The inhabitants of these two lanes, though normally peaceful and kind-hearted enough, would turn into blood-thirsty foes every Sunday during the winter vacations. The battlefield would be the patch of uninterrupted grass in front of our lane and the weapons of choice would be a cricket bat and a tennis ball. At stake would be the bragging rights as the winners of the Sector 4 Sunday League. Many were the highly-competitive matches played in this wonderful league. But I would like to recount one particular match, which is still spoken of in wondrous tones in the neighbourhood and which truly embodies the spirit of the league.

The time was late January. The sun was shining brightly, but not too warmly. There was a bit of a nip in the air and a few showers over the week had left just the slightest residue of moisture in the air. In short, ideal conditions for a great game of cricket.

The thick bushes to the left of the pitch had been freshly cleared (The leg-side was the area unanimously favoured for scoring hits). People from the neighbourhood had gathered on the porches of the houses on the off-side. Placards in bright colours had been made and both encouraging and deriding slogans had been composed with much thought.

The rules agreed upon were simple. If you want to score runs, hit either on the leg-side or hit straight. Since the fences of the houses were just a couple of feet away from the bat on the off-side and since no runs were allowed once the ball went across the fence, off-side play was severely frowned upon. There was also the very sensible logic behind this rule that encouraging off-side play would mean broken windows. Each team would face a maximum of twenty overs. (Who said that Twenty-Twenty was invented in England? We had been playing this form of cricket years and years before England decided to do the same.)

The teams were pretty evenly matched. Our team - The Front Lane- had two players of any note - me and another boy - Dimpu. We were all-rounders out of necessity rather than choice. I was the strike bowler while Dimpu was the key batter. The rest of the team was made up of a combination of "Uncles" and toddlers who could barely say "cricket" without lisping. The captain of our team was Deblashkar Uncle, a self-proclaimed master-strategist and universally acclaimed as the worst leg-spinner ever.

The opposition team - The Back Lane - also had two players of any note - Pritam and Debraj. Pritam, also the captain, was easily the most physically and verbally intimidating guy from both teams. Debraj, on the other hand was a quiet guy who would have found it hard to say "Shoo!" to a hen.

There was a disturbance even before the toss as a toddler from the Back Lane started wailing loudly as his name could not be found amongst the playing eleven. He was hastily scooped up by his father to the nearest general store and bribed with a toffee to stop bawling.

The two teams shrugged off this distraction and geared themselves up for the approaching battle. The coin was tossed up, Deblashkar Uncle called correctly and decided to field first ( batting was considered to be our strength, though by what logic, I have no idea)

The openers were Dipto's Dad and Debraj's Dad. (These were the names they were always addressed by for some strange reason) Dipto's Dad, I must digress to mention here, is the original inventor of the dilscoop. Once when he had been faced with an awkwardly bouncing delivery, he had had a moment of inspiration and had scooped the ball behind himself over the wicket-keeper's head. Since then he had perfected this shot to the extent that we often opined that along with Sachin Tendulkar, he was one of the very few players in India who could handle the short-pitched stuff with aplomb.

I was the opening bowler and delivering on the stumps was enough to get me a couple of wickets in the first over. Dipto's Dad, too, was one of the two so bowled. There were loud cheers from our cheerleaders, led by Sharma Aunty holding up a kindergarten slate with "SIXXX" written on it. Though the message on the slate was rather misplaced, the emotion behind it was widely appreciated. There was some disappointment on both sides though, having been deprived of the sight of the famous scoop.

The second over was bowled by Deblashkar Uncle. The first ball was delivered with a slightly round-arm action and it spun prodigiously in the gutter. The second delivery followed roughly the same route. The third one managed to avoid the gutter as well as the outstretched bat of the batsman, but the umpire decided it was too much trouble to call it a wide. The batsman ( I forget who it was) also showed admirable sportsmanship spirit by chasing down balls yards to either side and stopping them from being called wides. The third-wicket partnership lasted a few more overs and a handy partnership was building up when one of the batter's wives ran onto the pitch huffing and puffing out the message that there was an urgent call for her husband from his mother. The batter, thus, was forced to retire "retd. urgent call".

Pritam, the Back Lane's captain, walked out at this point. It was now the turn of the opposition cheerleaders to bring out their placards demanding an unreasonable number of sixes and fours. Pritam, however, was one of those perennial underachievers. His reputation far exceeded his deeds. On this day, too, he couldn't do much. And I was having the time of my life with the ball. After a few wild swipes at my dibbly-dobbly stuff, he finally missed one and was clean-bowled.

