Good grief, Kapoor!

“It’s bad enough you do it, you do it to yourself;
But taking someone with you
Well, you know that’s something else,”
—What in the World happened to You? (The Offspring)

Regular visitors to The View are in all probability fairly well versed with my limitless reservoirs of love for the television show 24 and my equally zealous abhorrence of the way actor Anil Kapoor has suddenly shot to “stardom” after Slumdog Millionaire. Don’t get me wrong. I begrudge no one the success one he or she has achieved. Like for instance, the way a television show can call itself a success after accumulating a rabid worldwide following after seven consecutively high-quality seasons. I would never dream of begrudging the show it’s success.

However, riding on 19 or so minutes onscreen (in a pretty pathetic manner, if you ask me) and then hopping around like a nutjob everytime the film’s makers receive an award and then, having the audacity to behave like you did a fantastic job... that is something I can and plan to begrudge. Mr Kapoor’s over-the-top antics since Slumdog went over at the Oscars are very well documented. As is the fact that the producers of 24 gave him a role in the upcoming and much-awaited eighth season of the show. What were they thinking? Believe me, I’ve asked myself that repeatedly and I find no answer.

Nevertheless, none of these facts are “breaking news” of any sort. What sparked off this particular post was an article I saw in Bombay Times today that included an interview with the “Slumdog Star”. He tries to talk 24 and with his first or second sentence, already has my blood boiling. He kicks off by trying to explain what the concept of the TV show is — “an espionage and political thriller”. Close enough, I guess. What follows next is a shitstorm of massive proportions.

“24 is to drama, what Friends is to comedy,” is one such choice cut. So, what’re you trying to say, Mr Kapoor? That 24 is mediocre, trite, made to cater to the lowest common denominator and full of highly irritating characters whose lives are only a series of sexcapades (overused word, but a good ’un), innuendos, goof-ups and lame jokes? All of that in drama form, I mean, since Mr Kapoor did say that it is the drama equivalent.

Get a clue, man!

Then, he goes on to reveal the character he’ll be playing. If he had bothered to look into 24 cameos (Arnold Vosloo, Lou Diamond Phillips, Dennis Hopper, Alexander Siddig and more that I’m forgetting), no one reveals the character they are playing. You’re not supposed to, because everything is supposed to be so damn tightlipped as to keep viewers hooked once the season begins.

But no, Mr Kapoor divulges his character and then says, “But I can’t tell you which Middle Eastern country my character is from.” If the moron had bothered to take time out from yelling, “MELLON-AYYYY” every two seconds, he would know that apart from the United States of America and maybe Russia and China, 24 never specifically names ANY country. Whether to avoid stereotyping, controversy, victimisation, I don’t know. Point is, that’s what they do. Right. That’s my rant out of the way.

I just looked at the article again... I cannot stop shaking my head. Why? Why would you honestly cast Anil Kapoor in 24? I’ll be happy to eat my words if he pulls off an excellent performance, but let’s just say it’s not bloody likely. Would you cast Vin Diesel in the remake of Rudaali? Or Jonah Hill in Kahaani Ghar Ghar Kii? Or The Great Khali in The Bold and the Beautiful?

You know the answer as well as I do.

Who the hell is MJ?

There’s a guy who was studying at Sheffield University, who was large, burly, bearded and bespectacled. Tall too. I was walking around Luke the Nuke’s hall of residence block (I think) when I walked past his room and found the door ajar. Seeing as it was just the first week or so, of university life and there were no hang-ups, no preconceptions, no cliques and no inhibitions, I decided to say hello. After introducing myself, he told me what course he was going to be studying and told me his name.
Large lad: My name’s Michael Jackson
Me: Excuse me? Michael Jackson?!?
Large Lad: Yeah yeah... I’ve got the same response all my life. I prefer being called Mike. Me: Alright Michael, nice meeting you

Not all that funny. I guess you had to be there.

From the first few facebook and other networking-site based “RIP” status messages all the way to the gigantic memorial service held for the late King of Pop, I’m pretty sure the world knows of his passing. Sequined white gloves (only on one hand, mind you), street dancers doing the moonwalk, commemorative t-shirts, badges and caps, celebrity tributes flew in from all angles all across the world.

