tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68948009134929463782024-03-18T20:30:39.964-07:00MusingsSarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-34881509168757725192023-09-03T09:03:00.001-07:002023-09-03T09:03:15.503-07:00Annualised Value Investment Ratio - AVIR<p> The purpose of this post is solely to protect my Intellectual Property Rights (IPR) if ever there arises a situation where I need to prove the novelty of my work.</p><p>The post will not be structured. It is going to be a copy-paste operation. The only purpose is to document and date my idea.</p><p>I first developed this idea in early 2020. I then developed it further in August 2023. Vinay helped me throughout this process. </p><p>Very briefly, AVIR or Annualised Value Investment Ratio (AVIR) is a capital budgeting metric that will help rank projects of different sizes and durations. Every common metric that exists now, like NPV, IRR, PI, EAB, etc.. suffers from one or more major flaws and my contention is that AVIR addresses these flaws and is the most superior metric available.</p><p>The copy paste starts now.</p><p><br /></p><p>1. What is Annualised Value Investment Ratio (AVIR)? How is it different from VIR?</p><p>Ans: VIR is the discounted value generated per dollar (discounted) invested. AVIR takes this a step further and is the discounted value generated per dollar (discounted) invested per year (discounted). This ensures that, unlike VIR, AVIR is directly comparable for projects of different durations.</p><p><br /></p><p>2. Okay. But what exactly does AVIR represent? </p><p>Ans: The AVIR of the project is the excess annual return over and above the cost of capital.</p><p><br /></p><p>3. I am beginning to get a sense of what AVIR represents. But can you explain it more mathematically? For example, what does an AVIR of 7% mean?</p><p>Ans: The AVIR of a project is the excess rate of annual return over and above the cost of the capital that will result in the same NPV as the reference project.</p><p><br /></p><p>4. Can you please share an example?</p><p>Ans: Sure! As can be seen from Illustration 1, adding AVIR cashflows to the cost of capital cashflows each year results in the same NPV as the original cashflows of the reference project.</p><p><br /></p><p>5. But does excess return over cost of capital not simply mean IRR less cost of capital, since IRR is essentially the annual rate of return?</p><p>Ans. That is not true. IRR is merely the discount rate which would result in the net present value of all cash flows to be exactly zero.</p><p><br /></p><p>6. Are you sure? Can you prove that IRR is not annual rate of return?</p><p>Ans: Of course! In Illustration 2, you can see that annual return at the rate of IRR does not result in the same NPV as the reference project. In fact, this is one of the reasons why IRR is not a perfect metric for ranking projects. </p><p>In fact, for a positive NPV project, the NPV when annual returns at IRR are discounted will always be greater than or equal to the NPV of the original project. This is because IRR assumes reinvestment at IRR itself. AVIR addresses this limitation of IRR.</p><p><br /></p><p>7. Does AVIR also work for projects with multiple years of cash outflows? Can you provide an example?</p><p>Ans: It certainly does. In fact, AVIR will work for any pattern of cash flows as long as there is at least one cash outflow. This robustness of AVIR renders it to be an excellent ranking metric for projects of different sizes, shapes, and duration. </p><p>As can be seen in Illustration 3, which has multiple years of cash outflows, the sum of AVIR and cost of capital cashflows results in exactly the same NPV as that of the reference project.</p><p><br /></p><p>8. If IRR assumes reinvestment at IRR itself, what rate of reinvestment does AVIR assume? How does it compare to the rate of reinvestment assumed by IRR?</p><p>Ans: VIR assumes reinvestment at the rate of cost of capital, hence resulting in zero incremental value being generated. This is too conservative an assumption and is also unreasonable since Shell requires a return above cost of capital which is the reason why the VIR threshold and the ranking mechanisms exist in the first place.</p><p>IRR assumes reinvestment at the rate of IRR itself. Often, this is too aggressive and unrealistic an assumption.</p><p>AVIR takes the middle path and assumes that the project of the same size can be replicated at the same IRR and the excess cash flow generated can be reinvested at cost of capital. This means that the overall reinvestment rate assumed by AVIR always falls between the two extremes of aggressive IRR and conservative VIR.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_16ABm3j1HsweuzV7esusBTSy_8aB1ueju1Cqlz1HjjwD3NiGRobStF4Y2BJky_XZYk6drDLrHWZC5gJPqr8zdKlGowrqGt5919U_UOYw0HcJysMtMsZ1_msJGNYJaWvUdDPuIxn7ZLdZWK7AA_kjlEbPJ0pKQB2tIQR2SYRUc_XQQXsNz_t8SlIUkT9i" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="1248" height="103" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_16ABm3j1HsweuzV7esusBTSy_8aB1ueju1Cqlz1HjjwD3NiGRobStF4Y2BJky_XZYk6drDLrHWZC5gJPqr8zdKlGowrqGt5919U_UOYw0HcJysMtMsZ1_msJGNYJaWvUdDPuIxn7ZLdZWK7AA_kjlEbPJ0pKQB2tIQR2SYRUc_XQQXsNz_t8SlIUkT9i" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzcGeMoenzbEGAe8W-0gxxV7Vwr2zk3Vm0BbkuFQnMCCQaW4OyD-YbN2tcZzvxkacDLMAenyF1RVq3mg8_EOG6yr6DckOgkYW1n9qAcSDhZytdO5qu7aNPHvRuhssGdbeDgDXpAQxSBJKfHuwyCklg2BckycQGBlHO9yvngOnut8g77tARfYd6_C7MgIUX" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="651" data-original-width="1244" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzcGeMoenzbEGAe8W-0gxxV7Vwr2zk3Vm0BbkuFQnMCCQaW4OyD-YbN2tcZzvxkacDLMAenyF1RVq3mg8_EOG6yr6DckOgkYW1n9qAcSDhZytdO5qu7aNPHvRuhssGdbeDgDXpAQxSBJKfHuwyCklg2BckycQGBlHO9yvngOnut8g77tARfYd6_C7MgIUX" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeqFLJKbbRhyNfPHx_7RQ_Y4fQlVJ0g47nRKxaHuTi23-WaPXlOBVYek0zLzS2xx8nbKbGBN1x7gkw7kDjgtvjtG3uj7MPYhLonzBOmkITGSjoVI52nZPiZ433suFUTtrylLlexH0OAb4DdZNmYwBk2WWFTECwdw0t2KIa6DueLniAWM4kll1qxFRS-L8L" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="1237" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeqFLJKbbRhyNfPHx_7RQ_Y4fQlVJ0g47nRKxaHuTi23-WaPXlOBVYek0zLzS2xx8nbKbGBN1x7gkw7kDjgtvjtG3uj7MPYhLonzBOmkITGSjoVI52nZPiZ433suFUTtrylLlexH0OAb4DdZNmYwBk2WWFTECwdw0t2KIa6DueLniAWM4kll1qxFRS-L8L" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjr7lSzcfpfzgB5Xy__cMEgxN_wiBDKm6bucsvCNAlhZ1wRA61xV-vJS-6gz-sZUquLARP6Ztsgt1l5TLcSi9WstLzx1pjmmdWWF5qf6ufXYQoxHY93BL9MJtH_vbSMGd-gr88WI89pNrVWY9BS_prj1kc39q_D18gztvsnzm0VIALURifPwYTUBUgPvHNL" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="1245" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjr7lSzcfpfzgB5Xy__cMEgxN_wiBDKm6bucsvCNAlhZ1wRA61xV-vJS-6gz-sZUquLARP6Ztsgt1l5TLcSi9WstLzx1pjmmdWWF5qf6ufXYQoxHY93BL9MJtH_vbSMGd-gr88WI89pNrVWY9BS_prj1kc39q_D18gztvsnzm0VIALURifPwYTUBUgPvHNL" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPKbF7cuOeMIQqApBUo0itQiIVdTghiGwCK3v_kl5z9jwP5TjCP5Sahsi_EuOaG-di6CZ-ZcowIKy0XHdQFf7wxYBHWRS-iVguk8HsHPx2_yx5VH0SyjhmQ3hogb7d0QnjK_h9vFTpVCfYEZ-V3Tosi51vbfC7x66aWwXar4R08Z6_T9h8h_XtJorfl_Ol" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="1235" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgPKbF7cuOeMIQqApBUo0itQiIVdTghiGwCK3v_kl5z9jwP5TjCP5Sahsi_EuOaG-di6CZ-ZcowIKy0XHdQFf7wxYBHWRS-iVguk8HsHPx2_yx5VH0SyjhmQ3hogb7d0QnjK_h9vFTpVCfYEZ-V3Tosi51vbfC7x66aWwXar4R08Z6_T9h8h_XtJorfl_Ol" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhO2qS3-3bfancEHMW9dLr72tJC6BeixD5E3EXOFNogV8BweCgZUdx4DqMEZWnyWw63AcoWTNK0LuURzWfXR7ZNpLLilfencbza-c3h_VfPkLiHZlhLx6ES5SJMaOg2uJvVx0mmY91XurB2i05MBcwI-uBx-iOTL_XB4KTFxLSInCIsY_5UpDDNViWVl6TW" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="806" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhO2qS3-3bfancEHMW9dLr72tJC6BeixD5E3EXOFNogV8BweCgZUdx4DqMEZWnyWw63AcoWTNK0LuURzWfXR7ZNpLLilfencbza-c3h_VfPkLiHZlhLx6ES5SJMaOg2uJvVx0mmY91XurB2i05MBcwI-uBx-iOTL_XB4KTFxLSInCIsY_5UpDDNViWVl6TW" width="263" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-81310071365028291572018-08-23T11:51:00.006-07:002018-08-23T11:58:45.945-07:0057 Tabs: The Joys of Wiki-Hopping<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It is 10 minutes past midnight. To my left, I have a box of refrigerated chicken popcorn from KFC, and to my right, I have my phone. In my phone, I have 57 tabs open; Wikipedia pages, they are. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The missus has <strike>abandoned me</strike> gone for a sleepover to a friend’s place and I have the house to myself. I snuggle under the blanket and reach for a book; ‘My name is red’. The data is switched off and the phone is a safe distance away, or so I think. Alas, no. I come across an intriguing word, reach for my phone and switch on the data. Google recommends Wikipedia; good friends they are. I read intently, for all of 3 minutes. Then, I long press and click on ‘open in a new tab’. Thus, begins the hopping; perpetual in scope and orgasmic in pay-off. Soon, I have 57 tabs open. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">When I was growing up, during my primary school, there was a library in the neighbourhood. It was big, it was free and it was welcoming. Many a childhood hour was spent there; lost to the world and yet, at the same time, discovering it. Enid Blyton and Hardy Boys, Black Beauty and Charles Dickens; I devoured them all. And yet my favourite book was titled ’50 amazing facts’; the only one of them I remember yet is that ‘a cockroach can live for several weeks without its head’. I loved that fact. I still do.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As a child, I loved to read about things that I did not know. Some I understood, many I did not. Some I remembered, most I did not. Some I found useful, majority I did not. But it mattered not; there was a thrill, transient yes, but nevertheless, intoxicating, of learning something for the first time. And then school started; you were stupid if you did not understand, you were lazy if you did not remember and you were foolish if you spent time on something not useful.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But sometimes, the child in you prevails. It was just one tab at first. But soon I opened another, and then another, followed by a couple more. And now, I have 57 tabs open. Anthropology, archaeology, arts, cinema, etymology, geography, politics, religion, science and technology. Within those tabs, contain all of these and so much more. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The tabs will stay for a while. Gradually, I will close a few of them, some after reading and others, without. And knowing myself, one day soon, the phone will run out of charging or worse end up in a washing machine, and I will finally be able to get rid of all the tabs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I must tell you though; a cockroach cannot survive a nuclear explosion, that is just a myth; do not believe it. </span></div>
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Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-66109187829670092772017-05-28T22:11:00.000-07:002017-06-03T07:48:01.973-07:00Just how much did Sachin mean to us?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijY7kMi7e1LcCasF6smpbRFcqB5XxE-rgMzhd4uhBSYYXVqVKSeFTnszPqkosg_z8Rn4km6NEzKEALHdJjJFYULeipM3X9EI61t2zItdhFcSDc3qBhBjKY5ZAl4dit885EGrzHh5oSG4-W/s1600/Sachin-Tendulkar-takes-to-004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="760" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijY7kMi7e1LcCasF6smpbRFcqB5XxE-rgMzhd4uhBSYYXVqVKSeFTnszPqkosg_z8Rn4km6NEzKEALHdJjJFYULeipM3X9EI61t2zItdhFcSDc3qBhBjKY5ZAl4dit885EGrzHh5oSG4-W/s1600/Sachin-Tendulkar-takes-to-004.jpg" /></a><br />
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Aspiration for success is the single most natural thing in the world. It is not a trait unique to human beings alone; it is the very fundament upon which nature exists. It is what gives rise to evolution and results in life as we know it. And yet there are times, when even before you begin, you not just suspect that you will not succeed, but know that you are doomed to, and, will fail. Nonetheless, you go ahead and do it anyway. Because it is not a choice, but a call to duty; like a mountaineer attempting to scale that one last impossible peak, a surgeon trying to perform the miracle that will not happen or even a letter of infatuation that you know will never be reciprocated. Failure is merely a meaningless by-product.<br />
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And so I attempt to put in words, the emotion that cannot be explained but only be felt, the phenomenon that cannot be understood but only be experienced and a love that cannot be rationalized but can only be succumbed and surrendered to. I attempt to both understand and explain how much Sachin Tendulkar has meant to Cricket fans across the world, how much he has meant to millions of Indians and, how much he has meant to me. I will fail. But that is alright; it will not be a reflection of the inadequacy of my writing but rather a testament to the magnitude of the Tendulkar phenomenon, the Tendulkar experience and the Tendulkar emotion.<br />
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It was in 9th grade when I first realized that hyperbole can be literally true; a spectacular fall from a bicycle resulting in me actually seeing stars. And then it happened again a couple of years later. It was the evening of the 5th of November 2009, in Rajiv Gandhi stadium, Uppal, Hyderabad. It was ‘that’ match. That match, where chasing 350 against Australia, Tendulkar scored 175 of the most glorious runs; and India lost. Having had faced 16 balls for just 6 runs, Tendulkar clips Hilfenhaus to deep square leg and scampers three. It would have been innocuous if not for the fact that with those three runs, he became the first batsman to score 17000 ODI runs. 17000. The crowd, to the last man, are on their feet. They shout and they scream; they clap and they stomp. And the ground actually, literally, physically, shook beneath my feet. And all because of that one tiny small man hitting a ball with a bat. This was fan-dom and this was fan-aticism but this was also something more, something perhaps purer and something certainly rarer. This was about millions uniting in their joy. This was not the crowd celebrating Tendulkar’s achievements but celebrating their own because, for that brief moment in time, Tendulkar was a part of them and they were a part of Tendulkar. Tendulkar meant so much to so many people for so long a time.<br />
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Tendulkar was a great batsman; probably one of the best that there ever was. The record books will confirm that. But if he was only that, he would have been confined to the world of Cricket; instead, he ended up being a cultural phenomenon. How did this remarkable journey come about to be? And where did it all start? Most of us spend a lifetime searching for our true calling. Tendulkar found his at the age of 10. By the age of 14, he was known as the ‘Greatest schoolboy Cricketer ever’. And then, less than two years later, in a room in Bombay, five wise men were having a heated discussion. It was absurd. He was only 16, and he looked 14. Some of the selectors argued that Pakistan with its fearsome bowling attack and hostile environment was no place for a kid to be making his international debut. They would have been right except for the fact that they were discussing about Sachin Tendulkar. One of the five, Naren Tamhane, thoroughly exasperated, got up and shouted, “Tendulkar never fails’. And so by the age of 16, the hopes of a nation rested on Tendulkar.<br />
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The selectors were not wrong to be wary though. In that first series, against that fearsome attack, amidst the hostile Pakistani crowd baying for blood, Tendulkar almost failed. Waqar Younis broke his nose and drew blood, but heroically, Tendulkar batted on, his spirit unbroken. As the years passed by, the runs accumulated and the centuries began to pile up. There were some memorable innings, a few glorious victories and some inevitable heart breaks. But more importantly, he began to become one of us. Fathers bonded with their sons over Tendulkar. The generation gap was briefly erased when discussing Tendulkar with our grandparents. And for as long as Tendulkar batted, our mothers would relent and let us watch television. Once he got out though, television sets were turned off and reality resumed. Tendulkar had firmly become a part of our collective psyche. All nations need a hero and Tendulkar was to be ours.<br />
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There are two kind of heroes though. The first kind are those who do the unexpected. When David defeated Goliath, he was a hero because he performed a miracle. The other kind though, the rarer breed, are those who do what is expected of them, without fail, again and again. Tendulkar did it for nearly a quarter of a century. Tendulkar had begun to become so much a part of our lives that the nation’s mood began to depend on his performance. It was a vicarious relationship. We lived out our dreams through his achievements. We celebrated his success and mourned his failure. We prayed when he was injured and swore when he was wronged. In 2007, when Tendulkar repeatedly got out in the 90’s, I spent almost all of my pocket money on replacing the three remotes that I had broken. Tendulkar did not make our troubles go away of course; but he helped us forget our troubles for a while and made the pain more bearable. As long as Tendulkar was batting, the world was a kinder place.<br />
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Was Tendulkar aware of the hype around him? Was he aware of people worshipping him and temples being built? He certainly must have been; it was difficult to miss after all. Was he comfortable? Very unlikely. For, the relentless scrutiny, and the incessant pressure, of the magnitude that Tendulkar has had to face can and does break the best of men. And yet, Tendulkar was not broken. The expectations only seemed to fuel his hunger for runs and the love and affection showered upon him only served to make him ever more humble and grateful. Circumstances conspired to make Tendulkar the phenomenon that he became. Tendulkar’s immense ability, prodigious talent and audacious stroke play certainly contributed. But more that, it was the Television revolution sweeping across India, and the coming together of Cricket and commerce for the first time that made the Tendulkar phenomenon happen. What is remarkable though is that Tendulkar did nothing to halt the procession of that incredible phenomenon.<br />
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He became the great batsman we expected him to be. But more than that, he was a role-model like we demanded him to be. For all of Tendulkar’s staggering achievements, his greatest achievement is not in what he has done but in what he hasn’t. He didn’t rebel, didn’t try to run away, and didn’t try to shrug off the stifling expectations of perfection placed upon him. He didn’t throw tantrums, he didn’t have affairs and he didn’t court scandals. In our society, like in most others, we place people on high pedestals, often only for the sadistic pleasure of seeing them fall. Higher the pedestal, greater the fall. Tendulkar though didn’t give us that opportunity. Instead, he became what we wanted him to become; honest, hardworking and humble. And he remained that way. For 24 long and glorious years.<br />
