Finding Fischer

It was turning out to be a really bad night when I woke up at 3 am after an hour of fitful, restless sleep. My head was throbbing with a pain that seemed to be getting worse, no matter what I did. Out of irritation and desperation, I finally took a pain-killer and waited for it to take effect. But infuriatingly, it wasn't working fast enough. So, I opened the computer and tried a combination of Pink Floyd and the New York Times to distract my attention from the pain.

I like the NYT for it's refined approach to news, as compared to CNN.com (I don't even know why I still visit that website, but I still do...) and sure enough, something on the top of the homepage caught my eye. It was an article by Dick Cavett (I don't know who he is, but at least I know now that he used to be a prominent TV personality) about his experiences with former World Chess Champion Bobby Fischer on his show. It was an engaging personal account of how comfortable Fischer had been on his appearances on Cavett's show. I had some recollection of reading about Fischer's eccentricity and his descent (I hate to be judgmental here, but I'm not getting the word I want) into anti-semitism and his fugitive status in the eyes of his native USA. After reading the article, I was captivated by the references to the champion's amazing genius and his status as an American Hero at his peak, something that is impossible to believe for a chess player.

I dug up another article by Garry Kasparov, the Russian champion for 2 decades till his retirement in 2005, in which he had spoken in glowing terms of Fischer's achievements and his legacy. It also happened to be an obituary for Fischer, who died last month in his adopted home, Iceland. That spurred me on to Google videos, where I found a documentary chronicling the life of the once-in-a-generation genius. I'm not sure I have the will to go on and talk about how I felt after reading and watching what is known about him, for he was a recluse for the better part of his life, and what he has said and done (or done and said, in that order in his life) polarises people irrevocably.

But I think it's a story which, though not unique, is still quite interesting in the amount of time it's protagonist is under intense scrutiny and in the volume of speculation and mystique that surrounds his persona. You can find the documentary here. The advertisements that are splattered over it are a nuisance, and the best way to deal with them is to fast-forward through them; don't wait for them to go away quickly, because they don't :)

2D Life: Really Clueless Cartoons

I drew a few cartoons last night, and to appear very flippant about my lack of drawing skills, labelled them as 2D Life. I know this might appear to make no sense at all, but if I had to apologise for something, it would be the sick shade of green :P

Now will never be again

It's been a day of very striking contrasts in world sport, as I see it. On one hand, I saw Adam Gilchrist play what will most likely be his final test innings. On the other, we had a Grand Slam champion not named Federer or Nadal for the first time in three years. Gilchrist has been one of my must watch cricketers for many years now. Ever since I've had some intelligent outlook on the game, I've marvelled at the way he played his cricket: full of enthusiasm, energy, and a never-say-die spirit. I've been held speechless by the number of highlight reels he has generated over the years, and most of all, he embodied everything that was great, and could possibly be great about a sport and the men who play it.

His clean hitting (sample this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPOOhFmUprA), his athletic catching (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3st72UDKIk) and his down-to-earth personality made him a stand-out cricketer in the era of increased policing of the game, brought about by many ugly incidents which will probably be talked about in the decades to come. It's true that in the heat of the moment, people have always, and will always, do things that are over the top. But in the last few years, with the explosion of live telecasts and sites like youtube, the amount of public reaction and expert analysis has gone through the roof. A player like Gilchrist has, though, invariably made the news for all the right reasons.

His style of play was such that I never associated him with his age. He played very unlike any other 36-year old sportsman I've ever seen, and that only made the news even harder to digest. I watched him play his last innings today, and as he departed after making a quickfire 14 off 18, it suddenly struck me that these moments will only come faster as days pass. I don't know about you, but for me, the end of the career of one of my boyhood heroes punctuated the inevitability of the passing of time. Feeling a certain age is not just about how old I am, the feeling of age is in fact the sensation of living in a certain period of time, with the same rules, the same pastimes, the same dreams and the same priorities. When I will look back at this time in my life, I was always going to bed at 4 am, Federer was always weaving his magic on the court, we were always talking about how drunk we were last night, every second guy was falling for some girl and in the same way, Gilly was always murdering bowling attacks around the world.

This feeling has been around for a few months now, with many of my friends graduating from grad school, a few people getting married and engaged, some people into their second jobs, some others on the way to owning big companies and one really talented, determined fellow is even about to release his first music album! Me and my friends laugh and crib about how such people have destabilised our notions of youth and the irresponsible, impulsive selves that we've chosen to identify ourselves for a long, long time.

