Twas only a matter of time

Jasper (the old guy with the long beard) from The Simpsons had made quite a poignant remark once while trying (the operative word is trying) to watch television. He’d said, “Two hundred channels; Nothing but cats.” That was me a few days ago. Road to Perdition on one channel, some dumb ass show called TMZ on another channel. News channels all airing the same boring story. Some crap on the sports channels and CSI on another.

Two hundred channels; Nothing but crap, I heard myself say.

Of course, to be fair, there was Bad Santa on some channel, but that wouldn’t be on until hours later. My unfathomable love for that film will be discussed at another time, in another post. Not now. Idly flipping through channels reminded me of a time nearly two decades ago, when all we had was two channels — Doordarshan and DD-Metro. Today, I cannot make any sense of how only two channels were enough back then, but they were. Strangely enough.

Cartoons, news, TV shows, music shows, sports (involving India) etc. Most of the programming was quite high-quality stuff. Television shows like Buniyaad, Malgudi Days, Oshin, Humlog, Nukkad and so on are the stuff of legend. I saw the entire coverage of the first Gulf War on Doordarshan news in tiny bit-size packages. No CNN for us back then.

Then again, I probably didn’t watch too much television back then. Read a fair bit. Used my imagination a fair bit. A shit load more than some of these loser kids of today. (Again, a topic for a different time). For instance, I played cricket — albeit with a plastic bat and ball — long before I’d ever seen a match on television. 1992’s probably when I watched my first cricket match on television. I’d never seen this sport being actually played. And they wore some pretty spiffy pyjama-style outfits, I remember thinking. Note: Doordarshan only used to telecast matches featuring India and so, the first match I saw was India v/s England.

WACA, Perth
Benson and Hedges World Cup
February 22, 1992

Set as it was in Australia, matches started long before I woke up for school and would be done before we were done with school. Plus, there was a small highlights package which was on long after I was asleep. The day India played England (in day/night match), I managed to catch most of the match. I don’t know how. Probably skipped school or something. Can’t remember.

With the fall of Mohammad Azharuddin’s wicket, in walked a diminutive (the word’s a dead give away) man, who seemed to be wearing a helmet a couple of sizes too big. Massive mop of curly hair and he looked no more than a couple of years older than me, I thought. I was 7. Every shot he unfurled in that knock against England looked amazing. I love that guy, I thought to myself. Saw him get out cheaply in the next match against the West Indies. It doesn’t matter, I thought.

Over the next few years, I got more and more involved in playing the game. Signed up with a few coaching classes. Realised I enjoyed bowling a hell of a lot more than batting, but I’d kill to be able to bat like that. That of course was that little kid on TV, who was slowly but surely making a huge name for himself in a game of men. And he bowled too! To think he started off as a quick bowler, which was what I was trying to do. Brilliant. And he was singlehandedly bowling India to wins. Once in a while.

Skipping forward, 1996 was the year the World Cup came to India and I did not miss a single bit of the action. Didn’t actually make it into any stadia, but watched all the matches on television. That was the era of cricket viewing for me, when I’d be depressed beyond belief at an Indian loss. So obviously, the semi final balls-up left me quite depressed for a while. But this little kid had the highest runs aggregate in any World Cup played till then (obviously he broke the record again years later).

The Sandstorm Match (from the legendary Sharjah encounters) happened a few years later. In addition to being a match that any Indian worth his/her salt ought to remember, this little man (as part of a montage of his shots) actually made Tubthumping sound like an amazing song. Such was the effect of the cool he oozed that I still think it’s a decent song. I love that guy. Meanwhile, loud renditions of “Sa-chin... SACHIN *clap clap clap*” had been doing the rounds in stadia all across the world and the mere notion of Mr Tendulkar stepping out to bat gave the best of the best of bowlers from across the globe, mad heebie-jeebies.

Meanwhile, just as that was happening with Sachin, batsmen from all over shuddered whenever the acronym “KP” (not that South African-English fake KP) was mentioned, followed by the phrase “... is the next bowler”. The fact that these batsmen who did shudder, could barely hold a bat and that all over, is probably more accurately described as all over Delhi’s Gulmohar Park area.

The fact is I was a deadly accurate and lightning fast bowler.

Ok... I was quite accurate and quick in the air.

FINE!! I was about as accurate as Shah Rukh Khan is Venezuelan and would seem like a fast bowler only if the sole basis of comparison was Carl Hooper. Happy?

Bloody digression. Anyway, next began the era when television sets across India and the world would be swiftly switched off when Sachin was dismissed. A family friend of ours and I almost left Lords when the little man was dismissed with a long long way to go in that NatWest Trophy. Saner minds prevailed then and we stayed on.