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Somewhere over those 24 years, for some of us, this hero worship transformed into just worship. Cricket became our religion and Tendulkar our God. Like so many other kids around the world, my room walls were plastered with posters of my heroes. Thanks to SportStar, there was Tiger Woods, there was Federer essaying one of his glorious backhands, Beckham oozing glamour, Schumacher in his blood red Ferrari but most of all there were the Cricketers; Lara, Dravid, Sehwag, Hayden and others. One face missing on the walls though was that of Sachin Tendulkar. Because, the roof was reserved for Tendulkar. Every Sunday morning, I would take the week’s newspapers and magazines<br />
and cut out the pictures of Tendulkar most carefully. Then I would get onto the bunk bed in my room and perform acrobatics as my sister passed on the sellotape. My mother did not approve much of what she considered the desecration of the walls and the roof, but she understood. It just seemed right somehow; looking up to Tendulkar first thing in the morning. That was my daily dose of prayer.<br />
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And so I end by trying to answer the question I had asked at the beginning. Just how much did Tendulkar mean to us?<br />
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It was that same ‘175’ match against Australia. The sun was setting and the stadium was bathed in warm orange. The flood lights had just been switched on and the outfield dazzled a pristine green. Hyderabad rarely looked better and it was a glorious evening to be watching Cricket. And just then, a great flock of birds glided past the stadium. It was a spectacular sight. The spirit of each spectator there was stirred. All 50,000 or so of them were excited. And so how do they express this excitement and euphoria? They break out into a chant of Saachin Saachin. Tendulkar wasn’t even batting. That’s how much he meant to us.<br />
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In our country we call our friends by their first names. But we refer to our heroes by their family names. So it is Gandhi and not Mohan, Bachchan and not Amitabh, Dravid and not Rahul. But he was one of us. And so more than Tendulkar, it was always Sachin. That’s how much he meant to us.<br />
As I stood in Wankhede, listening to Sachin give his farewell speech, tears streamed down my face. Except I wasn’t alone. All around me, grown men were weeping and sobbing openly. That’s how much he meant to us.<br />
<br />
And just yesterday, I decided to watch Tendulkar’s movie alone. Because I thought the emotion was too personal a one to be shared. I was wrong. I wasn’t alone. I couldn’t be alone. Strangers we were, but together, probably for one last time, we reignited the passion, rekindled the memories and relived the journey. The theatre transformed into a stadium, with chants of Saachin, Saachin. And that’s how much he meant to us.<br />
<br />
Sambit Bal, the editor of Cricinfo probably summed it up best. Tendulkar loved Cricket more than anything else and Cricket loved back Tendulkar more than anyone else.</div>
Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-59580581626735361312017-01-29T04:30:00.004-08:002017-01-29T04:30:35.553-08:00Of Federer and Nadal; of Sport and Us<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXblQAU619dqB8vQoamxhV9SlCMfo4olwcxQHkCXo8gjIjOo1FiKpOOnIQ5KgHoDrYAm-VCg70vJ1AUgdEqyLoyJYgri_5_jP8YJkf6m-cAtSauCBQwHJ8yzEpxP38mphQgy-e7gb7trKT/s1600/FedNadal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXblQAU619dqB8vQoamxhV9SlCMfo4olwcxQHkCXo8gjIjOo1FiKpOOnIQ5KgHoDrYAm-VCg70vJ1AUgdEqyLoyJYgri_5_jP8YJkf6m-cAtSauCBQwHJ8yzEpxP38mphQgy-e7gb7trKT/s320/FedNadal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
There were 13 players on the field. But one stood out. And
he knew it. There was a swagger to his walk, poise in his posture and his
entire demeanour was of a man who knew there were a million eyes on him; who
not merely was aware of and acknowledged it, but also courted the attention,
craved for it and feeded of it. As the ball soared off his bat, 50,000 rose off
their chairs in unison; but even before the triumphal act was concluded, the
smiles were wiped off their faces and there was tension in their eyes. The
fielder settled under the ball; it was to be a regulation catch. But, was it to
be? The floodlights shone down upon him, almost sinister in their intensity,
but that did not matter; he has done this a thousand times before. What
mattered though was the thousands of eyes boring into him, the unnatural
silence, the searing hostility of strangers, the expectations of teammates and
most of all the stature of the man of whose bat the ball has soared from and
was now hurtling down towards him. The fielder dropped the catch. The mighty
Eden Gardens, as only it can, erupted in a cacophony of noise, a naked
expression of violence but also an exquisite display of camaraderie. Among
thousands, the fielder stood alone. Kohli smirked and resumed his batting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so this then is the nature of sport. Not merely a
contest between bat and ball or even a battle between two great players. Of
course, it is all of that, but then it is also so much more. It is the fan who
makes the sport, who gives it meaning, nourishes it with context and adorns it
with significance. A fan is not just a passive spectator, but an active
participant, who is not just influenced by the action on the field but also is
an influencer of it. And it is also why, the men’s final of the Australian Open
today, between Roger Federer, arguably the greatest Tennis player of all time
and Rafael Nadal, perhaps the strongest counter to this argument, is so very
special. It is a critical chapter in the stories of Federer and Nadal but it is
also a special chapter in our story; for each of us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Federer’s story began in earnest on a cold blustery July
evening in Wimbledon in 2001. Then, all of 19 years, Federer announced himself
to the world in spectacular fashion, defeating Pete Sampras in the fourth
round. It was an astonishing achievement. Sampras, by then, was widely
acknowledged as an all-time great and he had 13 grand slam titles to his name,
more than any other player till then. He was gunning for his 5<sup>th</sup>
straight Wimbledon title, and his 8<sup>th</sup> Wimbledon title overall,
again, unparalleled achievements in the history of the game. This one title
could be his claim to immortality. Federer by contrast, till then, never had progressed
beyond the first round. But, as so often happens in sport, it is the seemingly
innocuous battles such as these that later assume epochal significance. This
was one of them. But what was so striking though, was not just the result, but
the beauty of the performance, and the promise that it held. It was apparent to
all those who witnessed it, that it was no flash in the pan, but greater things
were to come, for a long time after. The great Sampras himself, even as he was
smarting under the pain of unexpected defeat, seemed to have recognized
something of himself in Federer. He was effusive in his praise and had this to
say of the young contender; “There are a lot of young guys coming up but Roger
is a bit <i>extra-special</i>. He has a
great all-round game, <i>like me</i> doesn't
get too emotional and you have to give him a great deal of credit.” Despite
this, few would have had the clairvoyance to predict the sheer scale of
Federer’s future achievements. In fact,
Federer promptly crashed out in the next round, losing to the local hero,
albeit, a perennial under-achiever, Tim Henman, and it took Federer a further 8
attempts to finally win a grand slam. The rest as they say is history, but in
this case, happily, an incomplete one with more tantalizing chapters promised.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
This is one of the greatest joys of sporting fandom. To
recognize the spark in a young talent and to hope for great things. The
investment gives a handsome return, when the player not just fulfils the immense
promise that he has shown but goes on to far exceed it. As we live the fairy
tale vicariously, the bonds of affection and adoration that we form with the
player often prove to be just as strong if not even stronger, than the bondage
of family that destiny has bestowed upon us or the bonds of choice that we
forge with friends and lovers. They become a part of our story, a fraction of
our lives and a fact of our very existence and identity. For some, it was Tiger
Woods, for some others, Sachin Tendulkar and for many more, it was Roger
Federer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And yet greatness can never exist in isolation. For
greatness is a relative term, feeding not off the mediocrity of others, but
being nourished by the excellence of opponents, by the determination of
challengers and by the bloody-mindedness of rivals. And thus enters Rafael
Nadal. It was his 19<sup>th</sup> Birthday. He was playing in his first French
open. He had steamrolled his opponents in a display of exhilarating tennis and
today found himself in the Semi-Finals. But across the net was a certain Roger
Federer. By now, Federer had become a seasoned pro and claims of greatness sat
lightly on his shoulders. He had already won 7 grand slam titles, was
victorious in his last three and only needed the French Open to complete the
elusive set. This was to be the tournament when the claims of ‘Greatest Ever’
were to graduate from being mere whispers to an undisputed fact. Roger Federer
wanted to win this and was going to win this. Nobody could stop him, least of
all, a 19 year Spaniard playing his first French open. Nadal won. And Nadal won
his next match. The King of Spain, Juan Carlos, reached down from the front of
the president’s box and clasped Nadal in a fierce hug. It was almost as if he
was anointing his subject as the ‘King of Clay’. This is another of the great
joys of sport; this affront to fate, snub to destiny; the shock and awe of a
monumental upset. In his next 9 attempts, Nadal would go on to win the French
Open a further 8 times, thwarted once only by a cruel injury. King of Clay, he
was.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Federer, hailing from the border town of Basel, a prominent
cultural centre in Switzerland, is all class and grace. Nadal, in stark
contrast, is from the holiday island of Mallorca, off the coast of Spain, and
with his cut-off piratical trousers, sleeveless shirts and long black hair might
as well have walked straight off the beach into the centre-court. While Federer
eased past his opponents, Nadal destroyed them and while Federer serenaded his
genius, Nadal displayed his determination. Federer was hard not to love, Nadal
was difficult to like. While we rushed to embrace the genius of Federer, we
grudged Nadal his greatness. Even as Nadal began to accumulate fans of his own,
many preferred to ignore him and some chose even to hate and ridicule him.
Federer was the timeless champion, Nadal was to be the eternal number two. Until
that match.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sport produces brilliance often; an outrageous catch, an
extraordinary save or a thrilling dunk. But only rarely, does it elevate itself
to divine heights. It happened on the evening of the 6<sup>th</sup> of July, 2008,
on the centre court, in Wimbledon, London. Two men, who were at the peak of
their prowess were playing to secure their legacy. And as the match progressed,
it became apparent to all those fortunate enough to witness it, that here was
something very very special in the making. One magnificent shot followed
another, and extraordinary rallies became the normal. Even as Nadal made us
aware of angles that we knew not existed, Federer unfurled his one handed
backhands, coating the ball with his genius. And as the evening wore on, and as
darkness began to set in, it almost seemed as if even the gods had risen from
their slumber to witness divinity. These were not two players playing against
each other, but two performers putting on a flawless synchronous performance
and in the process taking the game into unchartered territories. The match was
scheduled to start at two in the afternoon and finally ended at 9.15 in the
night in near darkness. The match time of 4 hours and 48 minutes was
interrupted by two rain breaks, almost as if, the gods themselves could not
bear to witness such sustained excellence of the highest calibre. In the end it
did not matter, for the match transcended time and space and will remain an
eternal classic. That day was coated with gold dust and the memories will
continue to burn brightly for a long time. Nadal won the match but there were
no losers. And the players themselves knew as much; as the pride in their
performance was overwhelmed by the respect towards the opponent’s grit and
skill.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nine years have passed since that match, but there have been
only two more grand slam finals since between the two; until today. In the meanwhile,
age seemed to have caught up with Federer. And as his performance has slipped,
measured by his lofty standards, calls for his retirement have grown louder
over time. For us fans, who had been pampered with genius so far could not
accept Federer’s mortality. It little mattered to us that Federer still managed
to reach the semis and finals consistently. For us, anything less than a
victory was a failure. But the man himself battled on, never losing his grace,
and not once, abandoning his innate dignity. For he played on because he loved
the game. And he played on because he believed. Believed that he could lift a grand
slam trophy yet again. For it is that belief that makes them the champions they
are. And so he played on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, as Federer looked a spent force, Nadal looked all
set to overhaul Federer’s achievements. But curiously enough, the fall of
Federer seemed to have affected Nadal more than any of us. After 2010, Nadal
won only one other grand slam outside of the French Open. But in a way, it is
perhaps not that curious, not that strange. For these two defined each other.
The rivalry got the best out of them and we lapped it up greedily. And so
without Federer to push him, Nadal wasn’t the same anymore. He too fought on
though, for after all, determination built over a lifetime can be a hard habit
to give up. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
6 years after their last meet in a grand slam final, we have
gotten used to it. We still miss it of course but we have made peace with it.
In the meanwhile, new heroes have emerged, and new rivalries have taken shape.
And yet, deep down, we knew it was not the same; it was never going to be the
same. In this Australian open, even as Federer and Nadal negotiated their way
through the early rounds, we dared not hope. We were cynical; we had been let
down far too often over the past few years. And so even as Djokovic exited
early, we refused to acknowledge the magical possibility. There were others
dangers lurking, like Wawrinka and Murray, and we will not give them the chance
to break our hearts again. And so today, as they faced off against each other
in the final, we were almost caught by surprise. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the sheer improbability of this has made it all the more
special. For a few hours, we have been able to forget our troubles and abandon
our worries. We have been transported back in time. And what a treat this has
been. Anything less than a five setter would have been an anti-climax. And this
match has been anything but that. The familiarity has ironically only increased
the suspense and the intimacy has only sharpened the thrill. The drop shots of
Federer have been just as delectable as ever and the returns of Nadal just as
brutal. The 5<sup>th</sup> set was truly worth the stature of the players
involved and the enormity of the occasion. And you could see it on their faces,
how much it meant to each of them. Today, we have been treated to the best of
Federer, we have been treated to the best of Nadal, and to the best of Tennis
and Sport itself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Federer might have won this match but that doesn’t mean a
thing really. They have been greats for long now and will remain greats for
long to come. Their rivalry has defined them, elevated tennis and enhanced our
lives. This match though, is not just about Federer or Nadal; it is also about
each of us. We have been part of their journey and stakeholders in their
rivalry. And this was our reward. If today proves to be the exclamation mark at
the end of a glorious chapter in Tennis, we have played our part in it. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-30525827351014569032016-12-06T05:45:00.002-08:002016-12-06T05:45:42.243-08:00Jayalalitha is dead. Sexism in Indian politics is alive.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ51QrgX1xAHf01HylXIvg3WzaJzsSyLbhbEynUIuD6mA5W9lEeQKZUFrjZd8Hwk0Crvq05kQ6jm3lkL5Ct21r5DE-fpavCbBf30IvdDdIqvNSONUFPIy_woA-IjIH7iGGSCxUny384FwZ/s1600/matriarchs2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ51QrgX1xAHf01HylXIvg3WzaJzsSyLbhbEynUIuD6mA5W9lEeQKZUFrjZd8Hwk0Crvq05kQ6jm3lkL5Ct21r5DE-fpavCbBf30IvdDdIqvNSONUFPIy_woA-IjIH7iGGSCxUny384FwZ/s320/matriarchs2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Yesterday, an astute politician and a popular leader, Jayalalitha passed away. There has been a spontaneous outpouring of genuine grief and deep dismay among most Tamilians. <o:p></o:p></div>
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By all accounts, Jayalalitha had led an extraordinary life.
From becoming a film heroine at the age of 16 to being a chief minister at the
time of her death, much of Jayalalitha’s journey had been larger than life. She
had had to display exemplary courage and tremendous willpower to defeat formidable
foes, surmount numerous obstacles and beat impossible odds. Each time she was
deemed vanquished, she rose like a phoenix from the ashes, stronger than ever
before. And yet many of us are puzzled by her popularity, uncomfortable with
the devotion shown to her and scornful of what we consider as the mindless sycophancy
that reigns around her.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The underlying source of all this thinly disguised distaste
is our deep-rooted and firmly entrenched belief in the inferiority of the
woman. In plainer words: sexism and patriarchy. And so we circulate memes
making fun of Mayawati and Mamata Banerjee. We cackle at the sartorial choices
(Pink salwars) of Mayawati and roll our eyes at the ‘theatrics’ of Mamata
Banerjee. We project our women leaders as stupid, illiterate, irrational, despotic
drama queens scheming their way to power. With a smirk and a shrug, we proclaim
“Little wonder that no one wants to marry them. Who would be able to tolerate
their antics?” But it is actually no wonder that they end up looking as remote
and bitter women.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And when I repeatedly use the word ‘we’, I refer to the
smug, educated class of Indians to which I belong. The ‘illiterate masses’ of
India seem to be far wiser. It is they who voted Indira Gandhi to power. It is
they who gave Sonia Gandhi a resounding mandate in 2004. It is they who ensured
that three of our chief ministers were women. We of course chose to sneer and
forward memes on whatsapp. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Politics is the strongest bastion of the male species. It is
through politics that the woman is controlled and subjugated. And so the key to
power is fiercely guarded and any incursion by a woman is vehemently opposed.
It took Indira Gandhi with Nehru for a father and Gandhi as a surname to
finally storm the bastion. Even then, she was made the prime minister because of
the arrogant sexist assumption that she would remain a ‘goongi gudiya’ (puppet)
in the hands of older men. When she went on to assert her independence and led
India to victory over Pakistan, she was lauded as the ‘only man in her cabinet’.