Strangely, even as Djokovic won the Aus Open tonight, there was no real thrill at seeing him do it. I still feel much more moist-eyed when one of the old-timers does something really good. I still remember how I was in seventh heaven when Goran Ivanisevic finally won Wimbledon in 2001. That's nearly the only time I've been moved to tears while watching a match, and I don't think there's another man who deserved those tears any more than he did. That was the accomplishment of a titan of my generation, a man whom I idolised while growing up, a man for whose success I actually prayed. The flip side is, of course, that if you've supported Ivanisevic for a decade, like I did, it's very hard to get put off even when the guy you are rooting for loses :)


Take a good look around you folks, and even if you think that it isn't a whole heap of fun right now, it's the only time you'll be living through these moments. I'll never be 23 years, 5 months and 26 days old again, and I'm glad I get the chance to experience instants like these, even though the emotions don't last forever!

I'm normal => I'm made of plastic. Yeah, I know.

I can't count the number of times I've been gripped by an idea or a feeling (or maybe sensation is a better word, it hardly gets enough time to develop into a feeling, i.e. I can't put a label to it) that I felt I should put down somewhere, that I should document. You know, just like that Facebook application that allows you to say 'Ritwik is feeling _________' (by the way, I'm feeling like I have irrevocably tangled innards right now....I'm having to type so many of these words again, and again, ouch). So anyway, I can't classify that sensation. The nearest I can come to talking about it is by simply saying what thoughts are running through my head. Just the other day, I had one of these moments of clarity when I said to a friend that I'm so sick of pacing the house and reading terrible (turrrrible, turrrible...as Charles Barkley would have said) and pessimistic news items on CNN.com, that I could do with some company. The only catch was that I would've bitten the head off of anybody who approached me at that point of time because I was in such a foul mood.

The logical and expedient answer to that rant was a very measured "Uh, I think you should just go to bed." And I know that it almost always works. It took me a while to find that out, but I can't put myself to sleep simply by shutting off my brain and letting it float away, far from the shores of madness nation. And, I'm remarkably drug-free (maybe too much for my own good) so sleeping aids aren't my prescription. I just let myself get so tired that I can't lift an eyelid (or hit a key, whichever happens later..hehe) and then I'm good to go.

There used to be a time, and a place, and a bunch of people that I knew, who didn't think that being weird was much of a disadvantage, socially. Perceptions of the world, each crazier than the other, were tossed around like joints in a dope club. We all relished to some extent, the variety of viewpoints and had some sort of pride in how tangential our views were, and yet how much sense they made.

But coming out of that cocoon was in almost all ways, a very bruising experience because in the normal scheme of things, I ended up dealing with a disproportionately large number of people who hadn't a clue that such errant minds existed in such self-congratulatory harmony with each other. In this new world, weirdness or simply, being different was not looked at very kindly. Call it fear of the unknown or call it insularity, there was something that drove people nuts when they saw somebody behave differently from their own rules of normal behaviour.

Or let's call them the advertised rules of normal behaviour. I haven't seen anybody, that I know well enough, to be anywhere close to what they consider normal. And really, the only people I think are normal are probably the ones I don't know well enough. So these people are no more deviants than I am, which is fine with me (I'm called a crank collector by some folks, but that's for another post), but what amuses me most is that they are quite desperate to conceal their quirkiness even when the person in front of them is a guy like me (who once never hid his weirdness, but I've mellowed...or become more manipulative, whatever you want to call it). I mean, how weird can people be? If you ask me, I'll always say, not weird enough. But, what I see is something of a denial in action, and the amount of high ground claimed over these issues is nothing but the world's largest garbage pile with stink included.

It's not unusual to find people being driven into a corner (that's another one of my weaknesses, sorry) and then breaking down for that instant and letting me peek into the little crack on the surface of their polished surfaces at the ghosts in the machine. It's like watching one of those videos in which dogs sneeze, because it comes out all of a sudden and it's very funny. However, the flip side to the entertainment is that (and that's why I don't try this with many people any more) they'll get all worked about it and go on the defensive. See if you can spot the phrase "That's just the way I am" floating around in one of these psychological moments (I still remember Poirot very fondly...sigh).

Personally, I've always enjoyed observing people, what they say, what they do, how they react to situations and especially, how they change under pressure of emotional stress or intense scrutiny. I'll admit that I'm not good at all at predicting outcomes in situations I'm personally involved with, but I've seen a lot of different emotions from people that I'd have never guessed existed inside them. I've come to enjoy the quirks of people and I absolutely despise the vain attempts at projection of normalcy. To some extent, you may fault me for being a rabble-rouser and a trouble-seeker, but I'm always thrilled by the prospects of making new discoveries about folks in such a scenario.

