What Rahul Dravid Means To Me

Every beginning has an ending. Good or bad. Such is life. Death is inevitable. Careers of sportsmen are like that too. They are finite in their length. From debut to retirement. Culmination is the only certainty. Fans know this. Yet they invest in them: mentally, emotionally and physically. Rising and falling with them. Crying and celebrating with them, as if the fortunes of their own lives are in some way entwined with those of their sports heroes.

Stephen Squibb wrote, ‘If life, as Oscar Wilde remarked, is much too important to be taken seriously, then sports are just meaningless enough to get really worked up about.’ Pointlessness of sport cannot be overstated. But then the same can be said about literature and music. Young boys, looking for inspiration and ambition, often find their first heroes on the sports field. The naive minds and the supple bodies want to leap, run, kick and hit, like these men from sport. And just like that, an impression is made; a fan is created.

‘There are no cricketers like those seen through 12-year-old eyes’, Ian Peebles said. When Rahul Dravid walked out to bat, in flannel whites, wearing an India cap for the first time, on that sunny London afternoon at Lords in 1996, I was 12. What followed in the subsequent decade and half was an instruction from a handsome man to a wide-eyed young boy on how to become a man of character, modesty and honour.

Life is often mundane. Most days are routine, devoid of excitement and serendipity. Doing everyday tasks requires a level of motivation that is difficult to always summon. Then there are days of struggle. Generally we are ill-prepared for them. Dravid made surviving the struggle a routine and the routine he survived like it was a struggle.

Sport is an art. Sportsmen are artists. On the pedestal that is a sports field, the good practitioners of the art perform an opera. The best ones perform La Boheme. There lies the beauty. It is the source of purest joy. That was Dravid’s batting. The beauty, though not evident, was always there. You have to be a scientist to employ utility and elegance in that perfect proportion. Dravid viewed cricket like a science but performed it like an artist.

I was in office when Dravid announced his retirement. There was no shock value. The press conference had been called for in advance. When Dravid made his declaration, I latched on to every word and sentence he said, looking for a deeper meaning or a profound phrase. But like the man and his batting, what you heard is what you got. Plain and simple. Earthly and measured. Honest and sad. After the last word was said, a lump formed in my throat. Soon pain gathered. A feeling similar or probably worse than the one you might get when the girl you have always loved, breaks up with you. It was like my grip on something I had been holding onto for long and in some ways had taken for granted, were now slipping out my hand. I wanted to be with Dravid at that moment, so I could hug him, thank him and persuade him to change his decision. To ask him to stay a little while longer, long enough till I became old and my eyesight became weak and I could no longer watch and enjoy his batting.

I read the text of his press conference thrice. I went through the archives and read the articles written in praise of his old innings. I checked scorecards. YouTube is blocked on the office network. I opened Google Image Search and searched for his images. I looked for pictures of his, playing the cover drive or the square cut. I found a photo of his, kissing the India cap, the red roof of Adelaide Oval shining brightly in the background. I tried to write something about him. To him. If I had done anything more, I would have cried, making myself look like a fool to colleagues who walked by my cubicle.

I was willing to be judged like that. For him I was ready to be that fool.

Waiting is

free fall before you hit the water.
an airport lounge.
Monday to Friday at work.
the silence between the question and the answer.
the road between milestones.
yes to no or no to yes.
first dark cloud and rain.
this page and next page of a book.
the aroma and the first bite of your favourite dish.
crawling and the first step for the kid.
intermission in a movie.
a bowler's run up in cricket.
the toss of a ball before the racquet meets it in tennis.
school exams and summer vacation.
a traffic signal.
not sleeping the night before the D-day.
the moment before the phone rings.
a punishment.
hope.

Some things are worth dying for

I remember the most important moments of my life in reference to the glorious or the heartbreaking events in sport. That is what sport is to me. My first love. Most difficult to forget. It pops in my head at inopportune times. It makes me forget my self. Sitting in the living room, I miss the reverberations of the stadium. The noise of the crowd. The sight of the ball tearing apart the charged air. The thump of the racket. The screech of the rubber sole against the turf. The hush before each serve is like death. I want to be there. Close to the action. But I am here.