Such is the role that patriarchal symbolism plays in Indian politics. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Not everyone has the advantage of a surname and the luxury
of a lineage. And thus, the Mayawatis, the Jayalalithas and the Mamata Banerjees
are ridiculed and insulted. In her early political career, Jayalalitha was
subjected to numerous lewd insults and even hair pulling. In the assembly, the
so-called temple of democracy, she was almost disrobed. And so she had to re-brand
herself as Amma. She had to de-womanize and de-sexualize herself by wrapping
herself in layers of clothing and denying herself any jewellery. This was the
only way she could survive, the only way she could protect her dignity and the
only she could access power. And for this we call her remote, bitter and a
despot. Similarly, both Mamata Banerjee and Mayawati had to undergo this
process of desexualisation by branding themselves as ‘Didi’ and ‘Behenji’
respectively. And Mayawati of course had to bear the additional onerous burden
of being a dalit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This post is not to suggest that women leaders are immune to
wrong doing or that they are more efficient or less corrupt than male
politicians. Women leaders are of course vulnerable to all the trappings of
power that their male counterparts succumb to. It is only a plea, asking you to
judge them as you would any other politician and not hold them to higher
standards. It is only to highlight the struggles that they have faced and the
heroic battles that they have waged; to highlight the enormity of their
achievements and the magnitude of their accomplishments. They don’t ask for
your sympathy, but at least spare them your contempt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This post is also not about criticizing or shaming the
educated class. It is a request to identify and acknowledge the latent sexism
still entrenched in our psyche. I do not claim that sexism prevails only among
the educated class or that it is only prevalent in India. Far from it. It is merely
a passionate plea, asking you to use the advantage of education to eliminate
sexism and not promote it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Each of us thinks that it is the others and not we who are sexist.
But it is not just their malice and violence that breeds sexism and sustains
patriarchy, it is also our scorn and indifference. Those memes are not funny
and neither are they not harmful. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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p.s: When the statues of Jayalalitha are erected across
Tamilnadu, as they inevitably will, for once, I will cherish and celebrate
idolatry; because for years to come, young girls will have someone to inspire
them, someone who was not just a mother and a sister, pious and chaste, but an
independent woman who took on the might of patriarchy and the power of sexism. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-61248841485575726872016-11-06T19:27:00.001-08:002016-11-09T07:05:05.735-08:00The Ascent to Sandakphu<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://indiahikes.com/sandakphu/" target="_blank">IndiaHikes - Sandakphu</a><br />
Man originated somewhere deep in the jungles of Ethiopia.
And then, he walked, and walked, and walked; to become, arguably, the most
dominant species in the history of the planet. Walking then, is the most
natural thing in the world, and as old as the hills themselves. And yet, today,
walking is an archaism. We live in the era of Uber and Amazon, of the remote
and the elevator; all designed to not just make walking unnecessary but also
unfashionable. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Trekking then, inhabits this curious corner of contradiction,
natural and unnatural at the very same time. For the first time trekker, this
contradiction is all the more magnified; accustomed as he is, to the warm
comforts of luxury travel, the lure and excitement of trekking is nonetheless elementary,
almost primal even.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As the first timer treks, flat terrain is his friend, all so
familiar and so very comforting; if at all, monotony is the only damper. The
descent is a trickier beast, with dangers potentially lurking behind every
corner and cunning pitfalls never too far away. Complacency here, can be a rather
expensive mistake. And yet, it is fair to say that, caution, rather than
exertion, is the chief concern.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The soul of trekking though resides in the ascent. The urge
to scale peaks and conquer challenges strikes at the most central chord of
human spirit. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The 27 of us, a rather motley group of trekkers, stood
there, collectively contemplating the final ascent to Sandakphu. Sandakphu, to
us, was the promised land, having lured us from different parts of the country
and having given us a common goal and purpose. For that one week, we were to be
a family, sharing the same concerns, combating the same challenges, and most
importantly, having a common aspiration.<o:p></o:p></div>
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After one final sip of water, I stood up, slung the rucksack
over the shoulders, tightened the straps, and took a hard good luck at our
destination, far and high up in the mountains. And so I began the ascent, one
step at a time. Very soon, I began to pull away. 12,000 feet above the sea
level is not an easy place to be trekking in. The air is thinner, the
temperature colder and each and every exertion requires extra effort. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.explara.com/ticketing-university/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/4-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://www.explara.com/ticketing-university/wp-content/uploads/2016/04/4-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
As I zigzagged across the torturous mountain trail, one step
up at a time, everything else began to fade away. It was no more about the
enchanting scenery, no more about the elusive red panda and no more even about
the 26 others. It was all about me, myself and the mountains. The mountains
asked for greater discipline, deeper resolve and stronger will. I responded.
Taking deep breaths and short steps, I placed one foot after the other, with
the green bamboo staff, having become an extension of myself, a third limb in
fact. The monotony, rather than being belittling, became exhilarating. The
distance of the destination and the steepness of the ascent ceased to matter.
It was all about that one moment, that one next step and that one next breath.
Pain itself became the greatest motivation and exhaustion the greatest
strength. And so I surrendered myself to the mountain and became one with it.
The destination now did not seem that far away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But alas, the mountains are cruel friends, and do not grant
access all that easily. Even as the steps accumulated, the pain became sharper
and the exhaustion greater. I stumbled and the rhythm was broken. I was no more
one with the mountain. I looked up now and the destination seemed forbiddingly
far and the path impossibly steep. The resolve began to break and the mountains
seemed to have won. But yet, I had one last trick up my sleeve; companionship.
When all seems lost, humans fall back upon their one greatest strength, the
other human beings. Solidarity is the greatest and the defining character of humanity.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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And so I drew upon this companionship. It was three of us
now, ahead of all the others. All three of us were battling the same
challenges, buckling under the weight of the backpack and the greater weight of
the mountain. Even as our individual resolve began to fail, our collective
resolve came to the rescue. We spoke hardly a word among ourselves, but for
that short while, we were one, united by pain and ambition alike. We walked
together and rested together. As one began to tire, the other took up the lead,
silently motivating the other two. I was once again back into the rhythm and
zone, but this time, there were three tiny set of steps being taken, three set
of breaths and three wills fighting together.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And so finally, the challenge (never the mountain), was
conquered. What couldn’t be achieved alone, was achieved together. We had
earned the majestic view of the Kanchenjunga and the Everest that beheld us.
And also, we had earned the respect of ourselves, of each other and perhaps
hopefully the respect of the mountains themselves. The friendship forged may or may not last, even the memory
might begin to fade with the cruel, inexorable passage of time, but the
experience shared and earned will remain on, even if deep within. </div>
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Lastly, never did Maggi taste better, with our feet up,
three spoons in a bowl, and the mountains looking, benignly now, down upon us.
We could afford to smile and smile we did.</div>
</div>
Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-71754262831264941422016-09-25T12:36:00.003-07:002016-09-25T12:36:34.881-07:00Sarat Chandra Chattopadhay: In search of a name through rural Bengal.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A name is your very identity. And yet, you do not have the
power to choose it and most often do not have the power either to change it.
Does a name really matter? Are our destinies shaped in any measure by the name
we are given? Do we imbibe anything of those who we are named after? If yes, do
we also imbibe something of those, who we were named after, were named after in
the first place? I do not know and let’s admit it, neither do you. What I do
know however is that, for long now, I have been doused by curiosity to know
more about this man, Sarat Chandra Chattopadhay. In my IIM Calcutta interview,
my name struck a chord with the Bengali professor and we had a pleasant
conversation on culture. On my first day in campus, as I was being handed the
keys to the hostel room, the sombre security man, upon noticing my name, looked
up, broke into an unexpected smile, and insisted that I visited Sarat Chandra
Kuthi, across the Hugli. And so it was almost inevitable that I would one day
visit this place.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I wondered then, who I should make this little trip with;
before realizing that some things are meant to be done alone, and this was one
of them. And so I set off by a rickety old bus to Howrah station. No matter how
many times you have been there, as you step down onto the subway, the first
sight of the multitude of humanity sweeping past, overwhelms you for an
instant. It was no different this time. I maneuvered past this mighty horde and
made my way to the ticket counter. After much misunderstanding and mutual frustration,
I finally wrote down ‘Deulti’ to make the man at the ticket counter understand
my destination. He sniggered and taught me how the name was pronounced. So much
for my Bengali roots. The ticket was priced a paltry Rs 15 for a distance of 50
km. The Indian Railways is a truly amazing institution.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And so I boarded the Howrah-Midnapore local. Kolkata is a
unique city, in that, the filth and squalor of its slums gives way to pristine
greenery within almost 15 minutes of the train leaving Howrah. A train journey
in India, especially in the Non-Ac compartments is seldom boring and this
proved no different. I got down at Deulti station. It was 12 noon and the sun
was blazing hot, nevertheless, I fired up my GPS and set off on my 5 km trek to
Deulti.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This was Bengal as I had not seen before. Far away from the
bustling streets of Kolkata, and even the highways of interior Bengal, this was
a mere walking track passing through paddy fields and brick kilns. Like so much
of rural India, this too was sadly impoverished land. While the paddy fields
themselves were rich with produce, the houses were shabby and the kids scrawny.
Still, it was a pleasant walk as it was interspersed with water bodies and
coconut trees. Goats and ducks, dogs and cows staked just as much claim on the
pathways as human beings. As I sweated it out under the harsh sun, the sight of
an ice-cream vendor provoked great relief. It was only after I had finished
greedily gobbling up the mango flavoured Rs 2 Ice-Cream, did I think about the hygienic
implications. But well, I figured that all those kids were doing just fine, and
anyways the immunity system does need a bit of working over every once in a
while. Further, it did evoke some great memories of childhood. Ice-Cream is
truly the greatest invention of mankind! Another interesting observation was
that the Bengali men really seemed proud of their bods; but then again,
shirtless is probably the most sensible option in the sweltering heat. There
were also a few shrines dotting the road. One was particularly interesting, a
suitably fierce looking Kali Mata standing on Lord Shiva. It did seem scandalous
and I wonder what the story really is. The women of Bengal always amaze and
impress me greatly. This might seem normal and unremarkable to the Bengalis but
a woman sitting in the front seat of a shared auto is not a common sight in
other parts of India. Even here, amidst the villages, the women raced past in
their Hero cycles, sometimes with the men-folk riding pillion, with great
abandon and confidence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After an enjoyable one hour walk, I reached my destination
around 1 pm. Only to find it locked. Disappointed and somewhat panicky, I’ve
asked around and was relieved to be told that it would open at about 4 pm.
Still, I had over three hours to kill and I wondered what I would do. It was
then that I spotted the river in the distance. There were paddy fields though
to manoeuvre before I could make my way to the river bank. Well they were not
going to stop me and after getting my jeans suitably muddy and my sandals
adequately damaged, I found myself on the river bank. It was a pretty sight
with the water sparkling and the river bank having coconut trees among the
paddy fields. After my little adventure, I decided it was time for rest and so
I spread a newspaper and settled down to read the ‘English Passengers’. It was
a most enjoyable few hours, filled as it was with rare solitude, only ants, egrets
and cows proving a distraction every once in a while. In the distance, far into
the shallow river, a couple were spending what seemed some quality time, happy
to be far away and to be lost in their own world. The book itself was most
interesting, with the wild Tasmanian landscape and the boisterous London
streets proving to be a delicious contrast to my peaceful and gentle
surroundings. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally, I got up and made my way to the ‘Sarat Chandra
Kuthi’. Mercifully, this time, it was unlocked and I was welcomed by a scowling
caretaker, who looked not a day less than 70 years. Undeterred, I went about
exploring the house. It was by no means very large but had a very impressive façade
and I later learnt that it was built in the Burmese style. The caretaker,
initially so taciturn, proved to be surprisingly loquacious, when I told him I
came to the place all the way from Hyderabad because I was named after the
great man. He gave me a guided tour of the place. Though the man knew no Hindi
and spoke only Bengali, I could often make out the gist of what he was saying. The
rooms were sparsely furnished but they were preserved well and the place seemed
to exude a curious vitality. It was not hard to imagine the place once
throbbing with vitality, the now cobwebbed Charka being spun religiously or the
writing desk being used by Sarat Chandra to pen down one of his numerous
classics. In fact, the caretaker informed that freedom fighters used to meet
here often as Sarat Chandra was then the president of the Howrah branch of the
Indian National Congress. Also, it seemed that, from the window of his writing
room, the beautiful Rupnarayan River could be seen flowing by; little wonder
then that his writing was so inspired. Now, however, the river has changed its
course, and only the paddy fields are visible from the window, no less
beautiful nonetheless. After thoroughly seeping in the history of the place, it
was finally time to leave. Though, not before, posing with the statue of Sarat
Chandra. I overcame my embarrassment and requested a local to take the picture.
Though he acquiesced readily, he was rather perplexed when I fished out my
college nameplate from the bag and posed with it. It read ‘Sarath’.<o:p></o:p></div>
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By now, it was 5 pm and I was tired and in a hurry to get
back to college. It being evening, there were a lot more people around and some
stared curiously. I marched on steadily though and reached Deulti station in
good time. I was looking forward to a relaxing journey back but alas it was not
to be. Unlike in the morning, the train was packed to the rafters and it was a
miserable two hours journey. It was a jolt back to reality and normalcy and I
had to get down at every station to let other passengers disembark and embark,
though it seemed that there were always more people getting on rather than
getting off. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was back to the yellow taxis of Calcutta and the
beautiful lakes of Joka. The entire day had cost me a total of 146 Rupees but I