Worried looks appeared on the faces of the Back Lane inhabitants. They had been depending heavily on Pritam's bravado. Concerned discussions were being carried on as to who should come in next to face my ire. I rather enjoyed the ridiculously wrong impression I was creating and even gave a scalding look at the rest of the opposition batsman huddled together on the nearest porch.

Finally, Debraj, the quiet timid guy, walked out. My first ball to him was defended studiously. The second was prodded to the leg side for a single and there! Debraj had survived my over. The Back lane inhabitants all breathed a little more easily. Debraj continued to play well and his confidence started rising with every shot. It was now the turn of the Front Lane inhabitants to start looking worried.

Debraj, now, started to find the boundaries with scandalous regularity and we started losing our hair at the rate of dozens per second. It was just as we were getting resigned to our fate that Debraj tried to hit one boundary too many and was miraculously caught on the boundary by Dimpu. Dimpu had to leap some 8 feet horizontally to avoid the gutter and 6 feet vertically to avoid some nettles while completing the catch. Our cheerleaders went wild with joy and the catch was immediately favourably compared to anything ever caught by Jonty Rhodes.

Thereafter, it was easy going for us and the last over saw me finishing off the last three wickets. I ended up with 6 wickets, easily the best returns of the day thus far. But Debraj's heroics meant that they had managed a healthy total of 73. In fact, it was the highest score ever managed by either team in the Sector 4 Sunday League. There were a few tense faces in our team as we prepared ourselves to smite at their total of 73.

But before we could start our innings, rest and refreshments were to be enjoyed. Delicious hot soup appeared from Sharma Aunty's kitchen and both teams indulged themselves far too much for their own good.

The refreshments proved to be our opening batsmen's undoing as both of them were literally caught napping as the ball crashed on to the stumps. However, this did not worry us unduly as Dimpu had only just started his innings. I was there too but I very stupidly ran myself out after a couple of overs. The next batsman in was Deblashkar Uncle. He was not a renowned bat, but was good at blocking his stumps by squatting right in front of them.

Dimpu warmed up by hitting a couple of sixes off Pritam, their only passable bowler. Pritam retaliated with a couple of bouncers, amidst boos from the Front lane inhabitants. Pritam didn't stop his bouncer barrage, but Dimpu farmed the strike and negotiated all the bouncers, even edging a couple of them behind the wicket for boundaries. Swear and curse as he might, Pritam could not get a single wicket and eventually ran out of his quota. Dimpu, then launched a blistering assault on the other trundlers, finding boundaries at will. Our cheerleaders went crazy and finally Sharma Aunty's previously misplaced placards could be used justifiably.

For the next few overs, Dimpu swung contemptuosly while Deblashkar Uncle squatted sagely. We were now within shouting distance of the target. It was at this point that something strange happened. Dimpu, as was his wont, swung one straight down the ground. The ball was sailing over the gutter comfortably for a six, when it collided with an overhanging electric cable and dropped into the surprised Pritam's hands. Immediately, all hell broke loose. Pritam claimed the catch, saying that the electric cable was a part of the ground conditions and had to be negotiated while batting. Dimpu, on the other hand, reasoned that the electric cable was an alien object and the ball ought to be replayed and the catch not counted. The spectators started getting excited too, debating the validity of the catch in tones dangerously close to the point of screaming. The umpire himself was flummoxed and seemed totally unable to decide either way. The women on either side appeared to be on the verge of making a rush at each other.

Finally, our resident sardarji (Jasbir Singh Uncle) was consulted and conferred with the power to settle the argument (Unlike in most other places in India, the opinion of a so-called outsider was highly respected in our neighbourhood). Jasbir Singh Uncle, after a few ruminative tugs at his magnificient beard, decided that the catch would not count. We celebrated, while the other team sulked. But of course, noone would be rude enough to argue against Jasbir Singh Uncle. So his decision stood and Dimpu took fresh guard. He finished off spectacularly, smashing two consecutive sixes straight down the ground, both times avoiding the perilous electric cable. We had overrun Back Lane in just 17 overs.

Later that evening, the match was analysed in detail in many households in both lanes. My bowling was appreciated, Dimpu's batting was eulogised and the electric cable incident was much pondered over. And above all, plans were made to strengthen the squads for the next Sector 4 Sunday League encounter.