But where did I discover MJ, I asked myself a few days ago. I believe it was sometime in 1990 or so, when music to me comprised only ABBA, Air Supply and the Fiddler on the Roof soundtrack. My family’s neighbours then were a wonderful Malayali family. All four members of the family were accomodating, friendly, generous and welcoming souls. The elder of the two siblings, was a medical student who to my six-year-old eyes was the embodiment of all things cool.

It was under his feet that I first saw a skateboard. In his hands that I first saw an air-rifle. Through his tutelage that I learnt to use a crossbow he’d made. And in his room that I saw a door-size poster of this slightly crinkly and long-haired guy wearing some peculiar black studded jacket, black trousers with a red stripe down the side, covered with silver buckles and two silver-studded biker gloves on his hands. Not to forget the boots with the same silver buckles. Along the side in a red scrawl that ran from bottom to top, it said “Bad”.

What the hell is this, I recall asking him, in my juvenile curiosity.

So I heard me some. Bad and The Way You Make Me Feel were the two songs I heard before it was time to pack it in and go home. I thought at the time, “It’s not bad at all! Of course, it’s no Air Supply, but still pretty good.” Why’s it called “Bad” then, I asked him. He told me “bad” was a complex word. “I see,” I responded. I clearly didn’t see anything. Months later, the first audio cassette I bought was the album Dangerous.

I think that’s where it began. That’s where MJ stopped being that guy in the poster and turned into the music filtering out of our archaic music system at home. And over the years, I also heard Off the Wall, Thriller and of course, the whole Bad album, which back in 1990 was an enigma to me. (Some other time, I’ll tell you all about how the artist/band Enigma scared the bejeezus out of me in ’93) I still didn’t see what the complexities of “bad” were.

The paedophilia scandals, the plastic surgery theories, the oxygen tent, the Neverland conspiracies etc. etc. all played out over the next few decades. I remember thinking there’s no way someone as soulful as this could perpetrate some of the heinous acts MJ was being accused of. It didn’t really kill what had by now turned into some serious love for his music.

Then there was the India tour. Sponsored by Pepsi, if memory serves and wholeheartedly endorsed by Bal Thackeray. The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I couldn’t go for the show, is something I still remember. The wide-eyed awe I felt while watching the television footage of the crashing rocket and MJ walking out of it and bursting into a song, is something I remember far more vividly. The sheer glee of getting my hands on HIStory the day it released in India and the soaring levels of anticipation in the car ride home, as I thumbed the little booklet inside, were indescribable.

Fast forward and in the 21st century, Invincible was MJ’s first release. Most people said it was pretty bad. I wasn’t awfully keen on it. But I still didn’t see what “bad” was. There was a track that had a music video featuring Chris Tucker. That’s insane! Tucker’s rendition of Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough in Rush Hour 2, was brilliant, after all. Then, there was to be that farewell tour. 50 dates (I think) at the O2 arena in London. I was kicking myself that I’m nowhere near London.

Now, it’s been over a week or so since his bald, bruised and battered body was declared dead. It was only to be expected that the “world’s greatest entertainer” would receive a send-off like no other. The humongous memorial service was to be expected. I guess in a number of ways it was also to be expected that people would try and cash in.

1.6 million people entered a lucky dip of sorts to win around 25,000 or so pairs of tickets for the service at the Staples Centre, LA. Of the tiny number that won the tickets, some even tried to auction them off at ridiculous rates. That’s pretty bad, if you ask me. God bless eBay, Craigslist et al for pulling the plug on that racket before it was too late.

The debate on his cause of death, the motivation behind it, the debts he left behind, the crimes he committed, the people whose lives he ruined will go on and on, long after a film is made. It’ll probably have Johnny Depp slightly modifying his role as Willy Wonka from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and playing MJ. Actually, that flick I’d pay to see.

None of the controversies ever really stopped me from listening to or changed the way I received his music. Which is why, as far as I’m concerned I don’t care who MJ was. I care about who MJ is, which to me is the voice coming out of my phones, backed by some incredible beats, samples and at times, Messers Hudson and Van Halen. And that MJ isn’t too bad. Isn’t too “bad” at all. Chamone!

Meteorology and the Art of Winging It...

And so, despite the Regional Meteorological Department’s best efforts to baffle and confuse citizens about exactly why the rains are late and so Goddamn sporadic, they are finally here — albeit nearly a month too late. That’s not to say it was a smooth entry either... Far from it, in fact.