It is a big match. Your favourite player/team is playing. After four hours of artistry and brute and sweat, the match is over. Then it suddenly hits you. The hunger, the thirst, the pain and the lack of sleep. It is like you are parting from someone you love. Those things didn't exist till a minute ago. One moment you are miserable. In a happy way. From expectation. From having to fight the wind to stay upright at the edge of the cliff. But you are surviving. The essentials of life don't mean anything. There is hope. But the very next moment what you wanted so passionately, escapes you. The mind suddenly realises the existence of the body and its needs. The player you were rooting for has lost the match.

"I fell in love with football as I was later to fall in love with women: suddenly, inexplicably, uncritically, giving no thought to the pain and disruption it would bring." Nick Hornby wrote that in 'Fever Pitch'. 

You walk with the radio to your ears. Your favourite commentator is reporting on the match of your favourite player. On a crowded railway station bridge, you bump into random people. You are so lost, you don't apologize. Basic courtesies are trivial in this moment of contest and agony. That is what you think. For the first time, it doesn't matter if you catch the next train. It doesn't matter if you get home. 

'Federer crosscourt forehand...Nadal backhand...Federer one-handed backhand...Nadal's ferocious forehand down the line...Federer can't get there'. Aargh. Despair. It is all happening so fast. But your life is dreamy. Everybody around you is moving in slow motion. You again bump into somebody.

Clutch moment. The emotion comes up to your throat. It is seeking an outlet. A clenched fist punching the cushion of air in front of you. A scream. From the bottom of your guts. But not yet. You have already died a million deaths. You are born again. To die another time. And the moment comes. Gone. It is over. Federer has hit that shot long. You are frozen. Death is cold. The limbs go limp. Horror. Bad taste. Slowly rising pain. Heartbeat at such times feels like a song. Like a requiem.

Somethings are worth dying for. Tell me another way to feel alive.

The Week That Wasn't

These days the mind lacks the alertness to register life between waking up and going to bed. 

First day of the year, I walk into the office and find that the clock on the wall in front of me is not working. Stuck at 3.30.

Is it possible to live a day without looking at the clock? To be unmindful of time?

Someday I'll wake up and quit everything.

Facebook and Twitter are changing us in a lot of ways. I can feel it. Not sure if it is bad or good.

It is that kind of morning when everything you look at has a metaphorical significance.

Huge credit card bill is expected later this month. I will be seeking Govt bailout.

I want to live a life where an acoustic guitar is playing in the background all the time.

Sometimes you know somebody else better than you know yourself.

I do not want to travel this month. To nowhere. I want to remain in town. Be at home. Alas!

It is that time of year when you get new diaries. Yes, I am a sucker for new stationery.

There is something about listening to music on the way to work. It allows you to remain dreamy for a little while longer.

Weekend begins for me after lunch on Friday. 

I got the moves like Jagger

The moment of life when a song is happening to you. 

Somebody pulls the rug from under your feet. You don't fall. You float.

In spite of the smoke that hovers around, you see the hemlines of the fabric of your life. 

You make mistakes. With only better consequences.

A stranger walks in. Does a little jig with you. Stays. Till closing time.

You sit back. You are comfortable. Cozy. You are in lap of destiny.

You are walking in circles. You follow people. They follow you.

You get high in the purest way. You get a disease. You get amnesia.

Lightning strikes. Twice. Not kidding.

You are standing. You are moving. You are falling. You are rising. Happy contradictions.

A bird flies. Sun rises. Wind blows. You become a third person in your own life. 

You read a story. A story happens to you.

You write a line. It becomes poetry.

You hum a tune. It becomes a song.

That Girl

I see her everyday. 

Reading a book, on the bus I take. On the railway platform opposite to the one I stand on, talking animatedly to her friend. At the side of the road with her outstretched arm desperately calling out to an auto-rickshaw. 