I grew up with the deeply impressed notion that being different is not only the key to your identity, but also inevitable. I know it's equally true that some quirks are not for public consumption, and are better kept locked up, to be enjoyed sparingly. Still truer is the advice that many people have given me: it is sometimes a disadvantage to be too open, especially if you're very trusting and take the plunge first. That move doesn't work with everyone, and it leaves you vulnerable to manipulation. But I suppose that's a choice that each of us makes. I'm not alone in the way I think, and I get along very well with people who share my respect for the infinite possibilities of discovery in human nature, however, in a finite life, like a game of poker, one must learn to make the most of even a bad hand :D

Wanted

Settling scores...
Mending fences...
Building bridges...
Forgetting history

Spending all your money on fines and beer...
Peering out of a dirty window to find the moon...
Having nightmares about the door with the missing hinge...
Pretending all questions have answers

Ending each sentence with...
Wishing on fallen stars and hollow icons...
Climbing higher, and higher, and higher...
Only to fall deeper, longer, harder

Fishing for maps, ignoring the GPS...
Staring at the Sun, scouring the shadows...
Standing in line to lose your identity...
Shivering to death while you're at it

Mercury falling
Cold sunshine
Winds that blow you away
As the world passes you by

Writing songs with no music
Reading dead people's diaries
Talking to the ghosts of friends
Getting cheap thrills while the sand runs out

Wanted, a recipe for immortality
Wanted, a love which doesn't fade
Wanted, failure without a price
Wanted, success with no expiry date.....

Wanted, five minutes of your life back
Wanted, a kick on the backside
Wanted, better things to do
Wanted, a ban on bad poetry on the internet

Amen.

The Dance of Death :O

Sorry. That's not quite true. In fact, that's not true at all. It's simply Iron Maiden sneaking through my choice of expression. Anyway, that's besides the point. The point is that I don't actually know how to dance. That, of course, includes all traditional dance forms that you can think of, and in my opinion, also any motion of the body that looks appealing, looks aesthetic.

I've always been told that I have a lot of energy and substantial flexibility, but for some reason that was as much credit I ever got. Being the narcissist that I am (not entirely true, but at least it's fair to say that I don't like to look at any other man, more than I like to look at myself!), I brushed off the rather clipped feedback as simply the inability to appreciate non-conformism.

However, the other day, one of my friends caught me on video at a party while I was "dancing" (quotes are attributed to Nipun Sinha :P). Now I don't seek the spotlight, but if you want to give me attention, I can't disappoint you, can I? I strutted my stuff (I wasn't the only one fooling around, thankfully) for a full two minutes of footage, and went back to DJing feeling like I had made a point. (Ha Ha!)

Two days later, Nipun sent me the video with the comment: "You must watch this. You will love it." The alarm bells always start to ring, no..toll, when he's grinning from ear to ear, and this time his Cheshire Cat smile had expressed itself amply in the form of a bunch of smileys on the Google Talk window. I accepted the file transfer and downloaded the video.

Then I played the thing.

My first reaction was, "Wow, my back moves like a flagellum!". The footwork looked more appropriate for a tennis court than for jiving to Chaiyya Chaiyya. The arms seemed to have minds of their own. And the picture of total randomness was finished by the goofy grin plastered on my face. I had indeed made my point. My M.O. on the dance floor is unique, and it requires a special kind of aesthetic sense to appreciate it. No wonder.

All my critics: I'm with you. You may not appreciate me, but that's no problem. Apparently, I don't have this special aesthetic sense either.

life in...lowercase

too afraid of making a mistake
too tired to make the leap
too weak to take it on the chin
too impervious to let it sink in

too proud to try to bend
too hard to decipher
too deaf to hear the cries
too blind to see how time flies

too alone to reach out
too lost to find the trail
too high to fall and not shatter
too wasted to even matter

too many words to even start to say
too many debts to even start to repay
too many chains to try and break away
too many sins to try and pray

too ashamed to stay
too selfish to simply fade away
too easy to lead astray
too few reasons to last through today

too wrong to be true?
too bad to be you?
too dark a hue?
too much in a single life to rue?

too bad you can't see beyond the smoke
too bad the nightmare came before you awoke
never too late to snap out of it
never too late to tell the crowd of it...
it's my life, and i'm proud of it :)

The Eigenvalues of Life

Lately, I've begun to see Life as an eigenvalue-eigenvector problem. Let's say that your life can be represented as a real-valued square matrix (Why square? Why indeed? The only answer I can provide is that they appear more elegant and more pliable to me. If you have reached a level wherein you can talk about your life as a non-square matrix, do let me know how you got there :) )

So, your life is a square matrix, and it has eigenvalues and eigenvectors. Now it so happens that some matrices have more distinct eigenvalues than others. Looking for a counterpart in life, let's say that it means that the greater the number of eigenvalues, the more diverse your interests in life are. If you have a single eigenvalue with a multiplicity equal to the order of the matrix, then you're too absorbed in just one thing in your life. The progression from these two extremes is continuous, which makes sense to me.