A bit of rain today. None tomorrow. Sunny skies when I leave home. Getting soaked on the way to work. Then it’s all hot and sunny again when I reach the office. The whole day’s nice and sunny and at night, it goes and pisses down on me. And that’s just me. Other folk head out of their homes and end up returning to waist-deep water. But that’s if they’re lucky. Some watch articles from their homes — at times, even their entire homes — getting washed away by water-logging and eventually, floods.

It’s not like the authorities are doing nothing at all. I’ve seen some of the efforts being put in to help water drain away faster, to help it stop collecting at one place and to help it flow back into the sea effectively. It’s not like the meteorology department is purposely coming up with kookie tales to justify the lack of rains or the overdose of rains (as the occasion demands). I’ve seen some of the charts and satellite images they use to predict climactic changes. They’re pretty hardcore.

The bottom line is this. As much as we can build machines, sensors and devices to try and predict weather patterns, rainfall, earthquakes and even human responses, there comes a point where one just has to sit back and take it as it comes. Letting go. Letting Nature be Nature. Preparing for all eventualities. But expecting none. And when it does come along, sometimes, one just has to wing it. Hurl it at the wall and hope it sticks. Singing when you’re winning. Running for cover when it’s over.

Which is why the people desperately trying to put predictions, plans and flow models into place have my admiration and sympathy. Trying to turn the illogical, chaotic and entropic into a logical set of algorithms or patterns that stay consistent. That’s some serious shit right there. Sometimes makes you think it’s bloody pointless trying to pin down the unpinnable. Isn’t it fascinating though? That struggle to make sense of nonsense? Think about it for a second.

And then, you’ll always get people who’ll forget the serious implications of rain (excess or lack thereof, either way) for just a moment and think about how pretty a bit of rain makes the world look. Like diluted paints mixing as they runs down a water-coloured picture. Like mascara streaks down cheeks. Like a dew-covered flower. They’ll think about how romantic the rain is. Getting caught in the rain with someone special. Running for cover hand-in-hand with said someone special. There are always people who will look for that silver lining on thick grey clouds (Rain-pun Mcgee!!).

Not me though. Rain is rain and it’s time to go to the authorities for their rain update. Happy Monsoons!

Tread softly...

“... because you tread on my dreams,”
Yeats, I know... More commonly referred to as “What was that poem that British geezer in Equilibrium is reading?” But why is it this little excerpt from He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven at all relevant? Who says it is? Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?

A landmark judgment (I’m certain I’ve had that phrase a good few thousand times since yesterday) was passed by the Delhi high court just yesterday and it knocked major chunks off one of the most oppressive, inhuman and backward elements of the Indian Penal Code (aka the tome for India’s justice system). This element has long blighted and dehumanised a significant section of the population.

The following is the article in its abridged form:
Unnatural offences: Whoever voluntarily has carnal intercourse against the order of nature with any man, woman or animal, shall be punished with imprisonment for life, or with imprisonment of either description for term which may extend to ten years, and shall also be liable to fine.
Explanation: Penetration is sufficient to constitute the carnal intercourse necessary to the offense described in this section

Until yesterday, homosexuality used to be lumped under “carnal intercourse against the order of nature with any man, woman or animal”. Until yesterday, it was a criminal offence to be gay. Until yesterday. Many — gay and straight alike — rejoiced as the verdict was over. The battle was won. And India had taken a major step into the 21st Century.

So what do I have to rant about then, you may well ask.

Not a few hours had passed since the verdict, that murmurs of disapproval turned louder and cruder. As usual, right-wing parties were opposing the decriminalisation of homosexuality. But they’re about as relevant these days as the Laser Disc, so screw them. What caught me a little off-guard was when people I’ve known for a while as decent, broad-minded people seemed to have suddenly had a change of heart.

“Good grief, now these homos will be rampant all over the place,.. doing their thing” was one of those remarks. “Does this mean that kids who are gay will openly be gay in schools that I send my kids too?” was another brilliant chunk of insight I was privy to, which is almost up there with a question I remember from sex ed. class in Class 7 — “Can ‘homo-ness’ spread by touching a homo?”. Genius.