Morning or evening, she appears fresh and bright like she has just walked out of the bath. Her movements are never without grace and have a geometry of their own. She dresses meticulously and never a garment or an accessory is out of place, often adding delight to her delicate features. She appears more colourful than the colours she wears. But it is the face at which my eyes often stop. To appreciate beauty you need a closer observation but even from a distance, her face can be an antidote to all my weariness. I have never seen porcelain but I have seen something better, her skin. 

On the bus when she opens a book to read, I shift in my seat to get a view of the cover. I want to know the book she is reading. I want to know the stories she likes. When she is talking to her friend, I imagine the stories about herself she must be telling. From yesterday; from last year; from past. From the emotions her face brings up, I figure, she must be telling an interesting tale. Even when she stands there staring at nothing, I feel she is thinking beautiful things, for somebody as beautiful as her any other kind of thoughts don't seem possible.

One day I will go and talk to her. I tell myself everyday. Courage is not missing. When the heart has a plan, the head often surrenders. I fear for a different reason. I want to know her but I don't want to know her. In my head is an image. She has created an impression of her choices. I'd be heartbroken to know that she hasn't read a book that I love. I don't want to know that she doesn't like traveling and food for her is only a fuel. What if I don't find her stories interesting? 

I live with the image. I love the image.

19.12.11

The countdown has begun. Thirteen days to the end of yet another year. Time is flying. The year has been a blur. If I were to blink right now I'd see a week pass by. Just like that. But then they say that when you are having a good time an hour feels like a second. I'd love to hit the slow-mo button on life though.

A friend told me yesterday that she didn't think I was the eldest sibling in the family. She told me that I am too carefree for an elder brother. I want to take that as a compliment but I am not sure. I smiled weakly and changed the topic of discussion.

I need my six-seven hours of night sleep. At a stretch. Generally I don't have much trouble getting it too. Also when I am sleeping you'll need to create a lot of noise and disturbance to upset my slumber. Lately though sleep has been behaving like that mistress who visits often but doesn't stay for long and runs away at the slightest sign of trouble. It feels like inside me there is some kind of restlessness of a task not completed; of a call not returned; of a book unfinished; of a friend lost; of a dream unfulfilled.

May be I am not so carefree after all. Caring is important, no?

16.12.11

This date means something. All dates which add up to 7 mean something in my life. There always is some connection. But right now I can't remember the reason for this one.

I ate two lunches today. Two full lunches. Not kidding. Ate at office first. Some friends were hanging out near where my office is. They asked me to join them for lunch. I told them that I've already taken my lunch so I'll come but won't eat. Then the food arrived on the table. Fried Bombay duck. Masala prawns. Grilled Promphet. I ate like my last meal was in last December.

We are seven friends who have spent better part of the nineties and half of the noughties together. Since we lived within two kms of each other and went to the same school and then to the same college, we met almost daily. All of us. Now after four years everybody is in town. Yet a meeting with all seven present at the one time is becoming difficult to plan. Girlfriends would adjust or at least you could lie to them with no serious repercussions. But fiances and wives won't listen and a lie they will catch very quickly with dire consequences in near and medium term for the liar. So they get priority now. Marriages, I tell you, while they help start new families also ruin some others.

Day before yesterday I booked tickets to a place. I am not telling anybody about it yet except my family and the two friends who are going there with me. There are some formalities to be completed. Some more bookings to be done. I am afraid somebody will jinx the trip. I am superstitious like that. But when I get on that plane all those who need to know will know.

I called up a friend in the evening and told her 'lets go drinking tomorrow'. I've been going out with friends and drinking but have not gone out with the purpose of drinking only in a long time. And as soon as I put the phone down, reflecting upon the idea that I had enthusiastically suggested to the friend, I suddenly felt a little old for it. I guess all these weddings that I am attending off-late must be the reason I feel like that. The feeling must be only seasonal. At least I'd like to believe so.

Back

I don't know why I don't write regularly here.

