Thank you for the Music

Dear Sachin, It feels strange to address you in this manner but it would be decidedly odder to call you Mr Tendulkar, seeing that I have known you now for the better part of 34 years, ever since your two ball duck in your first ODI against Pakistan but let’s pass lightly over that. Happy Birthday. You turn fifty today and that’s a landmark, an age when one turns back the clock to reminisce; to assess one’s life, one’s body of work. Suffice it to say that you have a fairly impressive resume to look back upon. Curiously, it took me a few years to fall in love with you. It was during the Hero cup in 1993, a full four years after the world had hailed the wunderkind. You weren’t having the best time with the bat and then you literally pulled the ball from Azharuddin’s grasp and bowled that last over against SA in the semis and defended six… I watched you clean bowl Brian Lara in the finals on a tiny television set by the beach. It was Arvind’s bachelor party and you and Anil Kumble made it special. We were counting wickets but not our drinks and it was a wonderful evening, what we remember of it. And after that, there was no looking back for me. There had been Vishwanath and then Richards, the original King. And now there was Tendulkar and I knew that there would be no more after you. There’s lots more that I remember, like images in a slide show. Everything, in fact, because I watched- everything. When you batted, my world stopped and there was only you and everything else was a distraction. There was the cover drive and the bowler’s back drive played with that heavy bat, a stroke that you made your own. The insouciant dance down the track to hit Warne and Murali to all parts. The hook, brought out only to put the bully McGrath in his place. And then, when the back gave out and the body began to age, the upper cut and that delightful lap off the spinner. Not so much stepping out then but always the feet in position, eternally so. I always wonder what you would have done to the T20 format if you were ten years younger when it began. Rewritten the code, I suppose, in a way that only you could have. I wonder - but I am not saddened that you didn’t get that opportunity. Every card cannot fall our way now, can it. After all, the Lord gave us 2011 when I thought that you would go without a World Cup and for that, I am grateful beyond words. There was pain, along the way- quite a lot of it, as one would expect, along a twenty four year journey. 136 against Pakistan, 175 in the ODI against Australia,97 at Bridgetown against the West Indies- all gut wrenching losses. And then the ache in the stomach when you, inevitably, failed on occasion, showing that you were human. I daresay you analysed each dismissal because you are, first and always, a perfectionist, a peerless craftsman who would not accept an error. Think of me, though, without any of your skill but all of your agony and more,that horrible sinking feeling when you were out and then lying awake at night and thinking what if.. and why did he.. Surely I have suffered more. Gladly so. Because when you gave joy, as you more often than not did, with that mostly impregnable bat of yours, I needed no food nor drink nor anything else. I was sated. By 2010, you had been playing for twenty years and we had both aged. You were 37 and could still summon every ounce of your genius to have your best year and to make the first ODI double hundred. “ The first man to do it is the Superman from India”, thundered Ravi Shastri on commentary. And who was I to disagree! And, quick as a heartbeat, it seemed, the end was nigh. 24 years had passed by in a blur, as was that last innings at your beloved Wankhede. I so desperately wanted to imprint every run you made in my mind- you made 74 beautiful ones- but I only remember the tears. Yours, shed with dignity as you walked one final time to the middle, alone, when the game was done, to pay obeisance to those 22 yards and mine, rolling relentlessly, bitterly down my cheeks in rivulets and the rest of my family too tactful to even mention them. There’s this chap called Kohli who took your place at number 4 when you vacated that slot and, by all accounts, he can bat a bit but he isn’t you and so….well, it just isn’t the same. But we must move on and, inevitably enough, I have. And now you’re turning fifty. There’s a few extra pounds around the midriff. There’s another Tendulkar wearing a blue jersey and bowling left arm brisk for Mumbai Indians. It’s all good. And as for me, I write this now to say- thank you. You lit up two decades of my life with your incandescent batting and your grace and integrity at all times and for that I am eternally in your debt. You were the first cricketer my son adored and one of my great life memories will be the two of us jumping around like madmen in our living room, celebrating your hundredth hundred. Much happiness, always. May the Wankhede- and, indeed, every Indian stadium- continue to echo with the electric cries of “Sachinnnnn, Sachinnnn”…. Much love, Ajay