Saner minds, did I say? For the decades of runs and entertainment that this man gave the world, the least he could’ve asked for in return, was saner minds. Towards the second decade of his career, every time he was injured, dismissed cheaply or caught saying something that people misconstrued, there was a hue and cry and calls for his head. It’s been the case for the longest time.

From being called “overrated”, “tired”, “selfish” to being accused of “only being interested in records and never playing for the team or winning the team any matches”, he’s had to hear the most moronic remarks and indictments from people who really ought to know better. Former players, random armchair pundits, politicians (well, one politician) etc. It got to an era where it became “cool” to knock Sachin for every little thing.

Why did India lose in the Caribbean? Sachin’s fault
Why does the batting keep crumbling? Sachin’s fault
Why does global warming happen? Sachin’s fault
Why are India and Pakistan constantly at each other’s throats? Sachin’s fault
Why do I feel the need to blog today? Sachin’s fault

And how has he responded? Blasting bowlers from Australia, England, Pakistan, West Indies, South Africa, Namibia, Zimbabwe, Bermuda, Turkmenistan, Antarctica, Mars, Alpha Centauri and even bloody Rigel-7 into oblivion. I physically cannot create a compendium of his greatest knocks, because frankly it’d take too long. Enough of the introduction and the tying in “where my life was when he did what” thing.

There was obviously going to be someone who’d hit 200 one day in One Day International cricket. Sachin had gotten bloody close on a number of occasions. He had no other highest score or fastest score records to his name (most runs doesn’t count). Fact of the matter is even a kid from Mumbai broke the record he set with Vinod Kambli for the highest partnership eons ago. It was only a matter of time till he broke this one.

The Don knew it, Shane Warne knew it, Sunil Gavaskar knew it, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson probably knew it, you knew it, I knew it and now, the record books know it...

Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar, the world’s first ODI double-centurion...
What’s left to say except, I love that guy.

Daily (almost) deadweight disaster

So there I was in my “need to know” pose at a coffee shop I’ve begun frequenting quite regularly since LT’s visit, desperately waiting for a phone call. A doctor was supposed to call me back with a clincher quote that would put the exclamation point, as it were, on my story. Watching people walk by is overrated. So is sitting around twiddling a pen between your fingers. Actually, it wasn’t a total waste. I did see this absolute fool with a jauntily-angled cap on his head, a t-shirt that was at least 10 sizes too big and jeans that were probably slung just above his knees, judging by the fact that the crotch of the jeans nearly touched the ground. I’m sorry, but housing is just a stupid concept.

No, he wasn’t African-American. He was just a local moron, who seemed to be from Bandra (sorry, couldn’t resist it).

So anyway, once I finished shaking my head at the state of today’s youth and the clothes they wear, my eyes that were now in the highest state of alertness, caught sight of a street-dwelling woman carrying her baby. Seemed like a happy enough baby. 10 fingers. 10 toes. Curious eyes darting around like a peregrine falcon on speed. In the middle of a sip of my middling-to-decent shot of espresso, the baby gets pissed off at something and starts crying loudly.

In an effort that looked driven more towards shutting the baby up, rather than pacifying him/her, the mother starts whacking the baby over the head — albeit not as hard as the word “whacking” would imply, but still pretty hard, considering a baby’s soft skull and all that. It made me remember that I’ve always hated being hit on the head, top of the head or back of it. There’s something very very insulting about it and obviously dangerous about it too. My brain’s got a lot of mileage left in it. There’s a lot I plan to do with it. Hands off.

But throughout my life, I’ve seen people wantonly hitting each other over the head. Mark my words, it’s dangerous. Take daftie for instance. You know daftie. The guy who thought he was black a few paragraphs above. I bet that lad was beaten fairly mercilessly over the head as a child. Maybe he still is. Who knows? I just wish I’d taken a photo of his ludicrous appearance.

Another thing that has always freaked me out is the thought or sight of any sort of injury to the eyeballs or the sternum (breastbone). I’m cringing as I write it. Makes me shudder almost as much as the idea of Camilla Parker-Bowles in the nood. Super-Mega-Shudder.

That’s what makes me queasy. What amuses me no end, in retrospect however, is a numb arm. It’s amused me for a while, but I’ve surprisingly never felt the need to articulate my thoughts about that peculiar form of temporary paralysis. Reminds me of a song actually. One that was introduced to me by a fellow who was pretty peculiar, himself. The song’s a lot of fun and it pays homage/mocks the musical style of a number of bands including Rage against the Machine with this particular line, done in their style.

Corporate America makes pencils
For the man with the left hand
They make pencils for the man with the right hand
But what about the man with the numb hand?