Jasbir Singh Uncle had a very nice evening. He was invited to dinner by all the women in our lane. He chose Sharma Aunty's invitation I remember. After all, she was the best cook in our lane.

Play Straight

They say that hard work is the key to success. I would beg to differ here. I have been one of the hardest working cricketers ever throughout my whole life. If there is some award for whole-hearted dedication to cricket somewhere in the world, that award belongs to me. But in spite of all my hard work, I have always been notoriously unsuccessful as a cricketer.

My earliest cricketing memories are those of running after a rubber ball in the street outside our government quarters. Somehow I do not have any memories of hitting a copybook cover-drive or bowling a deadly yorker. My memories are restricted to running hard after the ball to prevent it from rolling into the filthy gutter. The gutter, too, I remember very clearly. It was black, slimy and seemed to stretch down to hell. The viscous mixture in the gutter never ever seemed to flow anywhere. Decades of filth and muck had combined to degenerate the slime into something indescribable. To my young mind, the gutter seemed to embody everything evil.

Into this very gutter, the ball used to roll in sometimes. A quick search would then be made for someone small enough and timid enough to be bullied into scourging through the slime in search of the ball. I very regretfully admit that I was one of those very frequently chosen for this disgusting task. I do not wish to scar my readers for a lifetime by describing my travails amongst the slime of the gutter.

Finally, if at all, the ball would be retrieved from the gutter, blackened beyond recognition and the gentlemen’s game would resume. The above task was my foremost duty as a team-member besides, of course, running after the ball and retrieving it from surrounding gardens and backyards. But such was my enthusiasm for the game that I do not remember missing a single day’s play ever.

I used to be quite a sickly kid. But bad health was really no deterrent to the spirit. Days of sickness would see me pounding away on a rubber ball with a piece of wood like a not-so-talented Don Bradman. The ball would often venture perilously close to various fragile items inside the house. Angry oaths would be uttered and my play would thereafter be confined to a small store-room without any breakables.

I have lost track of the wondrous batting and bowling performances I have delivered inside that old store-room. The reality, once I ventured outside, would however be quite different. I was unanimously declared a dunce with the bat very early on in my career and I never could quite break out of that stereotype. On very rare occasions, I would be called on to bowl if the match was already lost or won. As for fielding, my betters prudently decided that I should be shunted off to the remotest and most inaccessible corner in the field.

But as I grew older and slightly stronger, my skills started to improve almost imperceptibly. With the bat as well as on the field, I was still very much a dunce. But with the ball, I made steady progress. At the age of about 12, I made a move to a new neighbourhood. This would turn out to be a boon for my bowling skills. Awarded with welcome anonymity, I got more chances to turn my arm over and I started doing this with increasing efficacy. Within a year, I was being hailed as the next best thing to Kapil Dev in my neighbourhood (which will without doubt give you a good indication of the quality of cricket in our neighbourhood). It wasn’t long before I became the opening bowler of our neighbourhood team. My concept of bowling was exceedingly simple. I would just run up to the crease and throw the ball as close to the stumps as possible. This was very good bowling technique, because most of the batsmen’s technique comprised entirely of an ugly mow across the line of the ball. As a result, I earned a lot of bowled victims. There were some truly memorable performances with the ball. There was the occasion when we played the opposite neighbourhood team and I picked up 6 wickets for 3 runs in 5 overs. Or the instance when we played still another neighbourhood team and I picked up another 6 wickets in 2 overs to wipe out the opposition for a meagre 8 runs (The other 4 batsmen had comically run themselves out). My bowling performances are still fondly reminisced about in my neighbourhood. My batting, in the meanwhile, had crept up a little bit to the point where I was able to move up from the hated No.11 position. Towards the end of my neighbourhood cricket career, I had started to be regarded as a batsman who could strike a few useful blows.

The turning point in my career, ironically, was triggered by a guy I had considered my rival and arch-enemy. I was playing in a match with my school pals. My arch-enemy was batting with me. We needed some 30-35 runs from 3 overs and the time had come to go for broke. I was facing this very pacy bowler. The first three balls I swung at with all my strength. The only thing I made contact with, however, was thin air. It was at this very point that my arch-rival shouted the two magic words from across the pitch. “PLAAAYYYYYY STTRAAAIGGGHHHTTTTT” he screamed. And so I did. I poked the next ball to square leg for a couple of runs and flicked the other two for boundaries to long-on. I had discovered the secret of batting!!!This was it “Play Straight”. And from that day onwards, I could well claim to be one of the straightest players ever.