The God of All Things Ajay Kamath My son Rahul calls, at around 3.30 in the afternoon. “He’s in”, he says tersely. I rush out in my hospital scrubs, heart in mouth, to the doctor’s lounge where the roar on the television makes it sound like an amphitheatre in Rome, only more affectionate. There is a guard of honour by the West Indies team but no discernible emotion from the great man as he strides briskly out. I sit in my usual position…edge of the seat, hands clasped tightly, mouth dry, heart pounding…..and a part of me, deep down, knows that this is to be the last time. It is impossible to compress twenty four years into a few lines or pages or anything at all,, so I musnt try. It is also quite impossible for me to convey the sense of utter desolation and despair I now feel as I write this, knowing that its over but that the pain is for me….and maybe a few million others… to bear. Each of those millions, however, is completely certain that his pain is unique, that no one else can truly understand it. Each of those worthies is completely right. There is a sweep to fine leg for one oh God, such a relief, he wont do a Bradman. And then there is a square cut for four and a few of the million butterflies within me settle…. A career in retrospect is a series of snapshots, of images imprinted deep within the consciousness of the obsessive fan. It is time today, for me, to recall them. Curiously enough, it took me a few years to warm to this boy child. I admired him, yes, but my heart only began to beat in resonance with his in the early nineties. There was a moment, in the Hero cup final of 1993, when he hit the top of Brian Lara’s middle stump with an inswinger. Another, in the 96 World Cup when he hit McGrath back over his head and nobody could quite believe it. Now he drives Shillingford against the spin through the covers and the years have rolled back and he did this to Murali so often, in a time when his feet were quicksilver and his mind free. I have wanted so much to watch this with Rahul today but I dare not rise from this seat, for I will surely get him out. And so I speak to Rahul, who is similarly perched on the edge of another sofa at home, on the phone and he says…what a shot! Why is Tendulkar different? It isn’t the numbers alone, though to a statistics and individual achievement obsessed nation, that is a huge part of the story. It is the dignity and modesty with which he carried himself off the field, while flaying attacks on it. For all our braggadocio at times, as a nation we like our heroes to be a little unassuming. It is our privilege to make them larger than life, our choice, not theirs. So Tendulkar must be a little shy, he must be assertive but quietly so, he must answer a verbal sledge with a telling riposte from his bat. Then we shall love him more and revere him and make him God. And when he drives straight, twice, Dale Steyn, in that dismissive, pose holding, manner….he is. God. And now he 38 not out and, as he walks back unbeaten, he gives me, one final time, the ultimate happiness….Tendulkar unbeaten overnight. So now, through the evening, with delicate frissons of delight, I can remind myself that tomorrow he will walk out again to do battle. How many times has this happened over twenty four years? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? And now, it happens one last time. So how, then, shall we remember him, this Sachin Tendulkar? As the man who danced down the pitch to Warne to hit him into the stands at Chennai? As the curly haired kid who cut Merv Hughes and McDermott to ribbons at Perth? As the marauder who bludgeoned Shoaib Akhtar into submission at the Wanderers? Or, as Ramachandra Guha so caustically put it,” a winner in the land of a billion losers”? Too many memories, too many years….tears against Pakistan at Chennai, ecstasy at the Wankhede in 2011, the great rearguard action at Old Trafford, the taming of Alan Donald at Cape Town. Oh, there is too much but it isn’t enough, not by a long shot. How can you leave now? Whom will we watch? Progress from 38 is serene and beautiful. Tendulkar treats us to everything, as he drives and cuts and laps and flicks with serenity. In the cauldron that is the Wankhede, he is calm, allowing the madness and the noise to wash over him. He reaches fifty with a magnificent straight drive and then plays another cover drive that sears the grass and rolls the years back. And then he cuts to slip and is caught. Oh, the enormity of that catch…its over, it really is. He looks up one last time and a shocked, silenced crowd finds voice and feet as it stands to the Master. And now, when the dust has settled, I try to make sense of this thing that is Tendulkar and I cannot. I try to understand why it is that tears blur my eyes as I type this, why it feels like a part of me has been wrenched away and I cannot. There are only snapshots of the strokes he played again and again. There is only that eternal cry of Sachiiin, Sachin that will echo forever. There is only that certainty that something massive has ended today, that my life will never be the same again….