was left richer with some memories and a deeper connect with my name. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Thank You Sarat Chandra Chattopadhay. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghhoBzFgK4XErCfaXgdBFpp2znlsEjf5UYPCgLFj56ynMX0ZordPbwoeKVAZ4-p2nodxW_slJ8k-AhPphKwEfMsUBQb-fbvnQ9jZbJNBn5urjqBlVPHq35rPv3MwZulV2WfkysexKuDq6o/s1600/IMG_20160923_095415+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghhoBzFgK4XErCfaXgdBFpp2znlsEjf5UYPCgLFj56ynMX0ZordPbwoeKVAZ4-p2nodxW_slJ8k-AhPphKwEfMsUBQb-fbvnQ9jZbJNBn5urjqBlVPHq35rPv3MwZulV2WfkysexKuDq6o/s320/IMG_20160923_095415+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Yellow Taxi and the Howrah Bridge: Two icons of Calcutta</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeJFTRQlIe5qesUc9-tAjVfhvSKzfERg0_1KL-f-8bHPsRDm-p6lokvIu54_BwqVSCYQqF5VnEXPJ6_p2m0JlcDbGYlIxz58vmuMF1Ku-IqIvj6wx7Zzrez0w7vxtbawVjEpkFvyVM8zQK/s1600/IMG_20160923_095716+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeJFTRQlIe5qesUc9-tAjVfhvSKzfERg0_1KL-f-8bHPsRDm-p6lokvIu54_BwqVSCYQqF5VnEXPJ6_p2m0JlcDbGYlIxz58vmuMF1Ku-IqIvj6wx7Zzrez0w7vxtbawVjEpkFvyVM8zQK/s320/IMG_20160923_095716+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A great multitude of humanity sweeping past</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEIr88LEO5nYUY1GQUef3n-Baf2SoFj6RdzEfDVtgKA8NPeoBojT-Qcbncu7LD_oiHG_NqgqDjlqkrBH7UewHkLM4bdyZ-k35ZVhPz7SRGGVyAwFu8eXvykSAUFHSGfw8N3pJAnGx7G6LC/s1600/IMG_20160923_114933+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEIr88LEO5nYUY1GQUef3n-Baf2SoFj6RdzEfDVtgKA8NPeoBojT-Qcbncu7LD_oiHG_NqgqDjlqkrBH7UewHkLM4bdyZ-k35ZVhPz7SRGGVyAwFu8eXvykSAUFHSGfw8N3pJAnGx7G6LC/s320/IMG_20160923_114933+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxhioSBo7GySgSK3OUGitvlYAj4UcgYG2E2n3WlwuVRSboOWnKzrJGtT7h6dnMAmsrSIMUTKlkgfEg5oxH6w-wqzu38IM3pNTlG_pt0AmrqKTwsKbaHE-FsUMU-l_fSCo0XyLqQLsyu7M/s1600/IMG_20160923_163417+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxhioSBo7GySgSK3OUGitvlYAj4UcgYG2E2n3WlwuVRSboOWnKzrJGtT7h6dnMAmsrSIMUTKlkgfEg5oxH6w-wqzu38IM3pNTlG_pt0AmrqKTwsKbaHE-FsUMU-l_fSCo0XyLqQLsyu7M/s320/IMG_20160923_163417+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brick Kiln</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnID6rnOrYRgdyBZb6AbPKMABwmP8ByIv18XQvmKAWOCkDEiAkim5qhGmHiwhcf0qnN2yvnMsczXjpqZpbFY_Jf93N-Nq0rtPV3iId6eFtwKjadrMcI1er1Z5A8TnlOZHt7K4q41yM0Ir/s1600/IMG_20160923_123525+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinnID6rnOrYRgdyBZb6AbPKMABwmP8ByIv18XQvmKAWOCkDEiAkim5qhGmHiwhcf0qnN2yvnMsczXjpqZpbFY_Jf93N-Nq0rtPV3iId6eFtwKjadrMcI1er1Z5A8TnlOZHt7K4q41yM0Ir/s320/IMG_20160923_123525+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Which way to choose? Both look promising!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDh9xmoOppvM582a-iWb-3osyg-gCb0dEjR27TxfovUWfItYlyrjehBy6BOXdH3_AIg0aIPVGEIk_5CHGwlv7ChhPhJT7rhC0APPI_BaIgehWxf30qqyJUrC1X9pqpWMn-sSGqRQmFsRzS/s1600/IMG_20160923_124440+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDh9xmoOppvM582a-iWb-3osyg-gCb0dEjR27TxfovUWfItYlyrjehBy6BOXdH3_AIg0aIPVGEIk_5CHGwlv7ChhPhJT7rhC0APPI_BaIgehWxf30qqyJUrC1X9pqpWMn-sSGqRQmFsRzS/s320/IMG_20160923_124440+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A water bodies exuding charm and mystery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNWHA89_ZvQgyi-KFinrIrHs6XpKuXJgnjrpVUzez9NPmfEttj28z04kw_JR9t4-gjlJlRl2zQr5KNJ-gLIIdKDpazcGeSjNERvXeBTyCYPWrhTS1xG6ejzB14sE834oGyf6ABAllxKQwu/s1600/IMG_20160923_162207+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNWHA89_ZvQgyi-KFinrIrHs6XpKuXJgnjrpVUzez9NPmfEttj28z04kw_JR9t4-gjlJlRl2zQr5KNJ-gLIIdKDpazcGeSjNERvXeBTyCYPWrhTS1xG6ejzB14sE834oGyf6ABAllxKQwu/s320/IMG_20160923_162207+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They own the road too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv5fHa-MRtikNha31vGJi_9k1QRdWaCB7rc7cAT3Nt5IabYyXF10qLZiipbzoc8FlJ-sq9LEona48y8GukzRMLvJHGXh70PF8Yzrb9t-dM0KCvekkFZyaY6NxOnDgFC31AtzkfjDcsGbaW/s1600/IMG_20160923_124148+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv5fHa-MRtikNha31vGJi_9k1QRdWaCB7rc7cAT3Nt5IabYyXF10qLZiipbzoc8FlJ-sq9LEona48y8GukzRMLvJHGXh70PF8Yzrb9t-dM0KCvekkFZyaY6NxOnDgFC31AtzkfjDcsGbaW/s320/IMG_20160923_124148+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The fierce Kali Mata standing on Lord Shiva</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAq0jNllmaUoHvFvoRzkPtevdlVZtnKmgoDpFHhKkDC-T2ORXalZlJWOvlQ6K0Dbe32TL6j3o089su81HpecfPVFSJBv-lDirvg94b8SztfOGNSke9aigKppvjwoBXyD956epkgPE2E9k9/s1600/IMG_20160923_120302+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAq0jNllmaUoHvFvoRzkPtevdlVZtnKmgoDpFHhKkDC-T2ORXalZlJWOvlQ6K0Dbe32TL6j3o089su81HpecfPVFSJBv-lDirvg94b8SztfOGNSke9aigKppvjwoBXyD956epkgPE2E9k9/s320/IMG_20160923_120302+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE9pbQhCoVs0OvH9rwgqswamUQKggRr5OKJMi8BN8C4bC1fpKQ0LHHnDXVTuSpd0ONtUEHZvxGByhbGmMLqzBSeXe2rXQ4xhJLp_FIh5AuRM9OLst3vhlczNxvFp0OMI6NHN_M0xS3Nuz4/s1600/IMG_20160923_120634+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE9pbQhCoVs0OvH9rwgqswamUQKggRr5OKJMi8BN8C4bC1fpKQ0LHHnDXVTuSpd0ONtUEHZvxGByhbGmMLqzBSeXe2rXQ4xhJLp_FIh5AuRM9OLst3vhlczNxvFp0OMI6NHN_M0xS3Nuz4/s320/IMG_20160923_120634+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a> </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span><span style="text-align: left;"><br /> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCtYnMLnWMCz9UsAzlLZkln28BNTCHryfEkF-l_qOY9g37JQdO8qgUAOAdja5sYemcUe5ncE33taa3kCIfgvdFVPDM9dPcnCm5gf9VKo_XC2efUs_X04Wyz4BEnm1ceQFN3KOtbaDLY6u7/s1600/IMG_20160923_135812+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCtYnMLnWMCz9UsAzlLZkln28BNTCHryfEkF-l_qOY9g37JQdO8qgUAOAdja5sYemcUe5ncE33taa3kCIfgvdFVPDM9dPcnCm5gf9VKo_XC2efUs_X04Wyz4BEnm1ceQFN3KOtbaDLY6u7/s200/IMG_20160923_135812+%25282%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Spider seemed keen to explore my bag</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkB1mTo-pTqRV0WQl42-mY2jArHSsPkGsC_TKqqWTT3xzw6-IWHjU6EqnJquIIvCBYGYMWdVJ9vB2gMP3uepSfUcljIU5Ni_arp2zrPSvI8o-aNnH_B3jUVtwLWdCA25HqfY3j8vCSiLq5/s1600/IMG_20160923_150221+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkB1mTo-pTqRV0WQl42-mY2jArHSsPkGsC_TKqqWTT3xzw6-IWHjU6EqnJquIIvCBYGYMWdVJ9vB2gMP3uepSfUcljIU5Ni_arp2zrPSvI8o-aNnH_B3jUVtwLWdCA25HqfY3j8vCSiLq5/s320/IMG_20160923_150221+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The shimmering Rupnarayan River</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFH9K1rKaGhz0bGuE0xaqyL4qyhnf5rcs75fyJeBmlIgSlK0IaQqc9TIU0URWbDnsHPggiyAvWh9C2c2FlZ3MjKKBu4KCysixWoD7S45j1P1vnzuRMH6vaMA2Mfas1ScgqSQXNUktbJ7b/s1600/D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFH9K1rKaGhz0bGuE0xaqyL4qyhnf5rcs75fyJeBmlIgSlK0IaQqc9TIU0URWbDnsHPggiyAvWh9C2c2FlZ3MjKKBu4KCysixWoD7S45j1P1vnzuRMH6vaMA2Mfas1ScgqSQXNUktbJ7b/s640/D.jpg" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHF7XJ_yWjRNI2l8x7NI6NthFApAIF7ADOK9QpntAJWm6CTfzwuv_-JeJvEkIcpL8eoOSBxlXCx1XqwFRxJRH98QMZAKv2K1i1gtLSr_Sn-y_wpJU1xeSvrGTD4QkfaB31YZjo-tRA_ear/s1600/B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHF7XJ_yWjRNI2l8x7NI6NthFApAIF7ADOK9QpntAJWm6CTfzwuv_-JeJvEkIcpL8eoOSBxlXCx1XqwFRxJRH98QMZAKv2K1i1gtLSr_Sn-y_wpJU1xeSvrGTD4QkfaB31YZjo-tRA_ear/s640/B.jpg" width="640" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK3YUrUYkN-MfETZMwbSAOIeBu4MdJwzo882pkjQe1Ez7-FJrUaqmKBcJkoYuH757VDY6U9fezTDVKNqFfMOPMSmyAaeVt96hjE9ra1a28u7mGtntsVHTyLUQt8m5EpKIfcZZsUUjNhiC_/s1600/G.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK3YUrUYkN-MfETZMwbSAOIeBu4MdJwzo882pkjQe1Ez7-FJrUaqmKBcJkoYuH757VDY6U9fezTDVKNqFfMOPMSmyAaeVt96hjE9ra1a28u7mGtntsVHTyLUQt8m5EpKIfcZZsUUjNhiC_/s640/G.jpg" width="640" /></a> . <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidHGs8W2-_c8plCNJBmXw-X2BKLiefEBpTvrJ2fCX1BD15olecSNvcf8TdDjytbvBJdQWVq-3Nh-XRIIYjNjV9VAIclD7RutcJ_OR4zbuyq2Td7tj6rgW_oTBJgCj-TIajMOF0Xf7pXYq3/s1600/IMG_20160923_154600+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidHGs8W2-_c8plCNJBmXw-X2BKLiefEBpTvrJ2fCX1BD15olecSNvcf8TdDjytbvBJdQWVq-3Nh-XRIIYjNjV9VAIclD7RutcJ_OR4zbuyq2Td7tj6rgW_oTBJgCj-TIajMOF0Xf7pXYq3/s320/IMG_20160923_154600+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ3OkDz6TvlRgCIeAPdr5tm0JgytI5aQd1dQxFFf7ktfHNgV6Iwxu3RsJ0T4P83ygCHbKkPXLVWWAd7-uEULFABnrEbM0i3jGZmKRQyL_XpmSJKowV7nVDUDmgCgMKCbr24kXbHuDDbPeT/s1600/IMG_20160923_155010+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ3OkDz6TvlRgCIeAPdr5tm0JgytI5aQd1dQxFFf7ktfHNgV6Iwxu3RsJ0T4P83ygCHbKkPXLVWWAd7-uEULFABnrEbM0i3jGZmKRQyL_XpmSJKowV7nVDUDmgCgMKCbr24kXbHuDDbPeT/s320/IMG_20160923_155010+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZy6a0jzyVGkUFgxtwxScfblTknC5fFwXdlUA9hgKN2C8rHCCPazM_4FAxn_S2g6YA01SWOS1GIARdpsiaxvkgyL4V2kFGIxtaNeVBqKZhz5UQ887fMtG3WUtxJW4f_VHXb5RJrlWBWgo2/s1600/IMG_20160923_155111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZy6a0jzyVGkUFgxtwxScfblTknC5fFwXdlUA9hgKN2C8rHCCPazM_4FAxn_S2g6YA01SWOS1GIARdpsiaxvkgyL4V2kFGIxtaNeVBqKZhz5UQ887fMtG3WUtxJW4f_VHXb5RJrlWBWgo2/s320/IMG_20160923_155111.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVli_uaTxQj1UKJhGF7Q047LCP1ZfKB9_Y3hIkZtWA2lIF8PoPd-LqZcabed01kITsr6BXsPutbkUDaa0RiW9Y2mQKEKucY7BkNor5an10h9mNf8HrXxPU20AFsVXIkVjd5bkOscXNm88d/s1600/IMG_20160923_155059+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVli_uaTxQj1UKJhGF7Q047LCP1ZfKB9_Y3hIkZtWA2lIF8PoPd-LqZcabed01kITsr6BXsPutbkUDaa0RiW9Y2mQKEKucY7BkNor5an10h9mNf8HrXxPU20AFsVXIkVjd5bkOscXNm88d/s320/IMG_20160923_155059+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8w6pyO6taYMrb4lK2cPVwjp_3j0ygGB8S8cL-lsyl1Hr0JIZ3DpMFSSLn0tBOV4pYTr0pXHGa8PrREolOkHuPLLJovO6PjeOBNm6RBVBw7Me9PQefRrAlLxPOt-3ZiKu8ujMyEv5Jm8Tv/s1600/IMG_20160923_154123+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8w6pyO6taYMrb4lK2cPVwjp_3j0ygGB8S8cL-lsyl1Hr0JIZ3DpMFSSLn0tBOV4pYTr0pXHGa8PrREolOkHuPLLJovO6PjeOBNm6RBVBw7Me9PQefRrAlLxPOt-3ZiKu8ujMyEv5Jm8Tv/s320/IMG_20160923_154123+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_EM3shrsfbLuCA9k2JZAO65Fp1yPJNQS2W8RzQNgq2nDcUudBxt_E9ELZjvYOZ8f9t1LxAGqOM2lfMJEBrEIKDr13SM3ex9zKl7BggM3CsdZUFbSbkAz4YrAKlOQVLn23nzQPJpP8jW6s/s1600/IMG_20160923_154704+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_EM3shrsfbLuCA9k2JZAO65Fp1yPJNQS2W8RzQNgq2nDcUudBxt_E9ELZjvYOZ8f9t1LxAGqOM2lfMJEBrEIKDr13SM3ex9zKl7BggM3CsdZUFbSbkAz4YrAKlOQVLn23nzQPJpP8jW6s/s320/IMG_20160923_154704+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqhnQNA_-ud4c7_Q4FeioP2H7IDb75EQrTbvuCkxWBKJy4QtnKWI_DF9eZHKo733u4hyphenhyphenmf2szy0hUcZMowtKiULiwPs-2Z5HuLKV0i8BT2s42j8a5Iv-k3Rp-2xkEAYcjjnls22qLkhjfS/s1600/IMG_20160923_163925+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqhnQNA_-ud4c7_Q4FeioP2H7IDb75EQrTbvuCkxWBKJy4QtnKWI_DF9eZHKo733u4hyphenhyphenmf2szy0hUcZMowtKiULiwPs-2Z5HuLKV0i8BT2s42j8a5Iv-k3Rp-2xkEAYcjjnls22qLkhjfS/s320/IMG_20160923_163925+%25282%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting a vantage position: As only a monkey can!</td></tr>
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Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-71890717270782627102016-03-12T02:09:00.002-08:002016-04-07T12:06:52.052-07:00Sporting Immortality: Tendulkar's 6 off Akthar, Centurion, 2003 World Cup<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Sport is meant to be a celebration of life, an embodiment of
the ideal and the representation of the best in man. Stripped of fancy words
and trite pretensions, Sport is but a contest between individuals; a contest to
be faster, a contest to be higher, and a contest to be stronger; simply, a
contest to be better.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
In cricket, the contest is between bat and ball; between the batsman and the
bowler! A battle for supremacy. <br /></div>
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35 yards. </div>
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In Mumbai, you can fit about 40 families into a space of 35*35 yards.
Shoaib Akthar’s run up is 35 yards long. The batsman is a further 22 yards
away. At that distance, the previous delivery is merely a memory and the coming
delivery an expectation. </div>
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Shoaib Akthar starts his run up. Head down. Hair
trailing. Then, he picks up pace. The trot becomes a run. He starts to look up,
the hair is flying now. The image begins to blur. The crowd is on its feet.
It’s a crescendo of noise. He’s not that far away now. The batsman awaits. He
is alive, more alive than he will ever be. The memory and the expectation
begins to fuse. It is curdling into reality now. The bat is no more a piece of
wood; it is less of a weapon and more of a shield; ridiculously inadequate it
might be, but a shield nonetheless. The helmet is not an ornament; it stands
between a leather ball of 160 grams being hurled at 160 km/h and the human
skull. The pads, the gloves, the arm guards, the abdomen guard, the thigh
guards, the chest guard and the elbow guards; they all are ready for battle.
Shoaib Akthar approaches the crease. At full speed. Hair flying. It is a
side-on action. The left arm reaches out to the sky. The right hand holds the
ball, poised to deliver. The left foot lands thunderously on the crease, the
right foot an impossible distance away. The body is being stretched to its
absolute limit. The blood is pounding and adrenaline pumping; the heart, nerve
and sinew all function as one. The human body is not designed to do this.
Shoaib Akthar bowls as fast as no human ever had and probably ever can. Shoaib
Akthar then delivers the ball. There is a whirlwind of action, the hands, the
feet and above all the ball move at an impossible speed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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There is the briefest of intervals. A moment in time; no
more. The bowler has played his part. The ball has to travel 22 yards before
the batsman can essay his response. A ball travelling at 160 kilometres an
hour. It takes less than half a second; less than a heart-beat and a little
more than an eye-blink.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Tendulkar is no God. Rather;
he is a devotee. A devotee of Cricket. And like all devotees, he has his
rituals. After each delivery, a small walk towards the square leg umpire. A
shake of the head; almost as if to shake off the memory of the previous ball
and to concentrate on the next one. He walks back to the crease. Gets into his
stance. Adjusts his crotch; rather awkwardly. Looks up. Taps the bat. Stands
still. Taps the bat once again. Now, it is a sight to behold; a sight to thrill
the hearts of millions. If there is poetry in motion, this is art in stillness.
Perfect balance, true composure and an absolutely still head. As the ball is
released, there is now the slightest of forward presses, a subtle, almost indiscernible,
shifting of the weight. The bat is poised to do battle, to pander to the whims
of the genius wielding it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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India and Pakistan are twins separated at birth. This bitter
but irrevocable relationship serves to amplify the animosity and to escalate
the enmity; to magnify the madness and to reinforce the rivalry. It was always
a fractious relationship. Within two months of the two nations gaining
independence in August of 1947, the two infantile nations were at each other
throats, fighting over that most cursed of heavens, Kashmir. Kashmir was once
again the reason for the 1965 war. This was the largest tank battle since World
War II. And then in 1971, the stupidest of ideas came to its logical and
inevitable conclusion. East Pakistan and West Pakistan were separated by
thousands of kilometres of enemy land. The idea was monumental in its sheer
stupidity. Finally, it happened. India played its role and Pakistan was broken
into two. The miracle was that it ever managed to last so long. Bangladesh was
born. Pakistan seethed with rage and bristled with humiliation, vowing eternal
revenge. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It was 1999. 28 years had passed since the last
Indo-Pakistan war. It was the longest spell of peace that this part of the
world had seen since 1947. But all was not well, certainly not. In these 28
years, these two proud nations had beefed up their military might manifold.
Most alarmingly, both these nations had acquired nuclear weapons. No two enemy
countries sharing a land border ever had nuclear weapons. Now, both India and
Pakistan, had nuclear weapons. It was catastrophe in the making.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And then Kargil happened. As the battle raged on in the
rarefied altitudes of the magnificent Himalayas, the world held its breath.
Humanity was at stake. World War III was no longer in the realms of apocalyptic
predictions; it was a distinct possibility. At long last, sanity prevailed.
Pakistan withdrew. India triumphed. And the war ended.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This was Pakistan’s 4<sup>th</sup> defeat in as many wars.
The humiliation was unbearable. But it was on the cricket field that Pakistan
found redemption. They were the superior team. With four needed off the last
ball, Javed Miandad counted the fielders on the field and then proceeded to
render them irrelevant, as he swung a glorious six off Chetan Sharma to leave
India weeping and disconsolate. The scars did not heal for a long time. They
were the more glamorous team. They produced fast bowlers of the highest
pedigree. Exponents of extreme pace and reverse swing, they could swing the
ball corners at impossible pace. Shoaib Akthar was only the latest product in a
lineage that included Sarfaraz Khan, Imran Khan, Waqar Younis and Wasim Akram;
but he was the fastest of them all. It was only in the late 90’s with the
mastery of Tendulkar at its disposal, that India started to fight back but it
was still advantage Pakistan.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And so the India Pakistan match of the 2003 World Cup inched
closer. After the Kargil war, India and Pakistan had played all of seven ODI’s
over a period of four years. Pakistan won five of those. Sachin Tendulkar had
only one score of above 50 in these 7 matches and never once won the Man of the
Match. But this was bigger than all of them. This was the World Cup. India had
never lost to Pakistan in a World Cup thus far. The memories of the Kargil was
still fresh and the memories of the Miandad Six still lingered. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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India’s world cup campaign started disastrously. The signs
were ominous. Just before the World Cup, India suffered a humiliating 5-2 loss
over New Zealand. In the 1<sup>st</sup> match of the World Cup against lowly
Netherlands, India batting 1<sup>st</sup> couldn’t complete its quota of 50
overs folding for 204 before scrapping through for a victory. In the next match
against Australia, the crisis assumed proportions of a catastrophe. India was
bowled out for a measly 125 before Australia romped home in an imperious
manner, reaching the target in a little over 20 overs and with 9 wickets to
spare. The morale was at an all-time low. The campaign had derailed even before
it had started. The Indian fan, fickle at the best of times, let loose his ire.