The award however goes to “Decriminalisation will just encourage them now”. Encourage them to do what? Live without fear of prosecution, persecution and of course, being extorted by policemen? That’s right. Sources tell me that the Mumbai police is among the most homophobic citizens of the city. So the decriminalisation will hit them worst, presumably, if they can’t extort money from gay people threatening to arrest them. Fact? Possibly.

Right now, however, all is well. Most people are busy thumping themselves heartily on their backs that they are such an open-minded and tolerant people. “Ah yes, we accept and tolerate homosexuality, don’t you know... And we’ve saved up for our annual trip to Switzerland... Life is good”. When the proverbial honeymoon period is over, that’s when shit will hit the fan. I dread to imagine it.

I guess this is where Yeats’ line — maybe not in the same context as the poem — comes in. Through decriminalisation, a number of hitherto pariahs have been handed back their dreams. Dreams of walking arm-in-arm with their same-sex partner along the beach, without a care in the world about who’s going to try and come and swear at them or worse, beat them up. Dreams of filling in forms that require a partner’s name and entering the name of a person of the same sex. Now that they’ve been handed their dreams, let’s not trample all over them. What say?

Don’t spit on my cupcake and say it’s icing

I’m not sure why the title of this post is what it is. I just really liked it and thought it’d be a nice title for the post. Ah well.
Change is a weird thing. It’s talked about endlessly; most famously in the recent past by Independent electoral candidate from Mumbai South Meera Sanyal, M.S. Dhoni, a burly, violent and mustachiod resident editor of a national daily and some geezer called Barack Obama. But no one succeeds in unravelling its intricately woven sub-levels of weirdness. Its weirdness begins long before it occurs and when it’s only the sapling of an idea. And the weirdness carries on, even when you’re left staring at your blood-stained hands and the mutilated carcasses of eighteen middle-aged women.

Err... well anyway, this seems as good a time as any to bring Steady Eddie back. You might remember him from such posts as “Humans v/s Seals: The Path to Victory”, “735 things you can make from earwax” or “Piles: God’s way of telling you to cut back on the Chilli Chips”. This one, however, is Eddie’s only non-fictitious appearance on The View. Revisited it? Ok good. Now, what Steady Eddie says about change is that it works in a number of phases. Using chapters from his own life, let’s try and piece these phases together.

1) Change is desired: Eddie was stuck in a job as a pencil salesman once. It started off as an interesting job, providing him as it did, the opportunity to meet all sorts of interesting people, with uniquely quirky approaches to pencils. The man with a 12 pack of HBs lodged in an uncomfortable body cavity was particularly interesting. Despite getting to travel all over and meet aforementioned interesting peeps, Eddie wanted to break out of his cycle. He wanted a change. A completely revolutionised look at the world of formal employment was what he desired. But of course, he had now way of knowing exactly what he wanted. All he knew was he wanted a change. He made it a point to meet his granddad every week, without fail.

2) Change is needed: A few months on, the job was thoroughly tiring and uninspiring. The task of meeting new people that previously brought a twinkle to his eye, had now turned laborious. Drastically so. The pencils frustrated him with their propensity to keep breaking. And out with the sharpener again. He recalled how much he loved sharpening pencils and keeping them all nice and pointy. Now it was just another chore that had to be done. He didn’t know or care how, but he just had to get out. His visits to his granddad’s place became more frequent, consulting him regularly as he did.

3) Change is around the corner: Finally, Eddie was done selling pencils and was about to start a new job, marketing fountain pens online. He’d gone through endless interviews and sent his CV to more places than he cared to recall. Nevertheless, it all seemed worth it. It was finally about to turn around for him. Maybe life would stop sucking so hard. He’d gone and customised his keyboard, bought a new mouse and was waiting for his new job to begin. While he wasn’t gearing up, he was excitedly talking to his granddad on the phone. You see, it wasn’t really feasible to go and meet him all that often anymore. He needed to be ready for his new job.

4) Change is here: First week on the job and it ruled!!! The work itself was fun, new and exciting, the colleagues were brilliant, the bosses were understanding, encouraging, supportive and nothing, it seemed could go wrong. Those pencils and sharpening them seemed so idiotic and redundant now, he thought to himself as his little finger caressed the side of his brand spanking new keyboard with its new keys that made a crisp clackety-clack sound as he kept typing. Eddie felt a part of a real organisation and went the extra mile to ensure that his work kept his employers happy and kept him an important part of the organisation. Obviously, there was hardly any time to never mind visit, but even call granddad. A couple of “Hello granddad. Yes, work’s great” seemed to suffice every few weeks or so.