There is also the question of real and imaginary eigenvalues. What do I think of imaginary eigenvalues? I suppose it can mean that you're living in a world that is away from reality, and consequently, to keep yourself in equilibrium, you need your imaginary eigenvalues to occur in conjugate pairs. (Slightly flimsy, this part, I'll concede :) )

From eigenvalues, we come to eigenvectors. If you imagine the matrix of your life to be a rotation matrix (i.e. it acts upon arbitrary vectors, and transforms them to new vectors), then the eigenvectors are the ones that will not rotate at all. Implying, if you like, that they are the constants of your life. The core of your existence. Your comfort zones. Like base camps in expeditions. You may go out to explore the wilderness, but when the Sun goes down, you come back to your safe haven.

Now the eigenvalues and eigenvectors are definitely not unique. For a matrix of n^2 elements, you can get a set of eigenvalues with n elements. So, it suggests that inspite of being very different on the surface, we are actually not that dissimilar after all. And in our associations with people around us, we try to look for the same eigenvalue set, even though it may come from a very startlingly different-looking matrix.

I suppose it's the same thing with relationships. I've often been asked how I've been great friends with people who are so unlike me. The answer is probably similar to the hypothesis I just presented above.

Having said all that, I must pause and point out that inspite of having the same eigenvalues, the eigenvectors of two matrices might not be the same. And really, I think it would be a pity if it would be so. In my mind, every association I have should simultaneously nurture me, and challenge me. Bring me new sights and sounds everyday, and encourage me to expand my horizons. Perfection in people, or in relationships with people, is rather undesirable, because there is nothing to learn, nothing to adapt to. And invariably, the quest for that elusive perfection obscures the joys that being different can bring.

The human life matrix is not like the typical n=3 or n=4 matrices that I've (and most of us have) worked with. It has such an amazingly large number of eigenvalues and eigenvectors that the possibilities in being different are endless, and very exciting.

The only perfection I hope to achieve, and indeed, hope to find in others, is perfection in making the most of our imperfections.

:)

(all factual errors may please be attributed to the defective recall of a hopelessly romantic imagination!)

Crashing Hard, in your Backyard!

(An experiment in a different theme and style, as compared to what I normally prefer)


Taking off, clear skies above
Heading into the setting Sun
Time runs fast enough, but still
No match for a heart on the run

My flight plan is in place
Compass proclaiming me on course
Can't wait to put this baby down
And walk through your doors

But I should've known
Even though I couldn't really
I'm flying right into trouble
And now I can see it clearly

It didn't take a storm
It didn't take turbulence
All it took was a blast of air
Distant voices, cold indifference

You've knocked my engine out
Is this trouble in paradise?
And I reach for my radio
Thumping heart, fear-struck eyes

I call out, "Mayday, Mayday!!"
But there's nobody who hears my call
But, hey...there can't be anybody
Only you knew about it all

Maybe I should turn back...
Or should I keep going on?
Don't think...there isn't any time
I'm already a speck on your horizon

I know you're looking at the sky
With your hands on your lips
Wishing you wouldn't have to see it
It's going to become one of 'em YouTube clips!

Don't tell me to save myself
My engine's out, but my heart's running
And I know exactly where to land
Look out! I'm coming, I'm coming...

An Onion for your thoughts?

Feverishly, she peeled them away
Stripping off one layer
Then another...and yet another...
A curtain of sweat-soaked hair
Two green beads of crazed emotion
Despair writ large everywhere

"Can you tell me why
Parts of your self mutually belie
One second, take me so high
The next, leave me high and dry...

The core that I seek
Is swathed in covers that wreak
Panic, and leave me sapped, weak
The dam has begun to leak..."

Her hoarse laugh broke through
"You have more layers than onions, why...why?
What's there to hide, that keeps you shy??"

The slow swivelling of the head
Taking in the sight of opinions awry

Said he, as if swatting a fly,
"Strange that onions should come up
Maybe I too, can't help but make you cry..."

Run, Allan, run!