Later on, in college, I made my name amongst my cricket-playing friends as a guy who played straight among other things. But that is material for another story.

What I love about cricket

Cricket is a game played in only a handful of nations. And even amongst those handful, only 5 or 6 of them can claim to play it with a high degree of quality. Test cricket, the purest form of cricket, is a uniquely weird form of sport. Two teams play the game over 5 days and chances are that even after 5 gruelling days, you won't get a result. I can think of no other game which is based on such an inexplicable concept. Now let's just imagine yourself explaining the game of cricket to a person who doesn't know anything about it. First of all, you would need a few days just to explain all the rules. And there is no guarantee that even after all your efforts, you would succeed in doing a very good job. Secondly, even if your unsuspecting victim has been able to grasp the rules, in all probability, he would proclaim the game of cricket to be singularly boring. And in all fairness, he would be absolutely right.

Just think. At the start of an over, the captain takes a couple of minutes to tell his fielders where to place themselves. Then there would be a general search for the ball. After it is found being juggled around by some playful fielder, the captain would rack his brains as to who he should call on to deliver the ball. This dilemma once solved, the bowler walks back a fair distance from the pitch, reluctantly accepts the ball and starts preparing to hurl the ball at the batsman. His preparations take some time too, as he first flails his arms around like a chimpanzee on hash, then practises by throwing the ball to the fielder at cover a couple of times and then carefully marks the point from where he should start his run up by shovelling away the grass at the point with his spikes. He then finally starts running towards the bowling crease to deliver the ball. And all of this is in vain if the bowler fails to release the ball from within the bowling crease. In such a case, the umpire signals that the bowler is an idiot and that his delivery was so worthless that he has do it all over again. The bowler, most surprisingly, agrees with the umpire and walks back to the top of his run-up without a word of protest. And his labours start once more from scratch. Even if the bowler manages to bowl a legitimate delivery, the batsman more often than not decides that he wants to have nothing to do with the ball and lets the poor man behind the stumps collect the ball instead. This entire process goes on and on 540 times in a day and 2700 times over 5 days (at least that many times). Sounds mind-numbing, doesn't it?

So why is it that we love about cricket? I would say that it is this very leisurely pace at which the game is played which makes it so interesting. Here, I would like to categorically state that the game of test cricket is strictly for intellectuals.

A game of football, tennis or hockey motors along at a frenetic pace. There is no time to contemplate on the game either for the players or for the viewers. And this is precisely where cricket scores over most other games. It gives everyone involved ample time for contemplation. The commentators also feed up our hunger for contemplation. Commentators narrate entire anecdotes during a match without having to take their attention away from a single ball. Viewers can think about what should happen, what can happen and what is bound to happen on every single ball in a match. And after the ball is bowled, the viewer can again analyse what actually happened and why it happened. A true cricket lover thinks up entire tomes in the duration of a match. To enjoy Test cricket, you have to be a born thinker, a true intellectual.

It would not be fallacious to assume that cricket is the most-analyzed game of all. Cricket is a great game because it gives us the leisure to analyze. And I am thankful that there are more thinkers in the world than I would have dared to hope.

A tale of four friends

Once upon a time, there were four very good friends - Sam, Rocky, Paps and Kots. And better friends you would not find anywhere. I was there to witness their friendship, so I kid you not. They went to college together and even after scraping their way out of college, they virtually lived together. Of the four friends, Rocky was the extrovert - an effervescent and dynamic person, bouncing his way through life. Sam was the calm, composed cool-guy of the group. Kots had the lion's share of the brains within the group. While Paps was the sweet-as-candy and sticky glue which held the group together.

The group had many adventures as they romped their way through life. The adventures won't make for very interesting reading, since not everyone knows them as I do. Well we will jump forward ten years in their lives and meet them as they approach their middle-age.

Kots - The Brains is now a very successful person. He is respected by everyone for his knowledge and his razor-keen acumen. He is not uber-rich as you might expect him to be, but then he never really believed very much in prosperity. He himself is extremely satisfied with what he has achieved and that is what counts.

Paps - The Sweet is now a supremely happy person. Paps was and still is the closest of pals with Kots. And this relationship has ensured great happiness for both of them. We can safely assume that as long as they are together, they will always be very happy. Paps, by the way, is also very successful. But Paps' definition of success was always based more on the success of the group as a whole.