Yes, I am lazy, to the extent that laziness thinks I am its biggest practitioner. Also, I struggle to find appropriate titles for my posts. Sometimes by the time I finish writing two lines I forget what the post was going to be about. At times I cringe at the very lines I have written wondering why in the first place I ever I thought I should have a blog where even I don't get what I am ranting about.

But then last week I decided that I should stop deluding myself and start writing. Coincidentally a couple of other friends began blogging again. Must be some karmic connection and all that between us.

I am not planning anything here but I think I'll do one little post every day with the day's date as the title. Will talk about the day and put down the random thoughts and other such jazz. Simple.

But it Rained

You are tired after a hard day's work. Yet there is no respite. Wearily you embark on your long commute home. The bus trudges on. Like it is dragging its feet. Seeming to be more tired than you are.

The light is fast fading outside. A big dark cloud hangs in the air. But you have been deceived before. And you won't fall for it again. You feel you are smart enough to call the bluff.

The phone beeps. Message from a dear friend. She is concerned. A rant from some time back is thought by her to signify some sadness within you. She wants to share your story. Make you feel better. Just then on the big window at which you are sitting drops the first big drop. It trickles down along the glass. Pitter patter. Some more drops. Very soon the downpour has began.

You've been bluffed again. But you are happy to lose. You smile. On the inside. In the window you see your half reflected image. Its an image of a man smiling on the outside.

You want to get out of the bus. On to the street. Embrace the heavenly shower. Tightly. So it can never go. Collect the rain in your arms. But you will wait till your stop comes. So you can walk home. Getting drenched.

As you get up from your seat a co-passenger stands up too. You both are united by a common destination. She smiles at you. You smile back. The bus just made a weird noise. And the lips curve only to exchange the bemusement of a shared experience.

You get off the bus. You stare up at the sky. The rain wets your face. You are laughing now. Within. Getting wet. Feeling gay. Some stories need no sharing. Some do. Your walk back in the pouring rain is a story you want to tell.

Morning After

Feeling light. But not necessarily good. Not bad either. Just empty. There are thoughts. But only in the sub-conscious. Mind thinks nothing. The heart knows no feeling. It has been that kind of a morning. After.

The load has been lifted but with it has gone away a part of heart too. Forever.

There is no appetite. For food. Or music.

The mirror reflects back a straight face. The eyes lack lustre while revealing the void within. No there is no knot in the stomach. Just some part inside that doesn't exist anymore.

Want everything to be still. No sound of pin drop. No flutter of the curtains. No movement of the limbs. Only the breath is becoming a spanner in the works.

Reading is meant to bring calm. But how do you quieten silence. Why would you?

Futility of all things prevails and pervades.

There is no beauty in inaction. Neither any in action.

A sound of steady waves emanates from far off. On it is a boat leaving. Or coming ashore. Or bobbing in its place up and down. Don't know.

Writing is revealing. Yet it can conceal so much.

Wishlist

I am putting down a wishlist for the year. No it does not really contain things I 'wish' will happen. In fact they are things I 'want' to do. This list, coming out at a time when almost half of the year is behind us, in fact convinces me that the list is no gimmick like New Year Resolutions are. These things I really want to do. With all my heart and mind.

1. I want to start learning a musical instrument. I'd prefer drums. I may not understand a lot about music but music is very essential to me. It is the drug that keeps me in high spirits day in and day out.
2. I want to do a trip to Germany or if that doesn't work out then a trip to Krabi and to Ladakh.
3. I want to buy a good DSLR camera (preferably Canon EOS 600D). Have for far too long traveled without capturing a single moment. Want to start doing it now.
4. I want get fit. Really fit. No I don't mean I want to do body building. Just get fit. Improve stamina. Cut the flab. Mostly do all that by playing a sport or two. I want to wake up on the first morning of 2012 without a single niggle. And not having to see the doctor for the rest of my life.
5. I want to learn to cook. A few things. Chicken Biryani at least.
6. I want to do Bungee jumping or scuba diving or both.

There are couple of other things that could very well have been on the list. But I can't say with certainty with which I can talk about the above listed things that I really want to do them. I may add them to the list. Later on.