Did I mention that the whole song is about falling asleep on one’s arm and it going numb? I meant to. The track is by The Aquabats and is called I fell asleep on my arm. But back to the real issue, waking up to a numb arm is one of the scariest things I’ve ever encountered. You’re in the middle of a bomb-ass dream and out of nowhere, you wake up... a little dazed... incredibly disoriented... and suddenly, you can’t breathe.

Damn straight you can’t breath. There’s this heavy thing on your chest. And worse, you only have one arm! So you use that arm to lift the heavy thing off you. No luck. It’s deadweight. But what the hell happened to your other arm? That’s right. It’s dead and lying across your chest suffocating you. Sweet sweet irony. Being killed by your right arm (right hand would sound better, but a hand is pretty light).

You try to throw your arm off you and once in a while it lands smack! on your nose, causing the involuntary watering of your eyes. Stop for a second. Regain composure. And then you aim to hurl the arm off your face. You succeed! Boo-yah! Except the momentum of the arm flying away, often carries your body off the bed and onto the floor, with a dull thwap!-sort of slapping sound. How appropriate. You just got bitch-slapped by your own stupidity. Well done! That shit is funny as hell in retrospect.

Why is any of this relevant? Because it bloody damn near happened to me again last night. Previous occasions have seen me get a black eye from falling on my alarm clock or the edge of a bedside table. This time though, my consciousness was slowly taking over and I stopped myself on the very edge of the bed. A semi-Matrix semi-Mission Impossible scene was what I had going on there. Go me!

But seriously, numb arms scare me. It’s all fun and games until you sever or damage a nerve or something. And this happens to me almost on a daily basis. Shudder.

S(qu)iddy, s(qu)iddy, s(qu)iddy

I’ve been reporting for over a year and a half now and in that time, I’ve been to a fair few press conferences. Some of them begin on time, the press notes are precise and have all the info and the people addressing them are willing to answer all questions unflinchingly. Unless there’s some product or service to promote, these are usually very rare. Then there are those press conferencesthat start late, because after declaring a start time of 3 pm, the person holding the conference, doesn’t see fit to turn up before 3.40 pm. Said person goes on to evade questions and then promptly declares the conference over at 4 pm.

(I know who I’m talking about, some of you know who I’m talking about. There really is no need to try and be smart and mention the person or go, “He he yeah, I know. So true” in the comments section. If on the other hand, you don’t know who I’m on about and haven’t had the fortune of crossing paths with him, consider him to be merely a hypothetical example. Thanks)

Similarly, people have different motivating factors to go to press conferences. For a bunch of people, it’s the chance to get a story and get questions answered with minimal fuss that does it. For others, it’s a chance to network. For some, it’s a chance for some good ol’ fashioned free food and for another group, it’s a surrogate social life. And for one particular set of chumps, well, I frankly haven’t a clue as to why they go to press conferences at all.

I’m sure you, gentle readers, have watched a rap or hip hop video before. And you must have noticed that behind the rapper is a group of around a dozen bizarrely-dressed (fluorescent suits with matching hats, shades and walking sticks, for instance) half-wits who basically sway with the music. Every now and then, one of them will yell, “Hail Yeah” in a deep as the sea, gravelly-ass voice. That’s only once in a while. For the rest of the time, they’re just standing around taking up space on the stage.

It is exactly like that at politically-oriented press conferences. There are tons of examples, but I’ll only cite two. After the results of the 2009 General Elections were declared, the leaders of the Congress came and sat along a dais to meet the press and share their joy. However, what the group of around 35 (no lie) behind them was doing, I’ll never know. Standing around. Looking into different cameras. Nodding. That’s it. Not even a courtesy “Hail Yeah!” to get the crowd going. Nothing.

Just yesterday, a major union dispute was sorted and as such, the leader of the union saw fit to barge into a room where the media had been assembled to watch the premiere of a new “save water” ad. So, Mr Union Leader walks in to speak to the press accompanied by a glut of clowns, who push their way through an already packed room and just stand at the back doing... well, doing nothing. Just standing. And taking up breathing air and space in that little room that was being fought for by mediapersons gathered there.

And just as with these hip hop or rap shows, nobody there makes any sense. What “Maananiya this” and “Saheb that” have to do with the most obscure things on the planet I will never know. The person may just as well be reciting the lyrics to Snow’s Informer or be yelling “Is... New... York up in the house?” for all I know. My point is that the similarities are numerous and profound. Go see for yourself.