Houses of players were attacked and effigies burnt. Tendulkar, the statesman in
the team appealed for calm and sanity. It seemed to work. He then proceeded to
inspire his team. In the 1<sup>st</sup> five matches, he top-scored in four of
them and scored a half century in the other. While victories against the
African nations of Zimbabwe and Namibia were only expected, the rousing victory
against England gave India a new found confidence. There was a spring in their
step and swagger to their walk now. Ganguly had just introduced the team huddle
and the team spirit and camaraderie was palpable.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But the next match was against Pakistan. On the auspicious
day of Maha Shivaratri. This was the final before the final. All that came
before would count for little. Victory and defeat would make heroes and
villains respectively. Defeat will not be entertained, will not be tolerated
and will not be forgiven. The build up to the match had been immense. In both
the countries. But no one had to face more pressure than Tendulkar. He was
India’s talisman and destiny’s favourite child. It was to him that India looked
up to. To deliver victory and provide salvation, to restore pride and to keep
the flag flying high. The weight of a billion on his diminutive shoulders. No
one let him forget the match. Least of all, Shoaib Akthar. He had already
hurled an open challenge to Tendulkar and had provoked the genius. From months
before the match, from acquaintances to room boys, everyone wished him luck but
they also demanded victory. The pressure would have broken smaller men. But
this was Sachin Tendulkar. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This was Centurion in South Africa. The Cricket World Cup,
2003. The stadium was packed to the rafters. The noise was deafening, and the
atmosphere electrifying. Flags waving, fans screaming and chaos all around. The
stakes are high, almost impossibly high. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Pakistan won the toss and chose to bat. The task had just
got tougher. Chasing in a high pressure World Cup match is never easy. Pakistan
scored an imposing 273 runs led by a masterful century from Saeed Anwar. There
had only ever been two higher successful chases in World Cup history thus far.
India had never done this before. If there was pressure before, it had reached
boiling point now. Tendulkar and Sehwag walked out to a cacophony of noise.
Sehwag usually takes 1<sup>st</sup> strike. This time, Tendulkar insists that
he will face the first ball. Too much is at stake and he wants to lead from the
front. 13 runs had come off the 1<sup>st</sup> nine balls. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And then Shoaib Akthar bowled and Tendulkar exploded. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The ball is fast, very, very fast; as expected. But it is
also short; and wide. Tendulkar bursts into action. The right foot moves back
and across. The front foot moves forward ever so slightly and plants itself
pointing to covers. The bat begins to describe its graceful but ultimately
brutal arc. The hands extend outward to meet the ball. And as they do so,
Tendulkar begins to extend like a coiled spring. As the ball meets the bat,
inevitably the dead centre of it, the hands are stretched to their maximum limit
and the back foot is in the air; the entire weight of Tendulkar rests solely on
his front toes. The head is now facing point, almost telling the ball where to
go. And as the bat completes its swing and the ball begins its momentous
journey, Tendulkar rises clean off his feet and lands ever so gently back. The
ball soars magnificently into the air. Shoaib Akthar, Sachin Tendulkar, the
Wicket Keeper and the fielders, the thousands of spectators at the ground and
the millions watching on television track the trajectory of the ball, holding
their collective breath. The third man begins a half-hearted, futile chase in
order to catch it; only to realize and surrender to the obvious. The ball
deposits itself into the stands, a dozen rows beyond. The crowd erupts, commentators
scream and the umpire raises both his hands. A statement had been made.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The upper cut for six effectively sealed the fate of the match.
The rest is history.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tendulkar’s upper cut six off Shoaib Akthar was India’s
Miandad moment. After Miandad’s fateful six, India had won only 21 off the next
63 matches till the match in Centurion. After Tendulkar’s six in Centurion,
India managed to win 22 of the next 42 matches against Pakistan. More
importantly, the psychological advantage had shifted decisively to India.
Pakistan never seemed to be able to win an important match against India after
that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was but one moment; beautiful and profound, but also
ethereal and ephemeral; glorious but all too transient. However, it was no mere
contest between bat and ball, nor between batsman and bowler. It had the full
weight of history behind it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not suggesting for a moment that all these thoughts
were going through Tendulkar’s mind as he played that immortal shot. That would
be a fantastical proposition. In fact, for moments of sporting brilliance, the
mind often has to be blank, focused solely on the task at hand. Bat against
Ball; Batsman against Bowler. It appeared that as Tendulkar played that shot,
he was guided more by adrenaline and intuition rather than by any strategy or
wilful intent. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet, without exception, all great sporting moments in
history are defined by the context they are contained in. Politics not only
provides that context but also nurtures it so that they are forever steeped in
immortality. Jesse Owens, in the 1936 Berlin Olympics of Hitler’s Germany, not
only broke world records but shattered the hateful narrative of Hitler’s Aryan
supremacy. Similarly, USA’s loss to USSR, in the Men’s basketball final in the
Munich Olympics, its 1<sup>st</sup> loss since the sport began Olympic play in
1936, assumed Olympian proportions due to the cold war that was being played
out between USA and USSR. ‘The Blood in the Water’ match between Hungary and
USSR assumed significance as it was played against the background of the 1956
Hungarian revolution.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so that Tendulkar six off Shoaib Akthar, that sent a
billion into a joyful frenzy, in itself, a mere contest between bat and ball; attained sporting immortality.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
</div>
Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-45799655529941940552016-01-30T22:40:00.005-08:002016-01-30T22:40:59.864-08:00Reservation in the age of Meritocracy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
Note: This was written for a 3 minutes speech which was to be given as a part of my Management Communication class here in IIM-Clacutta. Well, that didn't go too well but I thought it might deserve a place here, so there you go.<br /><br /><br />Meritocracy is the foundation upon which modern human
civilization is built. Countries and societies which have nurtured and promoted
meritocracy have prospered, and the United States of America is a prime example
of this. Meritocracy is a philosophy which holds that power should be vested in
individuals exclusively according to merit. Reap what you sow! And who can
argue against that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />And yet we as a nation not only argue against meritocracy
but spend considerable effort in undermining, sabotaging and suppressing it in
every way possible. We as a nation have replaced meritocracy with mediocrity.
68 years after Nehru celebrated India’s tryst with destiny at the Lal Qila, we
continue to pander to the masses, to play to the galleries and to woo the vote
bank.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Half of you, who are sitting here, ask yourself if you
deserve to be here. Half of you, sitting here, ask yourself if you have not
robbed a more worthy student of a place in this hallowed institute. Ask
yourself, if deep down in your hearts you do not know that this is not right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Reservation is a curse inflicted upon this country. After
all meritocracy is king. Is it not?<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What is meritocracy? How do you define it? Who defines it? I
got 99.78 percentile and I did not make it to IIM-A but he got only 97.89 and he
made it to IIM-A. How unfair? How very unfair? Of course it is not unfair that
you were born to the privileged, while he was discriminated against all his
life. Of course, it is not unfair that you got the best education possible,
while he studied in a dismal government school. Of course, it is not unfair that you even dream in English while for him English is a nightmare.<br />
<br />
I know how I am here. I am not here because I am the most intelligent. Far from
it. I am not here because I have the most passion; even farther from it, and if
you think I am here because I am the most hard working, you couldn’t be more
wrong even if you tried. I am here because I was lucky. Lucky to be born to the
right parents, lucky to be born in the right place and most importantly lucky
to be born in the right caste.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Privilege makes one go blind. It makes a hypocrite of all of
us. How easy it is to watch ‘How I met your mother’ and become Americanized,
the great United States of America, and forget and ignore the village 100 km
away from you. How very easy. Do you realize the extent to which a tribal faces
discrimination? 65% of tribal girls drop out of school before turning 14. A
backward class girl has to walk miles to fetch water because all the wells are
in the upper caste localities and there goes her chance at education. A Muslim
is denied housing in a posh locality and all of you know that the best schools
are in those localities. Did you know that 95% of the students in Delhi Public
School are from the upper castes?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Why do you think there is under representation of minorities
in every walk of life? You all understand that the law of Normal Distribution
is real and should hold. Discrimination is real. And before you say that
reservation should be based on economic parameters and not caste, understand
that its primary aim is to eradicate social discrimination. Tackling economic
disparity is only incidental. Caste based discrimination is a disease. Caste
based reservation is the medicine. And as long as the disease persists, so
should the medicine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />So next time you crib saying about lack of meritocracy
saying that you got XYZ marks and he got only ABC but still he made it to PQR institute, remember that meritocracy does not exist. Meritocracy is like the
Himalayan Yeti, it is like the Lochness Monster of Scotland. Meritocracy is an illusion;
it is a myth, a lie, sheer utopia, mere wishful thinking. It is only a chimera. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure, life ain’t fair. In fact, life is a bitch! Learn to
deal with it! <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-81640035558399181032015-12-11T23:44:00.000-08:002015-12-11T23:51:28.329-08:00Yuvraj Singh - The Merchant of Dreams<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://sportscafe.in/articles/cricket/2015/dec/12/yuvraj-singh-the-merchant-of-dreams" target="_blank">Published on Sportscafe</a><br />
<br />
I had a dream. I was playing Cricket and since it was a
dream, I was invariably batting. The bowler runs in and I whack him for a 100
metres 6 over mid-wicket. The ball is lost and they bring out a new one. That
felt good. The bowler runs in again, and this time, the flick of the wrist
sends it soaring over square leg. <b>2 in
2!</b> Ha! Bring it on, I Say! I target the off-side now; cream it over cover. <b>3 in 3!</b> <br />
I am not just feeling good anymore; I am feeling great. The bowler though is
not feeling all that well. He is trembling in fear. He switches sides; fat, lot
of good that will do him! It is a filthy full toss outside off, and I just help
it over back ward point. <b>4 in 4!</b> I
am invincible, I can do anything now. I am almost bored by now. Decide to get
back to leg side again. Flick it over backward square leg this time. 6! <b>5 in 5!</b> I am Super Man! No one can stop
me. This is inevitable now. Pure academic interest. Only one thing can happen.
I launch it into the orbit! <b>6 off 6! 6
off 6!</b> I am on the top of the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except it wasn’t a dream; it was all too real. Except, it
wasn’t any team; it was the Indian Cricket National Team. Except, it wasn’t any
other match, it was the 1<sup>st</sup> ever 20-20 World Cup Final. Except, it
wasn’t just any other bowler, it was Stuart Broad, who can bowl at 150 km/h. And the batsman, ladies and gentlemen, was Yuvraj Singh. Yuvraj Singh - The
Merchant of Dreams.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Cricket has taught me many a geographic lesson. This was one
of them. Yuvraj Singh first burst on to the scenes in Nairobi, Kenya. 18 Year
old Yuvraj Singh, playing his debut tournament, carves a magnificent 84 runs,
at more than run-a-ball, against the rampaging Aussies, containing the likes of
McGrath, Lee and Gillespie. Not many that have seen that innings have forgotten
it. As a Sports Fan, there is something particularly satisfying in spotting a
special talent. And when you turn out to be right, and the player goes on to
achieve bigger things, that satisfaction is all the more special.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yuvraj Singh went on to achieve bigger things. He was
instrumental in 2 World Cup triumphs for India. He was one of India’s greatest
match winner. Along with Mohammed Kaif, he played a starring role in India’s
greatest ODI chase, winning us the Natwest Trophy in London. He has secured his
place as one of India’s greatest ever ODI player.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />And yet, for all his achievements, many are left wondering,
if Yuvraj Singh did indeed fulfil his enormous potential. Talent is a fickle
friend. Yuvraj Singh was blessed with talent; he was cursed with an
over-abundance of it. It wasn’t enough that he was a great ODI player; why ever
didn’t he make a mark in tests? It wasn’t enough that he was our biggest match
winner; why ever didn’t he become a successful captain? It wasn’t enough that
he was a great player; why ever didn’t he become a legend? Yuvraj Singh’s
talent was so palpable, so obvious, so very abundant, that great things were
predicted for him. At the age of 19, he was tipped to be a future Indian
Captain by the pundits. He was to be India’s answer to Gary Sobers. He was to
be the left handed successor to Tendulkar. If the expectations are so
astronomically high, unless your name happens to be Sachin Tendulkar, you invariably
fall short. Yuvraj Singh was no exception.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Yograj Singh played 1 solitary test match for India and all
of 6 ODI’s. He scored a total of 6 runs in Tests and 1 in ODI’s; picked up 1
wicket in Tests and 4 in ODI’s. He never played for India again. And as it so
often happens; what he couldn’t achieve, he wanted his son to achieve. He would
live his dreams through the exploits of his son. Little wonder then that Yuvraj
Singh turned out to be a merchant of dreams. Little wonder then, that Yuvraj
Singh suffered from the burden of expectation all his life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />In a team of super stars, Yuvraj Singh was the most human of
all. His flaws were evident, his struggles obvious, and his vulnerability was
laid out for all to see. In many ways, Yuvraj Singh was the antithesis of MS
Dhoni. MS Dhoni made his debut 4 years after Yuvraj Singh. Many would argue
that he had of Yuvraj Singh’s natural talent. Yet he would go on to become
India’s most successful ODI and Test Captain and arguably the biggest name in
World Cricket of his times. While MS Dhoni hid his emotions to the world behind
an exterior of cool, Yuvraj wore his on his sleeve. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so it is easy to take his achievements for granted and
focus on his shortcomings and limitations. Make no mistake, Yuvraj Singh’s career
is a glorious one. His contribution to Cricket goes beyond numbers and
trophies. Yuvraj Singh when in full flow was a sight to behold. As you watch
his bat describe a graceful 360<sup>o </sup>arc and effortlessly send the ball
soaring into the orbit, it is hard not to experience pure joy. As he faced off
Stuart Broad in that immortal over, the bat seemed to a mere instrument for his
imagination, the bowler almost his ally, complicit in the making of something
beautiful. For all his talent, Yuvraj Singh never failed to give anything less
than 100%. He wore his emotions on his sleeve and took visible pride in playing
for the country. A world with Yuvraj Singh was better than a world without
Yuvraj Singh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />The 2011 World Cup was Yuvraj Singh’s destiny. He didn’t
know it then, but Yuvraj was battling cancer through the tournament. Poor form
had dogged him for a while then before the tournament had started. For maybe
once in his life, the expectations on him were not all that great. But Yuvraj
Singh finally decided to embrace his destiny. He scored runs, picked up wickets
and took great catches. As he swept the floor with his bat, in pure naked
display of raw emotion, it was hard not to get goose-bumps. He gifted his hero
a World Cup and in doing so gifted the nation a memory.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
He hasn’t been the same since that World Cup. The magic
seems to have deserted him. He continues to struggle to find a place in the
team. But Yuvraj Singh, even, if he is not pick up his bat again, will remain a
hero, a winner. If Yuvraj Singh asks, as Lara had famously done after his
retirement, ‘Have I entertained you?’, the answer would be a resounding ‘Yes!’.
Yuvraj Singh made Cricket sexy. Yuvraj Singh made kids dream, Yuvraj Singh
turned adults into kids for a brief while. Yuvraj Singh is the merchant of
dreams, peddler of joy and the agent of hope. Happy Birthday Yuvraj Singh! <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-40227989664350511172015-11-12T12:21:00.000-08:002016-11-12T00:01:36.449-08:00Mahendra Singh Dhoni - The Gladiatorial Monk <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://sportscafe.in/articles/cricket/2015/dec/02/mahendra-singh-dhoni-from-maverick-to-india-s-greatest-captain" target="_blank">Published on Sports Cafe</a><br />
<span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-align: left;">A captain is only as good as his team; or so they say. Well, they are fools. Cricket, with its nuances and minute intricacies, with its subtleties and glorious uncertainties elevates Captaincy into an art form of the highest order. From Mike Brearley to Steve Waugh, from Imran Khan to Saurav Ganguly and from Richie Beanaud to Graeme Smith, Cricket is awash with examples of great captains inspiring their players to dredging the deepest of reserves and leading them to conquering the highest of peaks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>A Cricket team is greater than the sum of its parts. The difference is the team’s captain.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Little wonder then, that they say, in India, the Prime Minister’s job is the 2<sup>nd</sup> toughest job in the country, after that of the Country’s Cricket Captain; which brings us to MS Dhoni.<br />
<br />
I had never been to Ranchi. But then again it is not the sort of place you will
often find yourself needing to visit. By all accounts, it is a small city,
inconsequential in the larger scheme of things.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0YnVQD2ceWlyM46ZfUPV6EkwXdWCpiW2pzXX-PVYQi_WT0s0TPrOKXaUOnDHAsCG9utINEP2vDSePMcCw-CcTykZfeGnESqHeDjDVHdqlzdp_aze3Ii5RDxPsnJ6JqYAW8NxfmChLO1iD/s1600/Ranchi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0YnVQD2ceWlyM46ZfUPV6EkwXdWCpiW2pzXX-PVYQi_WT0s0TPrOKXaUOnDHAsCG9utINEP2vDSePMcCw-CcTykZfeGnESqHeDjDVHdqlzdp_aze3Ii5RDxPsnJ6JqYAW8NxfmChLO1iD/s320/Ranchi.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The most important street of
the city is called ‘Main Road’, where much of the city’s commerce happens.
Hence, it is remarkable that India’s most successful Captain hails from Ranchi.