Rain Clouds

I like using public transport. At least in Bombay it is the best way to get around. It's cheaper. Faster. Hassle free. Yes the trains can be crowded but once you've figured out the right train and the direction in which masses move during the rush hour you can find for yourself enough space to stand and breathe comfortably.

Few weeks back I was on the bus, like usual, on my way to work. A girl of about 3 years - I figured out from her bag that she must be in Montessori - was sitting on the seat opposite to my with her mom next to her.

Like I have seen with my younger cousins, this little girl too had a hundred questions for her mom. 'Mom, why is this like that?' and such. Only that she seemed exceedingly curious. These new AC buses with their big windows present a rather clear view of things outside the bus.

While passing around one of the corners, the tiny eyes fell on the lone white cloud in the sky, when like bread from the toaster, pop came out a question.

"Mummy, why is this cloud not dark?"

The mom who had so far been earnestly answering all her questions, obliged again. "Because they are not rain clouds."

Unrelenting, the cute small girl inquired further. This time with a question that I am sure is going to remain with me for the rest of my life.

"Mummy, do rain clouds have holes at the bottom from where the rain falls?"

What imagination! I love kids. For this very reason. Their unadulterated view of the world is both charming and inspiring. I always feel that all kids below a certain age are more gifted than the most gifted adults. They look at things around them like an artist. Till education, in the way it is administered today, ruins their capability. Bum Bum Bole from Taare Zameen Par captures exactly this quality of kids. How I wish sometimes I could see the world like they do. It is the only reason I miss being a kid. They say child is a father of man. How true!

My Only Plan is

Traffic jams are mad events. There is honking. There is jostling for tiniest of spaces. There is yelling. There is swearing. The tempers run high. Everybody seems to be in a crazy rush. In spite of they knowing very well that a few meters here and there won't really save them much time.

I was stuck in one such jam today. In Bombay being stuck in traffic jams is as routine as Paris Hilton's escapades. But something strange happened. In middle of the madness a unique calm descended on me. I was sitting patiently in my car watching all the I-will-fight-for-every-inch attitude of all the vehicle drivers around me. Waiting for my turn. Waiting for my space. And when I didn't get any of it, I didn't seek to grab it forcefully. I felt like a third person watching the entire tamasha from afar. Dhoni would have been proud of the calmness I showed. The mind though was wondering about the futility of the whole thing. Why this rush? Why this hatred towards each other for an inch of space? Why this reckless urgency to save only a few moments?

I feel sometimes we take ourselves too seriously. We just get too worked up about our everyday problems. We have become slave to time, money, circumstance and to whim and wishes of other people. No you want to get all excited about your issues, you are free to do that but I hate to be dragged in. Don't tell me that you've to get married. Don't tell me that you have to save money. Don't tell me to not waste time. Don't tell me that you have to do well at exams. What will happen when I do all this? I will only have to do more of the same thing. Does doing it well increase the happiness quotient of our life? Does it improve our understanding of the bigger purpose? I feel our problems are over-rated.

What do we know to claim or renounce the existence of God. Are we so free of bias to clearly tell the right from wrong. Mind and its many works we still can't grasp. Our own strengths and weaknesses we can't gauge. There is so little we know about this world. Most of our knowledge is textbook based. All I'd want to do is make just enough money to sponsor my hitchhiking around the world. All I'd ever care to buy besides the basic things is a lot of books. To see all the art that there is created in here. The movies. The paintings. I'd want to meet all kinds of people. With all kinds of backstories. Yes for my parents and my siblings I'll be there whenever they need me. But all I need otherwise is just one companion who would want to do this exploration with me. Who'd share my curiosity. Who'd have the humility for the knowledge we all posses. Who would be game for any adventure. Who can rise above these petty squabbles between one human being and another. To whom a song will be enough to bring a smile on the face.

The destination is an illusion. My only plan is to enjoy the journey.