But he was watching the ball, frozen in his own trepidation and uncertainty. So was Lance Klusener. But the difference was that he was running hard towards Donald. It almost seemed like the two of them were on different pitches, in different matches. And a generation's brittleness came to the fore in a few moments of farcical misjudgment, leaving those who followed in their footsteps to paper over the cracks, even as they tried to believe there were none at all....

If only Allan had run.

Looking in at me, locked inside myself...hmmm

There have been times when I've wished for things in the manner of a man who knows that he has no say in the granting of his desire, and looks at the fulfillment of that desire as a departure from the odds governing its occurrence. In such a scenario, one feels happy if he gets what he wished for, but not too disappointed if he doesn't.

Then there are occasions when I'm very optimistic about the occurrence of an event, which is just a euphemism for saying that I'm certain that it will happen (I'm rather over-optimistic, I think)

A third situation which arises is when my gut feeling tells me that the probability of what I'm wishing for to happen is on the lower side, yet I yearn for its fulfillment with such an unreasoning desire that it scares me to see the ferocity of my own stubbornness. I find myself willing it to happen with all the might of my mental faculties till it blocks out everything else and releases its hold only when the mind gets drained of its capacity to focus on solely one objective. And all this, when sometimes I'm actually powerless to affect the occurrence of the event.

I wonder if you also get the feeling occasionally, that in spite of the fact that it is your brain, and your wishes, yet you are no more than a bystander in the manipulations of the mind. In any case, I suppose that the realisation that something needs to be fixed, is the first step to fixing it, isn't it? :)

Blogging from the classroom: PHYS 580 reloaded

I wrote the following post while attending the lecture of one of my courses, called Biological Physics, about whose instructor, Dr. Mark Goulian, I had mentioned in an earlier post
---------------------------------------------------
April 10, 2007
Lecture Hall 3C6
David Rittenhouse Laboratories
University of Pennsylvania

1041 hrs: I had come to this lecture today with great hopes of finally doing justice to Dr. Goulian (henceforth, Dr. G) and his inimitable teaching. The semester's drawing to a close. I've already studied in another course what we're doing right now, and to top it all, I have 8 hours of solid sleep behind me! Yay!

But so far, it has been a strangely subdued class. The redhead in the 2nd row with the bobbing ponytail and animated expressions looks somewhat sedated. Her friend, the wooden-faced brunette, who normally keeps her hair flowing over her shoulders, has tied it up in a bun, and the stunning AND brainy (yes, that's right) dark-haired girl in the 1st row is having an off day too. No questions from her up to this point...

1049 hrs: The first question of the day from the last mentioned lady! And that is followed by the first collective guffaw from the students. Dr. G has just proven something that looks as convoluted as my DNA (and yours too...), and smells worse than bad fish. But he defuses the tension by capping the derivation with an irreverent "Who cares??!!". For now, I certainly don't, Dr. G!

Not everything looks weird though. Some things are going as they have always gone. The shock-headed guy sitting in front of me and the ABCD to my right look as routinely doped. The poker-faced fellow who always arrives in class with a biking helmet under his arm was 10 minutes late, as always. Good...I like some semblance of order.

Suddenly, Dr. G has a flash of inspiration and jumps on me," Blah, Blah...It was YOU who said that last week, RIGHT?". I take a second to regain my bearings, and affirm his suspicions. He looks as pleased as punch. Maybe I do ask the weirdest questions. I'm quite sure now that he remembers our discussion about ice creams and pluronics...

1101 hrs: Dr. G asks us a question while I'm scribbling this post, and he asks for a vote. The class is as split as the Lok Sabha, showing that it is a thorny matter indeed. I manage to get the answer right even though I had very little inkling as to what the question was :D

1106 hrs: For those of you, who had likened Dr. G to one of those Blue Men group performers who did the Mirinda commercials a few years ago, you're wrong. This guy beats them hands down. And he gets my thumbs up for doing it while talking about rate constants, rectifiers, binding proteins and beam theory all in a single sentence!!!

1113 hrs: Dr. G is also an accomplished cartoonist, and he uses the chalk and board extensively while teaching. In my opinion, it's a great gift to have when you're teaching something as visually involved as Biological Physics. he's talkign about proteins being pumped into lipid vesicles made from Endoplasmic Reticulum, and the whole class is listening, captivated. It is a wonder how superbly, and intuitively the living world works, apparently spontaneously, yet seamlessly, and Dr. G does a superb job of bringing it to us. And if you consider that this guy started out as a Theoretical Physics person at Harvard, and today he does experiments in Molecular Biology, you should be impressed. Even if you aren't sure if you should, take it from me. This guy is amazing!