Sam and Rocky, in the meantime, have had a far rougher time than the other two. Rocky has changed drastically in ten years. He is no longer the butt-kicking, back-slapping dude he once was. He is much more serious now and seems to spend more time contemplating life than actually living it. Financially, he is very successful. But his success has come at a price. You can see that his hair has greyed visibly and worry lines have formed across his once very-low brow.

Sam's plight is not very dissimilar to Rocky's. The two had once been the roller-coaster engine of the group. The engine has now nearly broken down. Sam had always been more vulnerable than he projected himself to be. The vulnerability had increased over the years and circumstances have token a toll on him. The grey hair and the worry lines are apparent on him too.

The four of them are still friends or so they tell me. But it's hard to tell now just how good friends they still are. I have observed them together a couple of times. Sam's and Rocky's respective troubles seem to perennially hang over the four of them like a dark cloud.

On the horns of a Dilemma

Lately, I have been seeing these two horns very clearly in front of my eyes. And the horns seem to be getting more and more twisted everyday. The thing is - I have spent most of my life shaping out an ideology for myself. Firstly, it's entertaining. Secondly, it gives you a sense of occupation. And lastly and most importantly, twisting your ideology to suit your convenience is an excellent way to convince yourself that you are not a total failure.

So I can very truthfully say that I am a man of strong principles, at least I try my best to be one. I cannot say that I have been totally successful in this "following my ideals" thing because the ideals tend to get modified over time according to circumstances. But I will nevertheless stake my honour on the claim that I have done my best.

But lately, it seems to me that I am doomed to be a failure even in this regard. The details are a bit too commonplace to put down in prose, so I will spare the few readers I have of them. Just let it be understood that circumstances have forced me to let go of the most fundamental of my ideals. If it had been a matter of courage, I would not have been too worried. Courage I daresay I can summon up if desperately required. But courage will not work here. It's a clash between my duties and responsibilities and my cherished ideals. And my ideals seem to be running a distant second here.

P.S :- Readers are encouraged to chip in with their opinions, however worthless they might be.

What men want!

I met a childhood friend recently after several years. After we had exchanged the customary slaps to the back, he informed me that he was in love, eyes all shining and grin threatening to split his face in half. It was obvious to me that he was very happy. Later on he told me that he was absolutely head-over-heels in love with this girl and could not contemplate a life without her presence. I smiled back brightly at him, at least as brightly as I could pretend. To make my performance more convincing, I even nodded my head understandingly at him. All the time I was thinking, "What a sucker!! Ha ! Ha!".

Later on, at night, when you have time to think clearly and all your self-doubts can finally make themselves heard, I recalled the scene with my friend. I recalled his bright smile and the pure joy in his eyes and my own smug response. And i said to myself "What am I so smug about? What makes me think that I am right and my friend wrong? Wasn't it only a few months ago, that I myself was harbouring similar feelings for someone? Why do I feel so differently now? Only because I am alone? Only because there is no one who loves me as does the girl who loves my friend? Maybe my response was typical of a person regarding something he himself cannot have, a classic case of sour grapes.

Or maybe my attitude is precisely the reason why I cannot have someone who loves me. I have found love in the past, but ultimately I seem to be able to repel them all. I have always told myself that I had acted as someone who knew what he wanted would; that it was someone fundamental deficiency in the girls which had caused them to be repelled by my uncompromising attitude.

But in the recent past, I have had second thoughts. I have started to question the bases of my beliefs. And on close and objective scrutiny, these bases do not appear to be so sound after all. I had convinced myself. first of all, that my beliefs were a result of conclusions arrived at after a chain of perfectly logical reasoning. But the fact remains that human emotions spring from the human brain, which is still largely uncharted territory. The logic, which I had assumed faultless, was based on my understanding of human behaviour. But if the brightest scientists on earth have come nowhere close to understanding human behaviour, what chance do I have? Over the past few days, I have become more and more comvinced that there is a lot of wisdom in abandoning logic and allowing unexplained animal instincts to guide us. Probably, that is the path towards true satisfaction. And maybe its my friend who should be smug, and not me.

Coaching Manual for the Galli Cricketer

It is quite inevitable that everybody in India wants to be a Sachin Tendulkar, at least all the males do and probably quite a few of the females as well. Well, I am not Sachin Tendulkar disguised as a blogger, so I cannot help you realise this particular dream. But I can teach you something else, which incidentally, is infinitely more pleasurable and definitely more achievable - how to be a successful galli-cricketer!