5) Change is hell: What a bunch of morons, thought Eddie to himself after another stonkingly moronic decision by his bosses a few months after he began his now-not-so-new job. There’d been a series of foolish directions given to him by people around him, but this one was a total doozy. It was getting harder to get home from work at a reasonable hour and his colleagues were just pricks. Who the hell wants to market fountain pens anyway, he asked himself as he looked at other job opportunities, where people could market colour pencils, sketch pens, magic markers online or even on the streets. Person-to-person marketing. P2P, now that’s the gig for me, thought Eddie to himself. And then there was that routine. That mind-numbing routine. Watching reruns of Happy Days was all that kept him happy these days.

(Take a break for a bit while I finish laughing about that one for just a second. Happy Days kept him happy these days. That’s a good ’un.)

Right, so then one day, he decided to call up granddad. It’d been a while since he’d spoken to the old boy. Would be good to talk to him. It would help Eddie clear his mind and think things through clearly. Granddad could always be relied upon for that: good, sensible and sage advi—...

(Too predictable? Tell me how far back you saw this coming and try not to be ridiculous about it with “Yahhh duuuude, I knew it even before you thought of blogging” type of shit)

That’s right, granddaddy was no more. He’d been unwell. He’d called Eddie to say his final farewell, but after Eddie cut the call, because he was ‘interfacing’ with some colleagues, granddad figured he’d let Eddie be. Poor chap is probably working his socks off, reasoned granddad and tried to sink into the fitful sleep that had now become a daily routine. He’d lived a good life and imparted as much knowledge as he could to Eddie. Eddie, after all, granddad knew was a good smart kid destined for big things. He could take care of himself.

So after that whole experience, now Steady Eddie believes in his new 5-step theory of change and goes around ominously telling people something about how you must always buck trends, speak your mind and among other things, be the change rather than to let that change become you, because according to him, that’s dangerous.

What a dweeb that Eddie is.

What a Cartoon!

Who remembers the What a Cartoon Show? The one that later called itself Cartoon Cartoons. Sadly, if you were fans of those shows, you may be disappointed to note that this post has about as much to do with either show as Sean Paul has to do with quality music.

It’s been quite a while since I indulged myself and of course you, dear readers, in a spiteful, hate-filled and bile-laced rant. I could almost hear you wondering if I’d gone all soft and mushy in my old age. So without further ado, the topic of today’s rant is cartoons — in animation and in flesh.

The more astute among you will have concluded or at least, have an inkling as to the fact that I am a journalist. As such, it is an almost daily occurrence in my life to encounter strange things and stranger people. Sometimes they’re funny, sometimes they’re a bloody joke. The following series of events falls under the latter.

One of the elements of being a better organised reporting team — or so I’m told — is conducting and attending Monday Meetings. A lack of time and energy prevents me from detailing the agony of these meetings in my own words, so I shall leave it to a wiser source to explain (and explain he does, here). For want of a better purpose, the only real use of these meetings is an excuse for your editor to hand you a public de-pantsing.

Sometimes people come up with story ideas. Sometimes they are excellent. Sometimes they are horrible. Sometimes they are so dire that one can only laugh. And finally, sometimes they are just a ruse to disguise one’s paucity of ideas. Usually these ruses fall flat and earn a round of laughter. Last Monday, happened to be the day an irresponsibly lame idea about cartoons promoting violence was mooted and approved. Yeah!! Because that is such a newsy story and no one has ever even heard of something like that before.

The idea was somehow accepted and the genius who suggested it basked in his serendipity (that’s a great name; let’s refer to him as ‘serendipity’). When the time came to make good on the story, Serendipity duly typed it out and I opened the file to have a read. A newspaper is supposed to be a responsible source of information and so naturally, the facts need to be in order (more on facts later).

What I read next was the most high-handed, generalised and outsider-point-of-view tripe that I ever did read. Lines and lines of complete stupidity jumped off the screen and at me, leaving me wondering if I did indeed work for a national English daily or some regional newsletter that is distributed to 17 houses by an old man on a bicycle in some far-flung little town like Gangamasala, where people still believe that television is the Devil (maybe).