That being said, in case, you felt I was exonerating the role of, or saying “aww poor thing” to mediapersons a paragraph ago, you are mistaken. Mediapersons are usually the biggest clowns in the whole circus. Just like a rap show again, where the crowd is generally, the biggest set of fools. Who’d pay good money to see that nonsense, I ask you? (I kid... I kid... Oi crowds are far stupider) Long story short, despite the delay yesterday, caused by Mr Union, most mediapersons didn’t think it prudent to get on with the whole scheduled conference. Instead, they kept interrupting every two seconds, with that whole my question or query or demand for language of communication is more important.

I kid you not, there was a point where all I could hear was the fishmarket sounds of “Hindi, hindi, hindi” by certain sections that wanted the medium of communication to be Hindi. “Marathi, Marathi, Marathi” by those who wanted it in... obviously... Marathi. And finally, “Siddy, siddy, siddy” by those who couldn’t care less about the language and just wanted to watch the “siddy” that contained the ad. Computer fucking up and not being able to play the actual “siddy” was another fun little delay.

P.S - I must’ve been quite irritated by that whole set of events yesterday, which doesn’t usually happen to me. Not with press conferences anyway. Last night, I dreamt I was a Sentinel (a squiddy, if you will) — an autonomous sentient being on a search humans and destroy humans mission. I usually have fun dreams.

Only because everyone’s doing it...

The biggest story of the week — a sad reflection of just how lame the week was in terms of news — was unquestionably the hoo-hah about the Indian remake of Simple Jack (remember Tropic Thunder?). I’m sure at least two or three other people have noted the shocking similarities between My Name is Khan and Simple Jack. It’s sadly not a theory for which I can with any semblance of a conscience take credit. Especially considering the fact that it was that bum Luke the Nuke who came up with it.

His reasoning?

- Jack isn’t quite firing on all cylinders *points at head* up there and neither is Khan.
- A woman empathises with Jack and finds his take on the world fascinating enough to fall in love with him. Ditto Khan.
- Jack loses his mother at a pivotal point of his life. As does Khan.

There were a few more. I cannot remember off the top of my head.

Wandered away from my damn point again. So, in what was a very slow week for news, the Shiv Sena took offence to comments made by Shah Rukh Khan about cricket transcending international boundaries blah blah blooey... “You’ll never work in this town again, you Pakistan-lover,” the Sena tells Khan and threatens to tear down cinema halls screening his new film. And calls for a ban on the film. Obviously.

Friday, February 12 saw the smooth release of the film, albeit with police protection for cinema halls. A few incidents of stone-pelting etc. notwithstanding, proceedings went off peacefully enough. It seemed the Sena chief had — not for the first time — bitten off more than he could chew in taking on a major public figure. I’m all for freedom of cinema and all that and I’m glad the film released. And yes, I began writing this post only because everyone else is talking about this.

Now, however, we’re changing the course that was originally plotted. Starboard! Right... Everyone who’s anyone came out and tweeted, facebook’ed, spoke or blogged about how this was a victory for democracy, for Indian people, for people who stand up to bullies and so on. Did no one realise how ridiculous it was to be getting all happy about something as trivial as a film release?

Spare me the naive rhetoric, but I do not buy the whole “We have to start somewhere and this generation is awakening at last” bullshit. Honestly, getting so Goddamn happy about a film releasing. The kind of money and power behind that film is more than sufficient to have ensured that the film would be a massive hit across India regardless of whether or not people went to watch it on the day of release.

As for the Sena, they’ve gone from being a solid force to a silly farce. Their antics get more cartoony by the day and their leader’s senility is slowly turning into an embarrassment for his son and family. There was no way in hell — even with the support of their mindless followers — that the Sena could possibly have stopped the film. It just wouldn’t have happened. Not only is the party’s supporter base slowly dwindling, but the police — as commanded by the state government — would probably have cracked some skulls and put agitators on ice for a while.

Also, while the aim may have originally been to teach Khan a lesson, what the Sena unwittingly went and did was to confer “legend” status on the film. It could even be the suckiest film ever made. Much much worse than Daisies. Much much worse. The point is all the hype and controversy will only pull in bigger and bigger crowds to watch the film. And to think that all the controversy had nothing to do with the film or its contents. It was about cricket... rather Khan’s comments about cricketers. Jeez.

So, in closing, I’d like to offer my two cents worth of advice to the major players here.
To Khan: You just pulled off a coup here, sunshine. Enjoy it, but don’t let it get to your head.
To the Shiv Sena: Just give up the political game. You’d make a brilliant PR firm. I can see it now. Sainik Relations. Good eh?
To Ben Stiller: Get your lawyers on the phone and sue the pants off Karan Johar and co. for plagiarism. I want a 3.5 percent cut of the millions you’ll inevitably get. I’m not greedy.

21/02/2010 Update: The actual film in itself was pretty damn good.