1129 hrs: This is interesting, it really is. The engaging thing about discussing models is that they always leave the door open for doubters to ignore the advances in understanding made by the model and concentrate on pointing out the gaps instead. That's not a bad thing in itself, because it's only when we are sceptical, do we try to find better answers. Dr. G is certainly doing his bit, by fielding our inane questions, and treating them seriously too!

1136 hrs: In some ways, it's been a disappointing class because we've laughed hard only twice in just over an hour. Pity. And one of those occasions seemed more like an attempt to get the ball rolling. It didn't succeed. Dr. G isn't brooding or anything, though. Maybe he just had too much (or too little?) breakfast :D

1140 hrs: The windows of 3W6 give a panoramic widescreen view of perhaps one of the most pretty parts of the university, with the Penn Tower, the Franklin Field (our football stadium) and the classical-looking Towne Building all jostling for eyeballs. If I look a little lower, there's a grassy area with a tree (maybe magnolia, I'm not sure) laden with blossoms. There are wooden benches and squirrels, and in the early summer, you would find several people having their lunch there. Next to that area are Penn's tennis courts, where the women's team is practising right now. Enough said. I'm sure you get my drift. ;)

1146 hrs: Dr. G looks at the clock behind my head for the first time today. I must confess: I'm desperately hungry. There's only so much I can do on just a glass of milk. I'm sorry.

1150 hrs: And we're through for the day. I'm off for lunch. But before that, let me put on record that when I've finished the course, I will surely miss Dr. G and PHYS 580!

The Feel of Music

I'm very opinionated and at the same time, very attached to my music. I tend to form correlations of people, times and places with songs very strongly, and even if I try, I am never able to shake off those links. For example, I haven't listened to Linkin Park and most of Enigma and Bryan Adams for about 3 years, and there is no sign that that will change.

On the other hand, there are some songs with which I am able to recall the best times of my life, and the uplifting effect of those songs is simply amazing. However, I've often wondered if it possible for a song to have the same effect on everybody who listens to it. I have a candidate for such a song. You can find it here

It's a song called Appalachian Fall by DJ Sammy, and is completely instrumental. I'll be keeping it uploaded for a few days, before removing it. Do let me know how you liked it, and whether it had the same effect on you as it has had on me, every single time I've heard it.

PHYS 580...beta version

Phys...phys...phis...fiss....tain-tain-fisssss.....

This was supposed to be a post about the most deceptively useless class I've sat through, but now I'm feeling drowsy, and so it'll have to wait. This post, as deceptively useless as its subject, will remind me to come back to the tale I want to tell. In the meantime, let me introduce you to the Professor who takes the class. Absurd guesses regarding his actions (antics?) in class are very welcome!

More later!

Six degrees

On the merry-go-round
Of a tired mind
On a lonely night
Of a long winter

They all come back to you
one by one, like the
dripping of water from
the leaky tap in the kitchen

All the memories that
you wanted to keep
and all those you wished
would just go away and get lost

The carousel spins slowly
slowly, ever so slowly
never letting you miss a thing
so slowly that it would take another life

to go back and see those
three-hundred-and-sixty degrees
of a life that passed by
in little more than a blink of an eye

tell me if it isn't so
oh yes, you can't say no
that some parts of the pie
were sweeter than those nearby

turning round, and round
you found yourself smiling
at the three-hundred-and-fifty-four
degrees, you wanted to see again

but between the lights of
the brightest past
between the stories of victory
of treasures vast

there lie the spaces
of darkness, dissipation
indelible, on the pages
of history, of recollection

can you face them,
your agents of persecution?
can you smother the cries
of the pain of ambition?

between the reality
and dreamed-of perfection
there's always more than just
six degrees of separation...
-------------------------------------
This was an accidentally-conceived alternative spin on the term "six degrees of separation"

Thoughts on the World Cup thus far

It's been nearly 10 days since the Cup began, but I think it was only after watching India lose to Sri Lanka and limp out of the tourney, that I felt compelled, or let's say, moved sufficiently to write something on the goings-on.

To get this out of the way, I'll say that it was a disappointing way to go out for the team, which had shown the ability to live up to promise, playing effective cricket without riding on sensational individual performances. As I watched the dismemberment of the top order, I was sad, even sympathetic, at what was happening. There have been so many occasions in the past, when I have felt anger at Indian losses, but today, the sense of helplessness that pervaded the batting effort could not evoke such strong emotions.

Going into the championship, I felt, for perhaps the first time, among the 3 WC's that I have watched with some kind of intelligent perspective, that the team had a good chance of doing well, and even the thoughts of losses were invariably linked to images of a team fighting hard, and going down to the might of a superior opponent with its pride still intact. I would like to think that I had reasonable and well-founded expectations. It was as true then, as it is now, that we were missing a bowling spearhead, but the line-up had demonstrated its capacity to overcome that disadvantage and still win games.