Note that I have said ‘Captain’ and not ‘Indian Cricket Team’s Captain’; for in
India, both are one and the same. To be India’s Cricket Captain means, to
compete with the Prime Minister for popularity. To be India’s Captain means to
be hounded by the press. To be India’s Captain means, to carry the burden of
the Nation’s pride. To be India’s Captain means to be all of this and then much
more. Great men have been overawed by the task. Men, the stature of Sachin
Tendulkar and Rahul Dravid found it a burden too heavy to bear. MS Dhoni
captained India for 60 of the 90 Test Matches he had played in. MS Dhoni has
captained India to Two World Cup Triumphs. MS Dhoni captained India to the
Number One ranking in Tests. And, MS Dhoni hailed from Ranchi; a son of a pump
operator.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so the temptation to intrinsically link these two
phenomenon is great. It takes little imagination to hail MS Dhoni’s success as
emblematic of the emergence of Small Town India. It is only too easy to suggest
that MS Dhoni’s meteoric rise represents a new found upward mobility of small
town India; the convergence of Bharat and India. It would be easy but you would
be wrong; you would be a fool.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For <b>MS Dhoni is his
own man.</b> <br />
To Tendulkar, life was Cricket and Cricket was life. Dravid was a true student
of the game. For Ganguly, Cricket was his greatest passion. To MS Dhoni,
Cricket happened; it just happened. Dhoni excelled at all Sports but was
consumed by none. His first preference was goal keeping; he took to wicket
keeping on the stray, casual advice of a coach. It was not destiny because MS
Dhoni could have taken up any other endeavour and he would have still been very
much the same man. It was rather a cosmic accident. From then onwards, it was a
straight road, albeit a rather steep one, to the Indian Cricket Team. I am not
suggesting that he had it easy. Far from it. Dhoni never did have God-fathers;
until of course till N Srinivasan came along, but that is an other story
altogether. So, at each step, he had to prove himself. People were suspicious,
people were sceptical. People were waiting for him to make a mistake so they
could then dismiss him as just an other impostor. Dhoni did not oblige. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Run Out of the 1<sup>st</sup> ball he faced. Against
Bangladesh in Chittagong. That was his debut.<br />
148 off 123. Against Pakistan in Visakhapatnam. That was how he announced
himself to the world.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kYjaZzwK4Ww" target="_blank">148 vs Pakistan</a><br />
183* off 145. Against Sri Lanka in Jaipur. That was how
the legend of Dhoni was born. <br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UMqZdYXvih4">183 vs Srilanka</a></span><br />
<br />
If his long hair invited attention, his even longer shots inspired awe. Even as
his mane impressed the likes of Pakistan’s then president Pervez Musharaff, he
began inventing shots for which new names (helicopter) had to be found.<br />
<br />
Yet, for all his achievements as a batsman, Dhoni’s enduring legacy will be his
contribution to Indian Cricket as a Captain. It was 2007. India was still smarting
under the ignonimity of an inglorious exit from the 50 overs world cup earlier
in the year in the Caribbean. The tumultuous reign of Dravid-Chappel had to end
and end it did. India was looking for a new Captain. Tendulkar saw something in
Dhoni and he suggested Dhoni’s name. Dhoni got the job. Less than 3 years after
his debut, Dhoni was India’s Cricket Captain. His 1<sup>st</sup> assignment as
a Captain was the T-20 world cup in South Africa. The troika of Tendulkar,
Dravid and Ganguly chose not to play and rightly so. After the dismal
performance in the other World Cup earlier in the year, expectations were
unusually low.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijPdUjQN6w56m9ygQKob4IQC3VlckW4aBrFD3lrVZ8_sDSP71s54JQTKJ5ujSoDU6Kky2r0tQFbR7mUs-GYLddW5dizGgNocmCmnQfJSQbuHT-tldkWqG0hwA-NPBWIAgt22ZcGG7txEVh/s1600/Dhoni+Long+Hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijPdUjQN6w56m9ygQKob4IQC3VlckW4aBrFD3lrVZ8_sDSP71s54JQTKJ5ujSoDU6Kky2r0tQFbR7mUs-GYLddW5dizGgNocmCmnQfJSQbuHT-tldkWqG0hwA-NPBWIAgt22ZcGG7txEVh/s200/Dhoni+Long+Hair.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Long Hair, Sleeveless Vest and a Carefree Spirit</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
His
rise as an ODI batsman was nothing short of meteoric. Less than 18 months after
his debut, Dhoni was the world’s number one ranked player in ODI’s. Remarkably,
Dhoni has been among the top 10 ODI batsman for a continuous period of almost 8
years now, ever since, February, 2008. In the history of the game only AB
DeVilliers and Hashim Amla have both higher average and higher strike rate than
MS Dhoni. And all this while keeping for his entire career and captaining for
much of it.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRNzIf1uV5_gK26B6YKHRTuPDq_kCuw8SepFzV3WIsSOLBZ6JSjgSLoEIsMFMYTT248iCKVP0wb7P95mEuAXIKmfJNFt8XR-BkrlKR2Gdycjzj2i15D-oQh5ZhoY1qL30KXgLeYFqggf0/s1600/Misbah+Scoop.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaRNzIf1uV5_gK26B6YKHRTuPDq_kCuw8SepFzV3WIsSOLBZ6JSjgSLoEIsMFMYTT248iCKVP0wb7P95mEuAXIKmfJNFt8XR-BkrlKR2Gdycjzj2i15D-oQh5ZhoY1qL30KXgLeYFqggf0/s200/Misbah+Scoop.png" width="197" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Shot that changed Cricket!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
It was the 24<sup>th</sup> of September 2007. ‘Bullring’,
Johannesburg, South Africa. 34,000 Capacity crowd. Two arch-rivals. One World
Cup trophy. Against all odds India battled its way to the final, defeating
England, South Africa, the mighty Australia and most thrillingly arch-rival
Pakistan in a sensational bowl-out. All that mattered for little. It was
Pakistan again. The stakes couldn’t have been higher. A World-Cup trophy to be
won. 41 runs had come off the previous 3 overs. 13 runs required off the last
over. A solitary wicket in hand. Pakistan’s best batsman, Misbah-Ul-Haq on
strike. It doesn’t get bigger than this. It is Dhoni’s game to lose. Who will
bowl the last over? Harbhajan Singh with his vast experience or the rookie
Joginder Sharma. Dhoni makes his decision. Joginder Sharma, it shall be. It is
a big big decision. <span style="font-family: "calibri" , sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 107%;">A
decision that could cost Dhoni his job, a decision that nearly costs Dhoni his
job. Joginder Sharma is nervous. The 1</span><sup>st</sup> ball
barely lands on the pitch. Joginder tries again. This time, it is not called a
wide, but it was close, oh so close! Now, Dhoni is nervous. He dry retches, it
is uncharacteristic of him but everyone is feeling the pressure. The next ball
is a full toss. Whacked for a 6. 6 off 4 now. 1 shot away. A loss against
Pakistan in a World Cup final will not be tolerated. It will cost Dhoni his
job. It could cost Dhoni his career. Joginder Sharma runs in to bowl. 34,000
fans screaming. A billion more following on television. Yet again, it is wide
outside off stump. But Misbah-Ul-Haq has made up his mind before the ball was
bowled.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuoirGzED6SgHpUq_WMzckjMv_le3dy75-ahoX0RVeaa-0BqtoKqI9wMOV13fo958OYludeBA9ZZoK_VnFRxhCXZSPYwruVOWq5JUX3gaI2szaYwQY30DEs6YmES2Eof-RnUV2xByuzroz/s1600/T-20+Win.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuoirGzED6SgHpUq_WMzckjMv_le3dy75-ahoX0RVeaa-0BqtoKqI9wMOV13fo958OYludeBA9ZZoK_VnFRxhCXZSPYwruVOWq5JUX3gaI2szaYwQY30DEs6YmES2Eof-RnUV2xByuzroz/s200/T-20+Win.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">T20 Champions</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He skips across, crouches low, and scoops the ball high into the air,
back over his head. Harakiri. The crowd are on their feet. Holding their
breath. Sreesanth at fine leg fumbles, but he holds on. He throws the ball high
into the air. Ravi Shastri is screaming in the background. Fire-crackers go off
simultaneously across India in an unadulterated expression of joy. India are
world champions. Mahindra Singh Dhoni keeps his job.<br />
<a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x17ukbu_last-over-of-t20-final-wc-2007_sport" target="_blank">T20 WC Last Over - The Misbah Scoop</a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
It is Tendulkar’s 6<sup>th</sup> World Cup. It is his last
World Cup. His biggest dream. He wants to win it. The team wants to win it for
him. The country wants him to win it. The Gods have decided that he will win
it. <br />
2<sup>nd</sup> April, 2011. Wankhede. Bombay. World Cup
Final. 34,000 screaming fans once more. It was Wanderers, Johannesburg all over
again. Except, this time it was bigger, much much bigger. This was Tendulkar’s
country. Tendulkar’s City. Tendulkar’s home, Tendulkar’s destiny. It looked
like Gods had indeed decided that Tendulkar was to fulfil his dream, that India
would be World Champions, after 28 years, this time at home. Except it wasn’t
to be, almost wasn’t to be. A bewitching century from Jayewardene ensured that
India had to chase a challenging 275 to win. Mallinga gets Sehwag for a duck.
Then Tendulkar, the 2<sup>nd</sup> highest run getter in the tournament, pelts
2 sublime drives. The gods wake up from their slumber to witness divinity.
Wankhede is on its feet. The drums are beating, hearts racing, adrenaline
pumping, a nation of a billion stands united. And then, he is out. Just like
that. A silence, so oppressive, so complete, that you can hear your blood flow.
Sri Lanka roars. India weeps. Heroically, Wankhede rises as one to applaud its
favourite son. The match resumes. Sanity returns. Kohli and Gambhir string
together a partnership. The nation begins to believe again. But no, it will not
be so easy. Kohli is out. India still requires another 161 at almost run a
ball.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_4rrN8qekJDQYxNUFEVqZv6RAF-uUA-iire96MIcNvR9U_vIDGouPrU9zvzqaE5_uzMBN_TrXGEI7PE11-rkpaQjUy-90klbRo2eTuXbjnhaNJQ9YoDSicaGc4TJ5otcX9XPOYq1B_Jvl/s1600/Yuvi+QF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_4rrN8qekJDQYxNUFEVqZv6RAF-uUA-iire96MIcNvR9U_vIDGouPrU9zvzqaE5_uzMBN_TrXGEI7PE11-rkpaQjUy-90klbRo2eTuXbjnhaNJQ9YoDSicaGc4TJ5otcX9XPOYq1B_Jvl/s200/Yuvi+QF.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yuvi Roars! WC 2011 QF against Aus</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The stage is perfectly set for Yuvraj Singh. Yuvraj Singh would have made
Winston Churchill proud. He had offered all of the blood, toil, tears and sweat
which Churchill had promised his 1<sup>st</sup> cabinet. We did not know it
then but throughout the world cup, Yuvi was battling that most fearsome and
belittling of diseases; Cancer. He vomited blood off the field, he toiled on
it, batting, bowling and fielding heroically; he shed copious amount of tears
off the field, mentally, physically and emotionally drained, on the field he
sweated it out, leading India to the World Cup Final; one match away from the
promised dream. It was like he was born to win India this World Cup.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Out he comes to do one final battle, to fulfill his destiny,
to win India the World Cup. Except, it isn’t Yuvraj Singh. MS Dhoni, wearing a
cap, strolls out nonchalantly. Yuvraj Singh had already blasted 341 runs at an average of 85
including a century against West Indies and a crucial half century against
Australia in the Quarter Finals. Apart from this he had already chipped in with 13 vital wickets at a miserly rate. Yuvraj Singh was sensational in the World Cup thus far. Yuvraj Singh had 4 Man of the Match awards. Yuvraj Singh would go on to win the Man of the Series. In contrast Dhoni’s World Cup was at best luke warm. He had scored 150 runs with a highest of 34 runs against Ireland. He was clearly out of touch. Yet it is Dhoni who walks out.<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs9t4gWtLcneHl53w9b9YD0mzgifFvxf1XxbthfwSMXDCzvquJ4-jzM1JS9PHozv2bmjl_z4vyhZQTJnKG3j_a2VVhTSGFC9LR6lWvq-FPy37HqBIr0CD63Kb1_infgWw9AwFGYTmc44Zv/s1600/Dhoni+Six.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs9t4gWtLcneHl53w9b9YD0mzgifFvxf1XxbthfwSMXDCzvquJ4-jzM1JS9PHozv2bmjl_z4vyhZQTJnKG3j_a2VVhTSGFC9LR6lWvq-FPy37HqBIr0CD63Kb1_infgWw9AwFGYTmc44Zv/s200/Dhoni+Six.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'THAT' Shot!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Clutch moments are those where legends are made, heroes are born and legacies
are created. If ever there was a clutch moment, this was one. Dhoni is the
master of clutch moments. If India loses now, Dhoni would not be forgiven. All
that he had achieved thus far would count for little. The media would vilify
him, the fans would crucify him and the administration would desert him. Dhoni
did not care. At least he did not care nearly enough not to make his move, to
seize the moment by the scruff of his neck and make it his own. <b>That night, to come ahead of Yuvraj
required tremendous courage and monumental self-belief but more importantly it
also required a pinch of madness and a sense of adventure. Dhoni clearly had
all of them and then some more. <o:p></o:p></b></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV7ITvfV_CLcFj5Rt4wgOxhCrhiQGxlijQ0Jd39ZGVFVQninhjHhBM9KqySccs5X8jwXsNdBvuZk5Oc5sDj-yabkwnud9h4JJJ0liJREkJVI06C7J4dPS0B5F6niIAqUeyIVfHZnQCeEW3/s1600/Yuvi+hugging+Dhoni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV7ITvfV_CLcFj5Rt4wgOxhCrhiQGxlijQ0Jd39ZGVFVQninhjHhBM9KqySccs5X8jwXsNdBvuZk5Oc5sDj-yabkwnud9h4JJJ0liJREkJVI06C7J4dPS0B5F6niIAqUeyIVfHZnQCeEW3/s200/Yuvi+hugging+Dhoni.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yuvi Cries, Dhoni Smiles.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Soon enough, he would be joined by Yuvi. With 5 required off
the last 2 overs, India had all but won the match. Yuvi takes a single; Dhoni
decides that the time has come. <b>The
single most iconic shot in modern Cricket.</b> Kulasekara bowls. Dhoni tees off. The ball soars into the orbit. Ravi Shastri is once again screaming in the background. Time stands still. An eternity passes. He holds
his pose. The nation stands up as one. He tracks the ball all the way to the
stands. And then, he twirls his bat!<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOO2m8qFLmSXapOcF_TEdqUfaLJ4-8EsmGq-xsx2RFxVcyfvfTVFw5Zzcz8dHxFpbGdeukg-V7cyCmhhR1AScHAkUxqgx12x-bXHGQDLfRKiy1e8cztR5o9aTO53mNN5qOSziJ8rzwzEZT/s1600/Tendulkar+lifting+trophy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOO2m8qFLmSXapOcF_TEdqUfaLJ4-8EsmGq-xsx2RFxVcyfvfTVFw5Zzcz8dHxFpbGdeukg-V7cyCmhhR1AScHAkUxqgx12x-bXHGQDLfRKiy1e8cztR5o9aTO53mNN5qOSziJ8rzwzEZT/s200/Tendulkar+lifting+trophy.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dream Fulfilled</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
India erupts. Yuvraj rushes over. Gives a
bear hug to his skipper, buries his face into Dhoni’s neck and cries. Dhoni
stays calm, Dhoni remains cool. India has won the World Cup. Tendulkar lifts
the trophy aloft.<br />
A billion rejoice. Dhoni quietly slinks away into the
background. <br />
<a href="http://www.icc-cricket.com/champions-trophy/videos/media/id/68f5e589d4b1481e86a7d0c299010868/india-win-the-icc-cricket-world-cup-2011-with-dhonis-match-winning-six" target="_blank">The Winning Six</a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Why did Dhoni toss the ball to Joginder on that fateful
night in Wanderers? Why did Dhoni walk out ahead of Yuvraj at the Wankhede? Did
he know something that we did not? Did he know that things will somehow work
out all right in the end? Was there a tiny little voice within him telling him
what to do? Or did he just get plain lucky? We will never know the answers to
those questions. What we do know however is that the T20 World Cup win in
South Africa changed the course of India’s cricketing history. <b>It led to the IPL and Cricket was never the
same again.</b> The 50 over World Cup win in Bombay gave a gift to the nation
that India will never forget. Fans across the country spilled onto the streets
in a mad, spontaneous expression of joy. <b>Strangers
hugged, lovers kissed and traffic police joined in the celebrations.</b><br />
<br />
Somewhere between those 2 world cups, Dhoni changed. The long flowing mane gave
way to a more sober hairstyle. Jet Black became salt and pepper. Polo T-Shirts replaced sleeveless vests. He put behind his rumoured affairs with Bollywood starlets, Deepika Padukone, Asin & Lakshmi Rai and married his childhood sweetheart. He became a father and named his baby girl Ziva. But most importantly, <b>Dhoni the Destroyer became
Dhoni the finisher</b>. The average shot up, the strike rate crept down and
Dhoni began to be known as Captain Cool. It almost seemed as if emotions were
for lesser mortals. Dhoni was always unruffled, ever in control, ever the
master of his surroundings. He won India more matches than ever before but now
to the brute power was added cool cunning. For a while Dhoni was invincible. No
target was too big, no bowler too good, and nothing was impossible. Bowlers
began to be intimidated by his very presence. Dhoni would often reduce the contest
to a shoot-out between himself and the bowler. And there would be only one
winner.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTl9oHdwVQr8CHm23n-bL_qPHjykoJXxJzm8pi9bzaZmJXvM45I1gN6uf7PIkjRVITDdDxc9u8hEztw6cwVmE72KaV48o_TUlzi6IplO7K9lci3H8onLi73TVkaE4ynZJcoR8w3UoccR_Y/s1600/Dhoni+Salt+and+Pepper+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTl9oHdwVQr8CHm23n-bL_qPHjykoJXxJzm8pi9bzaZmJXvM45I1gN6uf7PIkjRVITDdDxc9u8hEztw6cwVmE72KaV48o_TUlzi6IplO7K9lci3H8onLi73TVkaE4ynZJcoR8w3UoccR_Y/s200/Dhoni+Salt+and+Pepper+hair.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The long hair replaced by the grey hair.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dhoni, the ODI batsman, was the best in the world. Dhoni,
the test batsman, was merely good. If Dhoni, the ODI captain was at all times
in control, Dhoni the Test captain was often vulnerable. Test Cricket is the
most unnatural of sports. Test Cricket is that timeless eternal being. In
tests, Time is all encompassing, sometimes your ally and at other times your
adversary. Embrace time and you conquer tests. To conquer tests, you had to
engage incessantly and you had to have that burning desire. You had to court it
actively, ever alert to its whims and fancies. Dhoni, with his penchant of
letting things drift, struggled, especially overseas.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet, between these 2 World Cups, India also became the No 1
ranked team in Test Cricket. Something it had never achieved before and has not
again been achieved since. It meant a lot to the fans but it meant a lot more to
the players themselves. Indian Test Cricket was served by some mighty fine men
going by the names of Tendulkar, Dravid, Kumble, Sehwag, Zaheer, Laxman and
Gangugly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9OqMJ-3iNeLos-d71WI6pLWe2IUQt7a8LTu17Ayh0Qd8uO2h9tpvd3gDHXK3c2Q4XbMXeGKixQBJZSbLtLamQP0fT7BZuFD7heVvsz6Gxtpdk3RAiAoFzT8m-EItbhfrznAi7vnOqkYt3/s1600/Big+Guys+tests.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9OqMJ-3iNeLos-d71WI6pLWe2IUQt7a8LTu17Ayh0Qd8uO2h9tpvd3gDHXK3c2Q4XbMXeGKixQBJZSbLtLamQP0fT7BZuFD7heVvsz6Gxtpdk3RAiAoFzT8m-EItbhfrznAi7vnOqkYt3/s200/Big+Guys+tests.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Legends - Each of them.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Ganguly himself, and later Dravid and Kumble laid the foundation for
this most magnificent of achievements. But it was Dhoni who finally led India
to the pinnacle of Cricketing glory. Small-Town Dhoni had an aura of control
about him. Perhaps, Tendulkar was his only Hero, but even then, he never fawned
over him. I was there at the Wankhede, when Tendulkar bid adieu to his
glittering career, amongst an atmosphere of unprecedented emotional frenzy. The
crowd, in unison, demanded that their hero be given the ball. Dhoni the
skipper, for a long time, did not oblige. After all, Dhoni was his own man. He
might not always have inspired affection in his team mates but at all times he
had their unmitigated respect and unflinching trust. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVoHJwLkdC6uy3_gq66XGZE7wn4Dv-w-VMlSRrJSFcCSwGldWeshkG0bsqHxtOkXXW_rRM7n8zG6cQ0hT642BSKHmr8SzQBqzf_yRxL5uGphDVr7hAW4IOwG_rxyBIbM3x1go0Xw8Yy2TT/s1600/Tendulkar+Goodbye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVoHJwLkdC6uy3_gq66XGZE7wn4Dv-w-VMlSRrJSFcCSwGldWeshkG0bsqHxtOkXXW_rRM7n8zG6cQ0hT642BSKHmr8SzQBqzf_yRxL5uGphDVr7hAW4IOwG_rxyBIbM3x1go0Xw8Yy2TT/s200/Tendulkar+Goodbye.jpg" width="177" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tendulkar bidding farewell </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Greg Chappel got many
things wrong about Indian Cricket but he couldn’t have been more right when he
said about Dhoni "He's an old soul. He has been here before." Dhoni
captained a team of superstars and he captained it mighty well.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Dhoni was the man whom
we knew not.</b> Dhoni was an enigma! He belonged to that rare breed of men who
do abide by rules not because they need to but because they can’t be bothered
to break them. Rahul Dravid and Harsha Bhogle, the most erudite of men,
struggled to make sense of him. And surely that tells you something. Much of
Dhoni’s success both as a Captain and as a player can largely be attributed to
his fearlessness; a fearlessness, that had its basis not in arrogance but in a
rather uncommon self-belief. Dhoni was neither a student nor a servant of the
game. He was merely a person doing his job and being jolly good at it. He was a
freak in so much as that he almost did not seem to care about achievements and
accomplishments. It almost looked like as if the more he achieved, the less he cared. And perhaps, paradoxically, that was why he was able to extract so much out of his not unlimited talent and ultimately achieve those magnificent feats of his. Dhoni had this wonderful ability to be able to maintain perspective. He had a life outside Cricket and he knew that, Cricket at the end of the day, was just a game. Just as he did not get carried away by wins, defeats did not devastate Dhoni. Once, when asked to compare the consecutive white-washes that India suffered against England and Australia, Dhoni in his inimitable style replied "<b>When you die, you die. You
don't think which is the better way to die.</b>" Dhoni said it. No one else could have said it. He wore Captaincy lightly, just as he did fame, but at all times, he treated it with utmost respect. This rare poise that he possessed equipped Dhoni with a great sense of clarity. He was able to maintain his cool even in the most trying of circumstances. It is not hard to imagine that the great Rudyard Kipling had Dhoni in mind when he wrote his immortal poem ‘If’. This is what made Dhoni such a great Captain.<br />
<br />
It is illuminating that the Army holds such great fascination for MS Dhoni.