Wonder Years

1984. That's the year I was born in. More than a year after India had won its last and only (till yesterday) cricket World Cup. My dad is not a cricket fan. Never was. And so he has no stories to tell me of India's winning effort in 1983. I don't hold that against him. He had more important things to take care of. He was busy working hard to give me the life that I enjoy today. Cricket didn’t find time and space in his growing up years.

My earliest memories of cricket are surprisingly vivid. In the days before cable television became a common feature, on the 21 inch color TV that we had at home we would get only two channels. DD National & DD Metro. And I remember how I used to hate watching a bunch of men dressed in white play a game I didn't find interesting. DD National used to broadcast all India matches played in India then. They would play for many days on the trot, thus denying me of my dose of entertainment on television.

It was 1993 when I first began to watch the game and like it. I was beginning to completely understand it. It was the World Cup in sub-continent though when I become a convert. Primarily because of one man. I was your typical irrational fan devoted solely to one hero. I watched cricket only for Tendulkar. And when he got out I would switch the TV. For I knew that with him the hope was gone. The team after him will cave in. And more often than not it did.

Watching cricket through those years in 1990s was delightful and frustrating at the same time. Delightful because of Sachin who aroused motherhood in every woman/girl by his boyish charm and great adulation in every man/boy through his batting in the middle. As much as it was joyful to watch Sachin it was painful to watch Team India. We lost more often than they won. The great moments are so few that I can almost count all of them on the fingers of my one hand. Hero Cup 1993. World Cup Q/F 1996. Sharjah 1999. The blame though lies with Tendulkar. At least partly. Team India wasn't good enough to win regularly but in Tendulkar we had a batsman who was better than the best. He made us believe. And when he failed the hope just evaporated. Cricket is a team sport. But he didn't make it appear like that. Carrying the burden of a nation on his young shoulders.

I was in love though. All through those years. With cricket. With one man. While education still remained the priority at home, I started sneaking on my study time to play, watch and read cricket. I would shut my room and for hours shadow bat and bowl in front of the mirror. My parents were under the impression that I was studying inside. How proud they must have felt that their eldest son was capable of concentrating so hard on his studies without once breaking for a visit to the toilet or to eat a quick snack. Inside my room though I was busy dreaming up match scenarios and always scoring the winning runs or taking important wickets. And I'd always try and play my strokes like the way Tendulkar played them. Even when I was batting with him at the other end in these made-up matches. Together we would chase down daunting totals on a fifth day pitch at Perth. We even won the World Cup once by hitting the last ball for a six over long-on.

By the time I was in 8th standard I was convinced that I want to be a cricketer. My parents after being initially adamant to not allow me to join cricket coaching because studies were more important, later relented. As my cricket graph started going up the education one nosedived. Better part of 8th & 9th standard was spent day dreaming and sometimes working towards my naive ambition of becoming a cricketer for India. One very peculiar thing about this urge was that it become stronger each time India lost. It was as if I felt that the country needed me. To go out there and bat and bowl and win matches for her (India). Soon the results started showing. Of my exams at school. In course of just two years, I had gone from being a brilliant student to an often average and sometimes above average student. The year of board exams was upon me. All the cricket had to stop. At once. I rebelled but to no avail. Sanity was brainwashed to me. In the months of December and January when I was at the business end of my preparation for the most important exams of my life (I was made to believe this then which I now realise was such a blatant lie) India was busy getting thrashed to pulp down under. It was the series in Australia in which we lost all the matches we played. The coincidence of these two events, one personal and other national, couldn't have been more surprising.

Every minute I spent studying I felt I was doing the nation a huge disservice. I almost felt like a traitor. In those days my love for cricket and my nationalistic fervour were inexorably linked. And just when I felt I was cheating on cricket, cricketers cheated on me. On the entire nation. On all the lovers of this beautiful game. They sold the game. Their soul. The nation's pride. For a few extra bucks. I clung on. To the honesty of one man who had been a hero to a 12 year old boy. Englishman Ian Peebles once said, ‘there are no cricketers like those seen through 12-year-old eyes’. That’s true. I realize now.