I had never expected the team to win, but I was looking forward to the Super 8's, when they got themselves into a tangle by coming out under-cooked mentally against Bangladesh. Perhaps I'm too lenient, but the first thought that came into my mind was that they had an off-day, and they would surely bounce back from it. Today, I realized that I was wrong, not because they could not bounce back, but because in a tournament with the format this one has, off-days are blunders, and more likely than not, fatal. I also realized that even though the team did superbly in 2003, I probably gave them less credit than they deserved. That tournament had a more forgiving format, and yet the team won 8 games in a row between defeats to Australia, against quality opposition, and with convincing margins. That side did not have off-days at crucial junctures, even though the lopsided losses to Oz were in the same bracket as the losses in this Cup.

So, were Sri Lanka the better team today? They were, in hindsight. But this game could have been so much more closer had there been calmer and more sensible minds on the field. The dismissals of 4 of the top 6, to me, were similar because they were all results of what I like to call brain fades, blind spots in judgment. The tension and pressure were so palpable that anybody would have called it quits for Indian hopes after 25 overs of their innings.

This will inevitably be clubbed together with the demise of Pakistan to make a very succulently amazing statement, but I make a distinction between the two. The Pakistanis had come into the Cup looking woebegone, and their campaign never even looked as if it had even started running, let alone taken off. But as their loss to Ireland showed, just how far they had slipped was hidden by the fact that the opposition they played before the championship was considered capable of beating them.

However, I think I've said enough, and I'm looking forward to enjoying more marquee match-ups from hereon, especially Oz vs South Africa tomorrow. On a sadder note, the death of Bob Woolmer was a great shock, and now that it has been confirmed that it was not natural (I can hardly bring myself to use the word murder, it upsets me so much), the shock has given way to dismay. There are so many things that come to mind, and I'm sure every person who has some degree of perspective on sport, and even more so, defeat in sport, would feel anguished too. Sambit Bal has written a comprehensive article on the same in Cricinfo, which I would definitely want every cricket fanatic to read and absorb. The deluge of public reaction to the article shows that there are many who share similar views, but a closer look at the feedback shows up some issues with the way we in India perceive the sport and the players.

The most common comments that I've read so far are "the lack of accountabilityof the players to the people" and "players are interested only in making money" and others expressing the same sentiment. Firstly, it's not obvious to the folks making these statements that technically there is no accountability and there can never be any accountability, NOT because there is no such thing, but because the grounds on which such accountability is being demanded are hollow. If the players were being paid by the government, and hence by the taxpayers, then such a sentiment would undoubtedly justified. But it's not so at all. Cricketers earn huge sums of money because the people elevate them to the status of Gods, and allow them to be even considered for such astronomical payments. I am sceptical about their value as brand ambassadors. I am not convinced that their would be a drastic difference in the sales and consumption of various products, and more so, competing product, if the cricketers were removed from the calculations. After all, rival companies are both employing their services, and in popularity stakes, apart from perhaps Tendulkar, all the others nullify each other's effects.

So the gist is, if you're the ones who allow them to earn that kind of money, then you're also the ones who can take it away. After all, cricketers who fade from public memory are consigned to the 'expired' bin very quickly. So what is the point? The point is, sadly, that we are a country of a billion people, and just as there are failures and successes in any society, we have our fair share too (maybe more than our fair share, I'll concede). In such a country, you do not descend into anonymity and neglect, you rise from it. It's a nation of people who were denied opportunities to achieve their goals in life, and on top of that, many of them have seen the unfair side of life at almost every juncture. In many a moment of sheer frustration I have called the Indian people a bunch of losers, who live off the the glory and success of their chosen ones, such as actors and cricketers. With little to look forward to in terms of personal advancement, the average person looks to them to provide his thrills and his ecstasy, and the ugliness of hurt dreams rears its head every time the team does badly. The media adds fuel to the fire, and the result is very, very unpleasant.

Being in the US, I'm thankful that I won't have to see the hate and fault-finding campaigns that are surely ready to come out, all guns firing. I'm so glad to be away from it all, even though there is little else to be glad about.

Blast from the past...literally!