Dhoni has been conferred with an honorary rank of lieutenant colonel. He often
travels in camouflage with his camouflage luggage in tow. He is also known to
sleep in his army uniform. His wicket-keeping gloves are a tribute to the armed
forces, made to order in Meerut. He knows his weapons and apparently is not shy
to use them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgumkPgCIjRMmSQV0PLXUP3zirMHeMHOJytGZS09b58ZxA55WqZwPl6dKdhiiW-9GHWXGJcctGyI8MS2zMn0-gF6anZNxAEs-mwhO2aTzvl60bwiVtkig16ZeqwvfMpKWh2y01uNq-lC8-U/s1600/Dhoni+Miltary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgumkPgCIjRMmSQV0PLXUP3zirMHeMHOJytGZS09b58ZxA55WqZwPl6dKdhiiW-9GHWXGJcctGyI8MS2zMn0-gF6anZNxAEs-mwhO2aTzvl60bwiVtkig16ZeqwvfMpKWh2y01uNq-lC8-U/s200/Dhoni+Miltary.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The army fascination</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
By all accounts, he is a bloody good shot. There is a lot of pomp
and hullabaloo associated with the armed forces, yet the best ones make no
fuss. What is it with the armed forces that appeals to the calm, methodical
mind? Perhaps, they enjoy the rigor, the discipline, the order. Perhaps, they
embrace the challenge of keeping ones’ mind when all around them are losing
theirs. What would Dhoni do after he retires? Would he serve the army in some
capacity? Would he join politics? The thought is not as preposterous as it
initially seems. The madness of it all and the immense challenge of it would
probably invigorate him. After all, if there was one occupation even more
chaotic than that of an Indian cricketer, it is probably that of an India
politician. But anyway, it is not really a question that needs answering right
now. We are merely digressing.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_EyNWtLLaBqeaUvDwxEbaWpO3UFNbKErfow46q3PoO3TAvL-BHe1Qrd-KX-Ritux-ZvVlGkDINHepOKxyz4VKA5jOCdau432caJvIfl0uTKpnypMm6FK3ElmwJrTiZPdRdp6oXKGX8V7O/s1600/YoudieYoudie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_EyNWtLLaBqeaUvDwxEbaWpO3UFNbKErfow46q3PoO3TAvL-BHe1Qrd-KX-Ritux-ZvVlGkDINHepOKxyz4VKA5jOCdau432caJvIfl0uTKpnypMm6FK3ElmwJrTiZPdRdp6oXKGX8V7O/s200/YoudieYoudie.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dhoni being Dhoni</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A sportsman’s greatest enemy is time. It reduces the
mightiest of cricketers to pale unrecognizable shadows. Stealth is often its
preferred choice of attack; even before a cricketer begins to sense the danger,
the pedestal is pulled under him and he is vanquished. Time spares not the best
of them. Some like Kallis and Sangakkara choose to walk away before they are
inevitably defeated. Others, like Tendulkar, fight on, often heroically, but
always in vain. Dhoni is still ranked No 6 in the ODI rankings. Dhoni is still
India’s best Wicket-Keeper batsman by a mile and then a half. Yet, it seems,
the time for Dhoni is not all that far away. The Midas touch is no longer
Dhoni’s prized possession. The Helicopter shot is to be seen but rarely. And
the fabled calm has begun to give way to frequent bouts of irritation and
frustration, and at times even petty petulance. It all perhaps started in Windsor
Park, Dominica, shortly after the World Cup triumph in Mumbai. India, still the
No 1 ranked team in the world aborts a chase needing 86 off 90 balls. It was a
tell-tale sign. The Dhoni of April 2011, the Dhoni who walked ahead of Yuvraj
Singh, would have gone for victory. The Dhoni of July, 2011 settled for a draw.
India won the series but Time had struck its 1<sup>st</sup> blow. India would
go on to lose the next 8 away matches. The 8-0 took many victims including
Dravid, Laxman and eventually Tendulkar. Today, India is not among the top 3
ranked countries in Tests. Today, Dhoni is no longer India’s test captain. Today,
bowlers do not fear Dhoni anymore. Today, Rabada, a 20 year old rookie defends
11 runs against Dhoni in the last over. And today, Dhoni is no longer
invincible, but, just an other batsman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To a true fan, a sports person’s battle against the ravages
of time is the most compelling of them all. Even as Dhoni undoubtedly
approaches the fag end of his career, questions remain. How long will he be
able to keep time at bay? Will he do a Tendulkar and have a glorious second
lease of life? Will there be one last final flicker of flame before darkness
eventually sets in? Will he go away in a blaze of glory after leading India to
another T-20 World Cup triumph here in the colossal Eden Gardens, or will he
sneak away quietly into the sunset. No matter how it all turns out, Dhoni would
have been the best thing that happened to Indian Cricket in a long long time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All hail the skipper! All hail Captain Cool! All hail Mahendra
Singh Dhoni!! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-1494278205270538382015-07-15T09:40:00.001-07:002015-07-15T09:40:12.581-07:00'Be the best you can' - oh, buzz off!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ansi-language: EN-IN; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">To
be the best you can?!<br />
Oh what a frightfully tyrannical concept!<br />
Life ain’t no race to run;<br />
The better it is, the sooner you accept.<br />
<br />
As lap follows lap,<br />
And year begets year; You harp,<br />
On a point to prove,<br />
And forget to live.<br />
<br />
With hardly a moment to savour,<br />
The hard earned fruits of your labour,<br />
You forever continue to clamour,<br />
for ever lasting favour.<br />
<br />
As you continue to climb the ladder,<br />
Rung after rung, Rung after rung,<br />
You alas only find yourselves sadder,<br />
Till finally, with futility, you are stung.<br />
<br />
You ask, of what use is a brace,<br />
When to lust for there is a hat rick?<br />
You little realize, that it is but a pathetic chase!<br />
When, if ever, for you will it click,<br />
<br />
That to live is not to race?<br />
The joy within you, learn to embrace.<br />
Let the desire within you fly,<br />
Lest tomorrow, you end up with a cry.<br />
<br />
Long after your youth has passed you by,<br />
And as you prepare for your final rest,<br />
Let there not be regret on why,<br />
You have not lived your life in real zest<br />
<br />
To be always on the run,<br />
that my friend, ain’t no fun.<br />
To be the best you can<br />
oh, the very thought you ban.</span></div>
Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-68293748938638528992013-05-22T07:30:00.004-07:002014-07-31T07:30:12.261-07:00What makes a good movie?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: red;"><b>Warning</b><span style="font-size: x-small;">: </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">I wondered if i should be giving this warning right at the beginning or make it a post script. I only thought it fair that a warning should be given at the very beginning. So far, all of the pieces i have written have been about sport. Insightful, they might not have been, but i would like to believe that at the very least, i did not make an utter fool of myself. Sadly, i cannot say the same thing about this piece. The very first time that i have ventured outside my comfort zone, i have made an utter hash of things. Structure, clarity and consistency are the bare minimum necessities for any half decent piece. It is abundantly clear to me that this piece lacks all the three. I had half a mind to delete the whole piece, but it seemed such a pity to waste the effort, however poor the output might be. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">I only hope that the popular idiom 'practice makes perfect' proves true.</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">Lastly, at the very real risk of coming across as a narcissist, i request your feedback. </span></span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What makes a good movie? Simple enough question but like all simple questions, the answer is devilishly hard to find. Particularly, in this question, you hit road-blocks straight away. No sooner, do you start looking for an answer, you begin to realize that all films are bound by the rules of the genres it straddles, the audience it targets and the time it encompasses. Thus, there can be no one single parameter to judge a film. This much is clear enough, common sense tells you that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having agreed on the fact there can be no single set of values on which to judge a film, we then proceed to examine if there is not at least one single feature that should be present in all 'good' films.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let us try and list out some possible characteristics that fit the bill:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1. It should make you laugh and have the ability to make you forget your troubles, if only for the most transient of periods.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. It should have a consistent plot, devoid of flaws, at least the more glaring of them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3. It should be just as engaging the second and third times as it was for the first time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4. It should haunt you long after you have finished watching the movie.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5. It should have powerful characters, fantastic in their depth and colour.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">6. It should be wed to reality, earthy in its approach and truthful to its setting.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">7. It should capture your imagination and take you along in its flight of fancy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">8. It should offer a means of escape from mundane reality and offer true joy if only for the duration of the film.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">9. It should give a message, serve a bigger purpose and act as our moral conscience.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Any connoisseur of movies can add to this list, that too in far more meaningful way than i have managed to. Yet, it is apparent from the list, that no one one common strand exists unifying all good movies. It is but obvious even to the most casual of observers that a movie can be 'Good' without having even a single of the above characteristics. In fact, some of the above listed characteristics are clearly contradictory.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hence, we come back to where we started, i.e. a film is bound by its genre and audience and there does not exist any single feature that distinguishes all good films. Having given it considerable thought, i am convinced that we are going about it the wrong way. So far, we have been trying to solve the problem from the perspective of the audience, the recipient. Clearly, it is not working. Let us try and flip our perspective. Let us look at it from the creator's point of view. Whatever the art form, the artist is the fountain-head of all creation. It is within the fertile mind of the creator that all ingredients come together and the screen is merely the canvas that displays the creation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thus, it is only logical that a movie, as any other art form, has to be judged not only from the view-point of the creator but in fact by the creator himself. Simply put if a movie satisfies the director, if a movie fulfills its purpose, as envisaged by the producer; if a movie gives space to the actor, if a movie provides an opportunity to myriad other artists to display their wares, then it is a good movie. But the obvious question that arises is that can a movie be both good and bad at the same time? A peculiar characteristic of a movie is that unlike most other forms of art, a movie belongs to no one person. Rather, it is a conglomeration of work done by a myriad people, encompassing businessmen, professionals and artists. Hence, it is not only possible but rather probable that a movie satisfies some of its stakeholders while leaving others in a lurch. Hence, a movie can be both 'Good' and 'Bad' at the same time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But, where does all this leave the audience? After writing all that hog-wash, i can only offer you this: a good movie is a movie you like. Even as i write it, i can sense how pathetic it sounds. I can hear you ask, what then is the point of the article? Could you not have just posted that one line as your Facebook status and be done with it? I plead guilty!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having failed miserably from the view-point of the creator and the view-point of the consumer, i make one last-ditch, futile as it may be, to redeem this article. I try and analyze it from my point of view. I have seen a fair number of films. They have ranged from the truly terrible to the remarkably profound. And so i tried to find out if there is a common thread among the movies that have truly moved me. I could come up with only this. All movies that have impacted me, whether it be Ben-Hur or Taare Zameen Par, have overcome a sense of inertia within me. All these films have displaced me or to be more accurate elevated me for however short a period. They have enabled be to look within, to introspect and to question myself. In other words, they have yanked me out of my comfort zone and forced me to think.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is sadly the best i could do. </span></div>
Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-45566829293843679392012-12-28T20:35:00.000-08:002014-07-31T07:21:03.668-07:00Shame on Us!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"><b>And so
the girl dies in a land far away.</b> Perhaps that is what she would have wanted;
to breathe her last in a land that is not polluted by a Billion Bigots.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Horror,
shame and guilt overwhelm me; tears cloud my vision and emotion wrecks my
heart. But I do not deserve these civilities. Emotion is for Human Beings not
for beasts like me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">In a
battle that lasted an agonizing thirteen days, the girl showed an exemplary
courage, an iron-will to fight, to survive. But the crime was so heinous and
the violence so brutal that she did not stand a chance. A billion prayers could
not save her for there was neither conviction nor clarity in those prayers. Ours
is a society that objectifies women, commodifies them and trades in them. It is
we who killed her and our prayers carried no weight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">In her
fight for life, the girl held up a mirror for all of us to see our reflection,
to see what we have become. And what a ghastly sight it was; spittle ran down
our faces,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><strong>there was devil in our eyes and lust
in our hearts</strong>. This is what we have become. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">And so
the clamour for death penalty grows louder and shriller. Do not fool
yourselves. There will be no redemption in that. If the guilty are to be
punished, a billion need to be hanged. All our hands are tainted with blood. Let
us not douse the flames of our conscience with the death of four other human
beings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">She was
christened India's daughter and it is apt. For this is how we treat our
daughters. We beat them, we molest them, we rape and we kill.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">And do
you know what the biggest tragedy is? She is not alone. Every 22 minutes, a
girl is raped. A girl is killed before she is born, the fetus destroyed and a
life extinguished. There is female infanticide, child marriage, witch hunting,
dowry killing, domestic violence, prostitution, eve teasing, sexual harassment,
molestation, rape . . . and the morbid list goes on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;">What
ails us? Why have we become such beasts devoid of love and compassion, filled
with hate and violence? It is not just our attitude towards women, despicable
as that is; it is the hate and violence that engulfs us. Few years ago, in a
cricket ground, I saw a servant being beaten with stumps for stealing a
charger. People flocked to watch the ‘Tamasha’, my friends among them; not one
tried to stop; rather they were enjoying the scene. I stood there mutely,
ashamed at my helplessness. It </span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">remains to date my saddest memory. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">We as a
nation have plunged to depths so low that no ray of light penetrates our hearts
and minds. We have committed sins so ghastly and heinous that humanity has
forsaken us and gods have abandoned us. A Billion prayers are not enough to
wash away our sins, a Billion candles will not dispel the darkness that so
engulfs this nation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Is there
no redemption? Are we doomed to eternity? Again the 23 year old girl holds the
answer. Her courage is the talisman that can show us the path back to humanity.