And then at the turn of the century Team India started its resurgence. Fresh blood. Eager bodies. They formed the core of the new team post the cleansing. At the same time I entered my youth. The years of one’s life when the world is an oyster. It is a time when everything seems possible. The team began to win from situations which were earlier considered hopeless. Each teenager believes that his generation can change the world. For the better. It was that kind of enthusiasm in this team. Each time the team was down a raised hand was found asking to be counted. The team didn't win everything. In fact the ghosts of 90s visited pretty often. Yet in each stumble also we made progress.

They say that with knowledge and experience comes rationality. Yet I can write pages describing moments in last eleven years when emotions held sway over logic. I stepped out of the (school) uniform when I entered college in 2000. The change wasn't just cosmetic. It was symbolic of the dreams within. Colourful than monchromatic. The sort that make you take risks without fearing failure. Those were the years of bravado. And yesterday it was that one feature that was most abundantly on display.

Yes yesterday night it all reached culmination. 2nd April 2011. Mark that date. Team India won the World Cup. My team won the biggest price that there is in the game. They won the cup that counts. And my man was there. Paraded around the ground, this time on shoulders of younger men. The baton has been passed. But not without making a contribution which no statistics can quantify. No words can describe. Success is funny beast. It makes the effort to get there taste sweeter only in retrospect.

At the most opportune moment words desert you. That’s the limitation of language. I still cannot articulate completely what I felt yesterday. Or what I am feeling right now about yesterday. Yet I know one thing that when my kids are born I will repeat to many times over to the point they are bored stories about yesterday. About the last 45 days. About the last eleven years. About a lifetime spent so far watching and loving cricket. About one man who is a hero to their father.

Badminton

I had attended a Badminton summer camp when I was in school. That was my first real introduction to the game. I didn't learn much of it in those two months. Nor did I take an instant liking to it. There was nothing special about it that really jumped at me.

The game was almost forgotten, till I resumed playing it during the summer break after the board exams. The reason the game and I were united again was because of the love my friends shared for it. Also we had the access to indoor badminton courts which made things easier. We played doubles. Mostly. The matches were close. Probably because we all were equally bad at it. At least to begin with. The competitiveness proved to be a motivator. And so the affair with the game began. Every vacation for nearly seven years, it became our favourite sport. After cricket. The more we played, the better we got at it. In equal measure. All of us. Still by most standards our game was average generally to above average on some days. That's the thing with Badminton. You can't become very good at it if you play only doubles. Yet nobody was really playing it to get better at it. Winning was important. But when you are almost evenly matched, winning is a matter of one or two bad or good shots here and there. So nobody was really needed to be very good. You just had to be good enough.

MBA happened a couple of years back. And so for the longest period I didn't play badminton like I was used to. The sport was never indispensable and was never really missed. In April when I came back, done with my two years in exile, there was suddenly a lot of free time. I needed to play. Some sport. Playing is essential to me. And with only one playing partner this time, badminton become the sport of choice. So for five days of the week for the last one and a half month we have been at it. Playing the game. For one hour at least. Sometimes more. Singles. And the game has grown on me like never before.

The personal game has vastly improved in the period. The technique is better. Most importantly the involvement mentally in the game is far greater. Physically it always was. Now I play it in my mind. There is a serious urge to improve. With each day. Each match. Each rally. Each point. Each win. Each loss. Winning is still important. But in the mind winning better each time is more important. A bad shot, rankles. A poor method of execution, irks. So the mind keeps working on it. Urging the body to follow.

There are matches which I lose before they begin. In my mind I don't want to win them. When Agassi wrote about exactly the same thing in Open, I almost found it hard to believe. Why would you not want to win? But now I know. Then there is fatigue. Which again you can let happen to you, only if you think about it. Close matches again don't need a moment of brilliance. They need absence of fear. Of losing. Cliched as all this might be, the realization after having experienced it, makes it an unforgettable learning.

Most things I do, I end up becoming a student of. Of sport, I most definitely am. In it, also are there, most of my lessons for life. With the vacation now extended by at least a month, more teaching awaits me. On the badminton court.

