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.