But be warned, we have slipped far; the path is long, the path is torturous.
Candle light vigils and prayer services are not enough. Speeches and essays
will only go so far. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 12.0pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
change has to come from within. Drive away hate and violence from your hearts. Respect
the other person, male or female, young or old, rich or poor, Hindu or Muslim.
Let us teach our children Love and compassion, empathy and humanity. Give
love a chance. Remember that this is also the land of Mahatma Gandhi
and Mother Teressa. Remember the lessons they have taught us through their
deeds and actions. And most of all do not forget the 23 year old girl, who
showed us the mirror; let her be the conscience of this nation. If we do all
these, we may have just started on the path to redemption and repentance, on
the path back to humanity.</span><span style="font-family: Tahoma, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-90431963381135075992012-10-19T23:58:00.000-07:002014-07-31T07:26:23.055-07:00Book Review: ‘The God Of Small Things’<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
The God Of Small Things by Arundhati Roy is a sad book. It
is dark, painful and most of all unforgiving.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The book is not easy to read. It starts off with torturous
verbosity, challenging and at times even antagonizing the reader. This is not a
book into which you can ease yourself. This book from the very first page pulls
you out of your comfort zone and never lets you go back. The characters rather
than being introduced are shoved into you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://betweenthelines.in/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/9780007258024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://betweenthelines.in/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/9780007258024.jpg" height="274" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Venus Flytrap would have been a more appropriate illustration.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The plot revolves around an eventful night when things go
wrong; as wrong as they can go. The whole book never allows you to escape from
this night; it draws you in, close enough for you to catch glimpses and be
mesmerized but just as you are about to make some sense of it, you are yanked
away, brutally. This cat and mouse game carries on throughout the book,
yo-yoing forth and back, the reader, a mere puppet in the hands of the author.
Throughout the book, the reader is made aware of the impending doom but like a
moth drawn towards the flame, there is no escape. The deception, if any, is not
about the nature but of the sheer intensity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ms Roy is an extraordinary author. Her words weave a
colourful quilt, the intricacies of design becoming apparent only at the end,
when we are able to view the whole work and not merely fragments of it. The
author is relentless in her quest to tell a story. In this book, the author
does not merely tell a story but in fact manipulates the reader into reading it
the way it is meant to be. Having lulled him into a state of drowsiness, she
proceeds to clinically remove any and all of the armour he might possess. She
is so extraordinarily skilled at this that the reader does not have an iota of
suspicion that he is being disrobed of his protection. Having done so, Ms. Roy
then attacks him brutally; finding spots where it hurts the most and using the
sharpest of tools with the greatest of skill.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many sentences in the books are often repeated; most often
of which is ‘Things can change in a day’. This is a cunning trick employed by
Ms. Roy. For make no mistake, this book is neither about one day nor one night;
the plot, maybe so, but not the essence. Rather, it is the very opposite. History
plays a vital role in Ms. Roy’s story. It does not merely provide background but
rather is a character in itself. Hundreds of years of history, accumulated,
gathers force and finally plays out devastatingly on that dark, desolate night.
Each and every character in this book is chained by history. History defines
what they are; history decides what they do. Eager or reluctant, there is but
one path that they can take and inevitably all of them traverse on their
respective paths, none having the strength to break away, all tumbling towards
their tragic fate. </div>
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As I have said earlier, Ms. Roy is cruel. The lure of the
book lies in the fact that there is no escape. Every word invariably leads you
to that fateful night. Every seeming tangent is but a cunning decoy; a mirage
designed to shatter your heart. There is not a single character in which you
can find solace; all of them are far too deep into the maze for there to be any
hope of escape. This book is not about redemption but about realization. It
strips humanity of all of its myriad pretensions and lays bare the beast within
all of us.</div>
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Despite the fact that this book is so content driven, the
writing stands out, dazzling you with its brilliance. The writing is
consistently sublime, sometimes bordering on the divine. The part where the
author dwells at length on aspects of Kuchipudi is simply out of this world.</div>
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All in all, this book stays with you. It is by no means an
easy read, the sheer force of it often overwhelming you. But if you are able to
persist, it rewards you aptly. Pen, they say is mightier than the sword and Ms.
Roy is only too aware of it. At times, using it as subtly as a surgeon his
scalpel, at other times wielding it with the ferocity and finesse of a ninja,
Ms Roy has produced a true work of art in the form of ‘The God Of Small
Things’. </div>
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Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-30202032946821390152012-08-29T01:54:00.002-07:002015-12-11T23:47:01.625-08:00VVS. Laxman - A Tribute<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://sportscafe.in/articles/cricket/2015/nov/01/a-tribute-to-a-very-very-special-laxman-on-his-birthday-part-1" target="_blank">Published on Sportscafe</a><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The 8-0 continues to haunt us and i guess it will keep haunting us for some time to come. It is always sad when a sportsman retires. These are people in the prime of their lives suddenly having to give up not only what they are best at but often the only thing they know.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“This series was meant to be a fitting final trophy but has ended in tears. An era is over in more ways than one. So after all the misery and rage, Indian cricket fans will perhaps tune in to the Adelaide Test not hoping for a turnaround – the time for that has long passed – but for a final glimpse of their batting heroes. Who knows how many of them will turn up at the next Test?” This was Sambit Bal before the Adelaide Test. How prophetic these words seem now. The 8-0 has claimed two of Indian cricket's biggest stalwarts.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To be honest, this was always going to be inevitable. It was always a matter of ‘When’ rather than ‘If’. Hard to blame the selectors or MSD here.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwKoUyO6fOh9HF_3lOkuKwT24Gv0pEW3S5h86XYFMIsA7Q4NMhenedMrEWMeIXby3KzYgu6VsCXrMbqhCuxIlbRxLV_FgjIs-7Gksu3dVX0daTXCxAub-NqiwJ1e7j4EyRvsFjDtxauCZ1/s1600/vvs-laxman-281-kolkata-australia-070710.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwKoUyO6fOh9HF_3lOkuKwT24Gv0pEW3S5h86XYFMIsA7Q4NMhenedMrEWMeIXby3KzYgu6VsCXrMbqhCuxIlbRxLV_FgjIs-7Gksu3dVX0daTXCxAub-NqiwJ1e7j4EyRvsFjDtxauCZ1/s320/vvs-laxman-281-kolkata-australia-070710.jpg" width="229" /></span></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Having said that, world cricket will undoubtedly be poorer without Laxman. What an ambassador of the game he has been. I don’t know why, but to me, there was always a certain quality of sadness in Laxman’s batting. Don’t get me wrong, it is a joy to watch him bat but there was a certain underlying fragility in it. There was none of Dravid’s solidarity or Sachin’s perfection, it was more like watching magic being created; it did not seem to belong in today’s world, didn’t seem as if it would survive. Perhaps, it was only me seeing the vulnerability of his early career reflected in his batting, whatever it was, i never wanted to miss watching Laxman bat for i was afraid i will not be fortunate enough to witness something as beautiful again. Laxman had this magical ability to warp and distort time. Never the one to rush, he still had ample time to face the fastest of bowlers. There was nothing violent in his batting, it was all grace. There was no flourish in his strokes yet plenty of style. A mere push would send the ball racing away. It was as if the ball was there to pander to Laxman's whims. The bat only sent the message across. He could caress a ball pitched on the fourth stump through extra cover or he could whip it through mid-wicket. This was not the stuff of mere mortals, this was magic. As John Wright once said to a young kid "Watch him bat but don't try to emulate him."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yet, Laxman was not only about style. He had substance too ,plenty of it. An extremely versatile batsmen, he has batted at all position excepts ten and eleven. Having struggled in the initial part of his career, he found himself as a make-shift opener. His 167 in Sydney earned him some much-needed time. Laxman took a bold gamble and declined to continue as an opener. He would fight for his place in middle order. And boy oh boy, did he make a fist of it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">His 281 against Australian at the Eden Gardens in 2001 was the best innings ever played by an Indian and will remain so for many years to come.That day at Eden Gardens, Laxman elevated the art of batting to hitherto unexplored heights. Runs flowed, records tumbled and the Aussie spirit was broken. Steve Waugh's final frontier remained unconquered. It was an epochal innings in more ways than one. His love affair with Australia was firmly established. But, more importantly, it turned out to be a water-shed moment in Indian cricket. Indian cricket was yet to recover from the match fixing saga but that victory gave us new hope. A rejuvenated team under the brilliant leadership of Saurav Ganguly and the guidance of John Wright started a process that would result in India reaching the No1 spot in Tests and winning the T20 and 50 over world cups. It all started with Laxman and the glorious era lasted till April2, 2011. The golden age of Indian Cricket would last 10 years. In those 10 years, we had 4 captains, 3 coaches, many disasters but also many a special victory to savour and relish. Finally, he found his true calling at no5 & no6. At the twilight of his career, he treated his fans to some truly special innings. Shepherding the tail expertly, Laxman scored a century in Sri Lanka, 73 in Mohali and 96 glorious runs in Durban.The common thread among all the three innings was the fact that all of them came in the second innings and were also match winning. The 96 in Durban was one of the finest exhibition of batting i have ever had the good fortune to see. Yet, his form deserted him in the all important campaign against England and Australia. His batting was a pale shadow of the magic he displayed in the year gone by. Sadly, the decline in form proved terminal. When the end arrived, it was all too fast and came without any warning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In many ways, Laxman was an unlikely hero. He had neither Sehwag's flair nor Tendulkar's sense of destiny. None of Dravid's solidarity nor Ganguly's aggressiveness; not even Kumble's never-die spirit. What Laxman had instead was a remarkable sense of occasion. As the crisis gets bigger, the opponents tougher and the odds higher, the best in Laxman emerges. Amid chaos and panic, Laxman is an oasis of calm. Watching Laxman bat, one can never tell the state of the match. Adversity brings the best out of Laxman and this is the key to his numerous match winning innings. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So, what is Laxman's enduring legacy to the game of Cricket in general and Indian cricket in particular? To me, it will be the remarkable grace he has brought to the game. In this regard, Laxman is in August company that includes the likes of Mark Waugh, David Gower, K.S Ranjitsinghji and Mohd. Azharuddin. On and off the field, Laxman has carried himself with great poise and dignity. Courting neither fame nor controversy, Laxman still managed to find a place for himself in the pantheon of Indian greats. He has certainly enriched the proud tradition of Indian batting. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It is with a heavy heart that i bid VVS. Laxman goodbye and wish him all the best in his future endeavours.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As Ian Chappel put it, you are indeed 'Very Very Special' Laxman.</span></div>
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Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-49328830680052014612012-08-26T06:05:00.000-07:002014-07-31T07:19:55.646-07:00Lance Armstrong - A Fallen Hero! Really?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At the very outset, let me state that I am pretty confused.
Hence, I expect no clarity in this article. Rather, it is an attempt to thrash
out my ideas and hopefully try and figure out where I stand.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1oJ7pk_c8uoXcV8YGh-7aROoJVRTiugIvVLQInMZ5jf_-ap14hw6PF2g1_IdNkdN4RubuDp3Oy0M7xzQ2z6mXn5QpwhBhzH2NRgo0jLltiGQxv-itHk0f_uAOMJj3ocbtFTo1Xm-hB2vt/s1600/larmstrong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1oJ7pk_c8uoXcV8YGh-7aROoJVRTiugIvVLQInMZ5jf_-ap14hw6PF2g1_IdNkdN4RubuDp3Oy0M7xzQ2z6mXn5QpwhBhzH2NRgo0jLltiGQxv-itHk0f_uAOMJj3ocbtFTo1Xm-hB2vt/s320/larmstrong.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lance Armstrong – A fallen Hero! There are not many stories
that captivate more than those that talk of fall from grace. The bigger the
hero, the greater is the impact. Lance Armstrong was not just a hero; he was an
inspiration to millions from across the globe. Armstrong conquered mountains, overcame death;
Armstrong defeated opponents, vanquished cancer; Armstrong battled exhaustion,
endured pain. And in doing so, he won a million hearts, set in motion countless
dreams and captured the imagination of many more. Armstrong, a hero, if there
ever was one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Did Armstrong cheat? Did Armstrong take drugs? Honestly, I
do not have a clue. What I want to explore though is how people’s perception of
Armstrong will be affected by the accusations. To be honest, today, they are
more than accusations. By refusing to fight further, Armstrong, at least in the
eyes of law, is a cheat. But does it really matter? Does it make him any less a
champion? Does it make him any less an inspiration? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Firstly, the appeal of sport lies in the assumption of a
level playing field. Sport relies on the trust it builds with the spectator.
The moment this trust is broken, sport loses its meaning. It is reduced to a
mere kicking of the ball or a hurling of an object, etc. It is stripped of its
very essence, i.e. the celebration of human spirit. Any athlete, when he
indulges in foul play, especially doping, does a great disservice to his sport.
Armstrong, if guilty, is no different. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But Armstrong the fighter will continue to inspire. Here is a
man, who in the prime of his life is diagnosed with the most belittling of
diseases; Testicular Cancer. He is given less than an even chance to survive.
Overnight, the world crashes around him. The world at his feet, literally; and
a diagnosis later; he stares death in the face. The fighter that Armstrong is;
he battles pain and conquers death. Mind you, he did not ‘cheat’ death, he
conquered death. He not only conquered death, he had the audacity to dream. He
believed that a cancer survivor could master the Tour De France. For the
thought alone, Armstrong is a winner. But he went further; he actually did win
the Tour De France, a record seven times. Having just battled excruciating
pain, he chose to court pain yet again. He chose to succeed. Drugs might make
you a superman, drugs might beef up your body, drugs might give you super-human
strength and endurance but no drug in the world can ever give you the spirit
that Armstrong possessed. This was achieved by Armstrong alone. The greatest
victory of his; none can take this away from him, even if they so desire. And yet, incredibly enough, this is not
Armstrong’s greatest achievement. Armstrong’s call to fame lies not in what he
has achieved but in how he has made it possible for others to achieve. A book
that inspired millions and a foundation that helped cancer patients; Armstrong’s
legacy in the pantheon of American heroes lies secure.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so I come back to where I have started. Does it matter? Does Armstrong remain a role model? It boils
down to the age-old adage; Take the good, Leave the bad. Accept the man for
what he is, for what he has achieved and learn from his mistakes. Lance
Armstrong for all his flaws, for all his shortcomings will remain an
inspiration for many a year to come.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">P.s. The one thing that drives home the magnitude of Lance Armstrong’s achievements:
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After July21st, 1969, When Neil Armstrong set foot on the
surface of the moon, it is incredible that, today, to many the name Armstrong
conjures up visions of a yellow jersey hurtling down mountains rather than the
landing on the moon. It is ironic that Neil Armstrong died just two days after
Lance Armstrong gave up a fight for probably the first time in his life.</span></div>
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Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6894800913492946378.post-14699097665758691992012-08-17T09:44:00.001-07:002014-07-31T07:14:30.552-07:00Rafael Nadal vs Lukas Rosol - Wimbledon 2012<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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29.7.2012: There is a definite buzz in wimbledon today. There was an upset yesterday, a monumental upset.</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rafael Nadal - Living Legend.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 16.5px;">The name which has come to be associated with grit and determination. A man against whom you had to play inspirational tennis to win a single point; let alone a match. Rafael Nadal plays tennis the way it is meant to be played. There are no freebies on offer. Every ball is chased as if his life depends on it - and then invariably returned. Outrageous angles are created, the existence of which we were never taught in school. And all this, when he is in cruise mode. But every once in a while, comes along a stubborn opponent; an opponent who is willing to fight it out, an opponent who commits the blasphemy of believing he can win, believing that Nadal, Rafael Nadal, can be defeated.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 16.5px;">The response: Nadal digs deep into his inexhaustible reserves, he shifts into top gear. </span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 16.5px;">Tennis becomes sublime. Time stands still. Gods wake up from their slumber to witness divinity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rafael Nadal does not defeat opponents, he decimates them. When the match starts, there are two men on the court. As the match hurtles to its logical conclusion, only one man remains; the other is reduced to a mere shadow, a pale one at that. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lukas Rosol - _______</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, who is Lukas Rosol? Ranked 100 in the world, making up the numbers in a grand slam, Lukas Rasol at best was a journeyman. This was his first Wimbledon. In his five earlier attempts, he had not managed to get past the first round of qualifying. His name, from today, will forever be intrinsically linked with Rafael Nadal. At the age of 26, he has lived out his greatest victory, his hour of fame and glory.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 16.5px;">After 198 minutes of grueling tennis, Nadal was defeated; vanquished. But what does this match teach us? To me, it makes all his other victories that much more special. It reminds me that in sport, there exsists both victory and defeat and all that separates these two is a line so fine that it is often invisible.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is days like these that make you realize how insanely amazing these guys really are. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is days like these that make you realize that they don't win by default, that they earn every run scored, every wicket taken, every goal, every point, every putt and every basket, that nothing ever comes for comes for free, never ever. That they pay for their seemingly effortless brilliance with years of toil, with sweat and blood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is days like these that make you realize that these guys are a tribe of men and women, who though live on the same planet, are a world apart from the rest of us.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is days like these that makes us realize how very fortunate we are to witness these great men and women in all their pomp and splendor. Thank you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Rafael Nadal: True Champion!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lukas Rosol : Bravo!</span></div>
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Sarathhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01554295169568890269noreply@blogger.com0