“All cartoons indulge in violence”, “Male and female characters in cartoons are always involved in a relationship and can never just be friends. This is an unhealthy thing to show kids.” and “Female characters like Barbie and Minnie Mouse are scantilly clad and portrayed as perfect women, which gives kids an inferiority complex”. It’s quite alright if you want to go back to the head of the paragraph and re-read it, in case your eyeballs shot out of your head midway through. I’ll wait.

So I asks Serendipity, “What gives?” and he tells me, in a feeble effort to substantiate his dumb-ass “observations” that seem totally accurate and substantial in his mind. “Popeye is after Olive Oyl, Mickey Mouse is after Minnie Mouse; so all cartoons are in relationships,” he tells me with all the conviction of Steve Jobs teaching a kid to use a calculator. What worried me was that his three points sounded like a more accurate generalisation of Bollywood than cartoons. And what worried me more was whether these were the sort of views we, as a responsible newspaper wanted to put out.

That’s when Serendipity delivered the line of the century and one that is probably going to stay with me for the rest of my life. It will be inscribed at the top of the slate in my mind that bears the title “Dumb ass things people say”. And so he clears his throat and says, “Never let facts get in the way of your story.”

What a cartoon!

Rewind, Retrace, Reason

June 20 (geddit? RED-LETTER day? hehehe)

Alongside being the day Queen Victoria took to the throne in 1837 and Mali and Senegal were liberated in 1960 — neither of which are especially important to me — the date to me has always reminded me of one of my most treasured ‘firsts’. To put it into perspective, June 21 that year was the day of an English Language exam I had and so the decision of whether or not to follow through with the June 20 plans wasn’t exactly difficult.

Oooh, turns out the German Parliament decided to move its capital from Bonn back to Berlin on June 20 in 1991. But that’s neither here nor there. So, I woke up on Sunday, June 20, 1999 to the sound of floorboards creaking — as they do in houses made of wood — and looked out of the condensation-covered window. “Please be sunny. Please be sunny,” I recall saying to myself. No such luck as a damp, overcast and drizzly morning awaited me.

Then, it gets a little personal and more importantly, irrelevant to the crux of my story, so I’ll jump ahead. Getting off the tube hurriedly at Marylebone station in London and trudging towards St. John’s Wood tube station — I can’t recall why there was any need to walk, when another train would’ve happily gone to St. John’s Wood. Nevertheless, walking down wet roads and watching fallen flowers floating in little puddles, dodging children bouncing around in gum-boots (Wellingtons, as they are called in some places) and hearing the sssshhhhhhhwwwssss sound of car tyres on wet tarmac just made my nervous energy levels go through the roof.

Of course, those levels hit something of a crescendo as we finally reached the venue. In addition to my presence, ‘we’ would also comprise my grandfather’s dear friend who just so happened to have a spare ticket for the 1999 ICC World Cup Finals at Lords — Grand Stand 2nd tier. This would be the match that would go on to be the first ever cricket match I would watch at stadium. LIVE!

I recall being awe-struck at the sight of the towering Natwest Media Centre. I recall feeling incredibly out of place overhearing elderly gents sporting suits and yellow-and-red MCC ties talking about how “ripping” that Shoaib Akhtar fellow was. I recall feeling my heart thump louder and louder on the walk from the merchandise stalls to the ticket collector, who stamped my ticket. I recall being turned loose inside to find my seat. I recall finding my seat and brushing off the droplets of rainwater that covered it.

Sure, it was an Australia-Pakistan showdown, but it didn’t bother me. And yes, the match was about as much of a showdown as one would expect between a great white shark and a french poodle (the damp squib of a match saw Pakistan make something like 130 and Australia barely breaking a sweat chasing it). But none of that mattered. Even eating from an overpriced packet of the finest salted, fried potato slices didn’t affect me.

The match was over in no time and a kindly old man smiled somewhat sympathetically at me and said something like “Chin up, there’ll be another one in four years”. I smiled back and said something about it being ok because I had a good time. That’s when the layout of wrinkly lines in his face suddenly began transforming into the shape map of a whole different country. He’d seen my India jersey under my jacket. He apologised. I told him it was all good. He scuttled away. It was all good.

Ten years on, June 20 still sends chills up my spine.