Reminds me of Kipling's famous line, which CLR James used as the theme of his famous book, 'Beyond a Boundary'. Putting it contextually, 'What do they know of badminton, who only badminton know'.

Over, eh?

So I graduated. Finally. The black robe. The ocassion. The ceremony. The stage. The audience. The memories. The friends. All were there. But I missed some people. People who contributed immensely in I becoming me.

I missed my parents and my brother. For they made me. Really. This guy, who is going to walk out tomorrow into a largely unknown world, is their creation. Almost completely.

I missed some of my closest friends. Most of them are busy attending to their own vocation. But it would have been great to have them here. They have been my buddies with whom I have played, laughed and fought. Who have known my craziest dreams and wildest ambitions better than anybody else. Who have known my trials and tribulations of the last twenty years in all matters academic, personal and professional. In a life of 25 years, two decades is a lot of time. This is to you Amit, Kapil, Nikhils, Pinak, Priyanka, Puneet, Rishi, Shashank, Vishal!

I missed her. Without any disclaimers. Without any what-ifs. In her company, I learned. I enjoyed. I did crazy things. I felt good. I know probably I wont meet her again. That is our mutual decision. But for this one evening, I would have been happy to have her by my side.

So the student life is over. I hate nostalgia. I avoid reminiscence. Also I am not a very emotional person. So tears dont come easily. I have no memory of the my first day at school or college. But there are incidents from the two years at pre-school, ten years at school, two years at junior sollge, fours years at engineering college and two years at b-school that I remember. Most of which were random but generally fond. The ones when I was in control and the ones were I had no control. The ones when I laughed and the ones when I cried. The ones which I loved and some which I hated.

So I will miss the teachers. The benches. The bell. The exams. The uniform. The punishments. The wooden ruler. The notebooks. The blackboard. The white chalk. The summer vacations. The picnics. The friendship days. The bunked lectures. The crushes. The college festivals. Cricket. The labs. The vivas. The results. The annual day. The farewells.

Onto the boardroom now. Life will be a cubicle. Looking forward to.

30 Minutes

I have never had many regrets. Have taken things as they come without worrying too much about what has gone by. Good and bad days are all a part of the experience called living (gyan alert!). I have lived by instinct. I have preferred simplification. In situations. In relationships. For me pursuit of happyness lies in pursuit of simplicity.

But things were anything but simple till some time back now. Mind and heart was been full of unhealthy clutter. Created at times by people around me and on occasions by the situations I have found myself in. I have lived through it. Still. Growing restless with it. Hurting and getting hurt. Behaving irrationally at times. But Cest la Vie I tell myself!

Life is good again. Fun. Unpredictable. And yet Simple. Like the way it should be. Like the way I like. Just like it was once upon a time.

Right people occupy important space in my life. For whom I want to care. Who I can call in the middle of the night and share a good laugh. Who share my idea of good life. Who know how to have a good time.

Immediate future is figured out. Almost. At least I know 'whats up' for me for the next six months. Can't plan any farther than that. But it's good enough. Have I found my calling? I am not sure.

Friends are getting married. I am happy for them. Excited too. There is a lot of fun to be had at their expense now! I am not getting married. Not anytime soon. At least I am not planning for it. Conjectures I strongly believe in. In such matters. What is meant to happen will happen when it has to happen. Why try hard? And who is in a tearing hurry anyway?

Mom is happy. Relieved I must say. My academic education is over. Dad is happy. With I no longer a dependent, he is chasing some of his long cherished dreams. I am happy he is. I have always felt my generation's parents who grew up in the India of 60s and 70s have had to make too many sacrifices. They have had to live always for others. For their parents. Their children. Thus altering and even crushing their cherished ambitions. Dad-Mom, you have cheered for me for too long. Role reversal I say. Now!

PS - Cant figure out the title? Give it some lateral thinking! I will be proud of you, if you get it. Nevermind if you don't. We will still be friends on Facebook.