When I was very young, I often had a hard time falling asleep at night, and I used to lie awake long after all the lights in the house had been turned out. All, except one. The coloured low-wattage bulb that seemed to do a better job of casting shadows on the walls and the floor, than to illuminate. In the summer, the sound made by the fan in my room filled the silence of the night, but in winter, there was absolutely nothing to fill the vacuum, save for the occasional barks of the dogs, or the whistle of the night-watchman, or the rumble of trains passing through the small station. Most of the long-distance trains made their stops in Roorkee during the night, and I could tell which train was passing by, if only they had managed to stay on schedule :)

And then there were the sirens of the trains, carrying over miles, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of the wheels on the rails. Sometime there were short bursts, sometimes long and drawn out. Lying there, under the covers on such a winter night, I used to think. Think about many things, talk to myself, let my imagination loose, free to find shapes in the shadows, to make wild conjectures about the odd sound that broke the stillness, hear the low squeak of the mice in the house, and guess where they were hiding, or simply wonder what I would do if one of them decided to climb on top of me!

And in the middle of those chains of thought, of fantasy, the sound of the horn of a train was always exciting, bringing with it visions of places I'd been to, and yet more fantasies about places that lay unexplored by me. It evoked the sense of excitement that a lone explorer in the woods experiences as he hikes up the hill, wondering what the view would be like from the top. I used to imagine myself sitting at the window of such a train, as it went scything through the darkness with the light on its engine. I could feel the wind on my face, as I looked out into the night, seeing practically nothing but assorted shapes of darkness and the odd light in a hut or a dhaaba on the highway running next to the tracks. I dreamed that I was going away to some destination that I had found on the railway time-table. Some place I had never been to, but the kind of place whose name sounded nice when you said it aloud. Some place away from home. Far away. And yet, it wasn't the thrill of reaching that place that used to send a chill down my spine. It was simply the excitement of the traveller, the man on a journey, in which sense, I guess I could say that the journey was a destination in its own right.

As I sit here in my room, next to my open window, I can hear the siren of a train wailing through the night, and it brings back old feelings, thoughts, recollections so vivid and yet sufficiently hazy, that I don't quite know if they're my own memories or just figments of a romantic imagination. But I guess I don't dream of going away from home any more, at least, not all the time. It is but natural, you know, because where I live is just where I am physically, and even home has become a destination now...

Looking at Me

a shape-shifter
a random number
a ticking bomb
deep in slumber

a reflection shrouded in smoke
a doubt at the back of the mind
a nagging memory, like a tape
with no rewind

just a lump of clay
with a backbone
with a few grey cells
maybe best left alone

like the views past curtains in my windows
like colours in black-n-white photos
like the secrets in a magician's shows
like the gold at the feet of the rainbows
like legends, true and imagined
as for reality, well...who knows?

On the road!

I'm an incurable romantic, as far as long road trips are concerned. In particular, I love the feeling that I've left work, home and boredom behind, and I help things along by pretending I'm never going to return to them again :)

There are so many things that change when I'm on the road, or travelling, in general:

1) I have meals at normal hours: At home, there are a thousand distractions, and then there's laziness, and there's sometimes just nothing to eat till Ankur comes home...but, when you're travelling, food rises in the priority list to near the top, because there is nothing to wait for except for the eating joint of my choice, and if it's hot under the Sun, then a brief respite is always welcome.

2) I'm not online: Yes! That is a big deal. I think I shouldn't bother to explain this one!

3) I can hum songs with no fear of being laughed at: This isn't really true, because I'm not afraid of criticism, especially about bedroom and bathroom singing, which makes no sense anyway. However, under the cover of the roar of the engine, I am virtually fearless.

4) I can call people up and tell them what they're missing: Truth be told, a good fraction of the enjoyment of travelling is its capacity to generate anecdotes, often massaged with a more than a pinch of salt. And if you are out to do better things than visit relatives, then you have a greater chance of seeing beautiful places, taking breathtaking photos and eating weird food. Your pals at home, meanwhile, are unanimous in their envy.

5) I get to read maps: I'm a map fanatic. I just love journeying through towns with quotable names; I love drawing up road maps, navigating, looking forward to the changing landscapes, checking the odometer for the miles travelled, and all that kind of (so you think) pointless stuff. No wonder the Casio Pathfinder PAW-12001V is the watch on my wrist :)

6) Some trips turn into battles of attrition: And then it's the survival of the fittest. Mostly, I come out looking better than the rest of my gang. Adverse conditions bring out the masochist in me, and it's very ugly. But, I still don't mind it. Makes for amazing tales to tell!

7) The radio stations: Some of the FM stations are simply fantastic, and normally you get a bunch of them, so if you don't like the music that you're hearing, you simply twist the knob.

I'm sure that isn't all, but I think I've covered most of the important things. Oh wait, did I mention the rather obvious fact that I get to sit in a respectable car?

;)