Sachin might earn the accolades of the whole world, but by now, he is probably bored to death of it all. I can assure you one thing. You will never ever tire of the accolades of your galli neighbours. You might smash your neighbour's windiows into smithereens. But if you are the darling of your galli team, he will probably celebrate by streaking across the pitch in his birthday suit. Doting mothers will feed you up obscenely at the drop of a hat. And all the girls-next-door will swoon if you so much as blow your nose. Such are the advantages of being a star galli-cricketer.

The first step towards becoming a successful galli-cricketer - inherit a few good looks from someone. Remember, all the above mentioned luxuries come with this rider attached, you have to be good-looking. All that glitters might not be gold. But then who cares, at least it looks like gold.

Now, you cannot bask in the knowledge that you are good-looking. You have to work hard for your success. Remember, mere looks do not maketh a man; the muscles beneath his shirt mattereth too. So, work hard on your physique; pump all the iron you can find. You should start your quest for success from an early age. Mark the child who carries a lollipop in one hand and a dumb-bell in the other. He is meant for great things. Perseverance is as important as talent. There might be times when you feel that all this iron-pumping is leading you nowhere. But recall the heaven that awaits you and keep on pumping. And one thing of crucial importance: once you have built up a good physique, never lose a chance of losing your shirt. In fact, go out of your way and create such chances. No man ever tasted success without proper initiative.

Your appearance having been taken care of, it's time now to concentrate on public relations. Remember, the most important person in the game of cricket is the umpire. In galli cricket, the umpire is usually recruited from amongst the more elderly members of the community. Here is where your sunny personality can come to your aid. Spare some of your invaluable time and waste it on these septuagenarians and octogenarians. Praise them to the skies. tell them how all the elderly ladies swoon at their very sight. Tell them how athletic they still are with their creaking joints and aching bones. Stay assured- all your efforts will never go in vain. Remember, cricket is 99% inspiration and 1% perspiration. And if you follow my advice to the letter, you will find the umpire only too ready to provide you with inspiration.

One thing that many players tend to neglect is attitude. How many talented galli-cricketers have I seen fall by the wayside, solely due to lack of the right attitude. Take it from me- the right attitude is bound to take you places beyond your own galli (probably to the next galli). Now, just having the right attitude is not enough. You have to know when and how to showcase it. For example, take this situation - you have just been caught marginally short of your ground by a good throw. You know that you are out and the nearby guys know it too. But Hey!!...that does not mean that you are out. Do not be afraid to raise your voice against justice. If necessary, throw a tantrum. In fact, make it a habit. Throw tantrums whenever and wherever you deem it necessary. Little things like this can go a long way towards prolonging your stay at the wicket. Cultivation of the correct attitude is a part of growing up. For optimum results, start the process from your very early childhood. Make tantrums, sulks and misdemeanours a part of your daily routine and follow this routine zealously. Dedication to your goal is of the utmost importance.

Now, at last you are ready to learn the technical aspects of cricket. But before starting, you have to make a decision. To earn the love and respect of your galli, you must be a batsman. In galli-cricket, bowlers are a much-maligned tribe. They are there only because you cannot afford bowling machines. Bowlers are meant to be pounded to powder. So give up the very idea of becoming your galli's Wasim Akram. It is not humanly possible.

So now that you have taken the right decision, lets get on with the tips. The cricket is a flat piece of wood with which you are supposed to clobber the ball. And galli technique says that the cricket ball should be clobbered as often and as hard as possible. You have no doubt admired Rahul Dravid's flawless technique and ballerina-like footwork; but pal, this is galli-cricket and when you are in your galli, you have to do what your galli does. So forget all about technique and footwork and keep swinging. Here is where your previously built up biceps can be of invaluable aid to you.

And yes, one very important tip. When swinging, try to aim for a window. This is, of course, not easy and requires a fair amount of luck too. Perfection in this art can be achieved only through experience and relentless practice. When you start smashing windows at will, you will endear yourself tenfold to your admirers. For the ability to smash windows at will is the hallmark of a great galli batsman and signifies the acme of galli batsmanship.

Armed with these invaluable tips, you can now venture out into the small and mean world of your galli and aspire to reach heights higher than the tallest building in your galli. Sachin might well revel in his prowess under the floodlights, but remember: your prowess under the street-lights might well make him run for his...er...galli.

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