Encounter

I was always the talker, hence I always got the front seat. Had to talk to the driver, you see. Would be rude not to. --------------------------------------- This was college and this was us, the four of us, me and three others. Girls with enough money- just enough- to get a bite at a reasonably priced restaurant. The ride we had to hitch. So this beautiful Bangalore afternoon we were hungry and we set off walking towards Brigade Road. It didn’t take long for us to flag a car down. There was a middle aged man driving it. He looked harmless enough and we piled in. The other three- let’s call them Tall, Short and Medium- slid into the back seat and I was riding shotgun. Everything was as per schedule. Until the man driving the car threw a tiny but interesting spanner into the works... ----------------------------------- He had been talking about how dangerous it was to hitch rides in these uncertain times and I had been nodding perfunctorily and making the right noises when he suddenly said, “I have a proposition for you. Why don’t you girls come to my place and I will feed you to your hearts content?” ------------------------------------ I drew in a breath to begin a speech about why we couldn’t when, from the backseat, three voices went,” Yes, Uncle, yes”! And, sotto voce to me, Tall whispered,” Don’t be a spoilsport. Free food!” --------------------------------- Indeed- free food. The guy might be a perv, a demented maniac or somebody suffering from Alzheimer’s who would take us somewhere strange because he lost his way. But the opportunity for some grub without paying for it was too much to pass up. I nodded acquiescence, not without some trepidation. ---------------------------- The drive seemed to take forever. We were now in an area of Bangalore that I could barely recognise. Tall, Medium and Short were giggling away in the back seat and I found myself, for once, struggling to make conversation. Something felt a little off... And then we were there. ------------------------------ The yard was really brambly and the house looked a little run down. The whole street had a bit of an abandoned look and for the first time Tall, Medium and Short were silent. Had we just made a major boo boo? Oh, well- in for a penny, in for a pound... ------------------------------ Resolutely I exited the car and just as resolutely followed our benefactor into the house. It was a narrow doorway and opened into a tiny room which did nothing to allay my apprehensions. I noticed that Uncle, who had been quite garrulous in the car, was now ominously silent. ------------------------------ The room opened into another similar room and then into another pantry like area which was packed with Tupperware containers, which in turn led into a kitchen. And this was no ordinary kitchen. This was gleaming steel and sparkling wood and shiny floors, so clean you could eat off them. A five star kitchen. Uncle led us next into a sprawling living room. “Sit”, he said. We sat. He said something else and magically a lady appeared. “Feed them”, he said. And left! ---------------------------------- And as we murmured excitedly to each other, food began to appear- glorious steaming platters of Biriyani and kebabs and haleem and some sort of exotic pastry that I had never seen before. All talk had ceased a while ago. We looked at each other and set to. ----------------------------------- In the movies girls are shown having dainty little bites of food whilst boys stuff their faces like there’s no tomorrow. In reality, a hungry 18 year old is a hungry 18 year old, gender be damned. The food disappeared at an embarrassingly quick rate. ---------------------------------- In between large mouthfuls we gathered that Uncle had departed for Friday prayers. No matter. We were sated. Like overfed lions we lounged about on the sofas. I think I even took a small nap. --------------------------------- At around 4, steaming cups of chai appeared and were gratefully consumed. We wandered out into the garden, waiting for Uncle to return. After all, we had to say a thank you at least before leaving. ---------------------------------- As we were wondering what to do, in the distance we saw a bike approaching.” Stud alert”, said someone as the bike came closer. There was a seriously handsome chap riding it-white tee, boots, shades and jeans.The whole package. And as we tried to pretend that we were taking a stroll in our own garden, the bike entered the compound. -------------------------------- Mustering all her confidence, Short asked, “What do you want”. Stud got off the bike and looked her in the eye and said,” I live here. What do YOU want”. Gulp! ------------------------------- So we had to explain and we did but he interrupted us halfway through with a sigh. “ I see my father’s at it again”, he said. To cut a long story short, Uncle was a very generous man who loved feeding hungry waifs. Today happened to be our lucky day. ------------------------------------- By this time Uncle had arrived. After profuse thanks and a promise to him that we wouldn’t hitchhike again, we were off. As we were leaving, he pressed his visiting card into my hand. I only looked at the card once I got home and my eyes popped. Uncle was Haroon, the owner of the iconic Only Place, which served the best beef steak and apple pie in town. And that explained the quality of the repast that we enjoyed at his home. Serendipity! -------------------------------- Over the years, Haroon and I became good friends. We would sit on the steps of Nilgiris and sip chai and I would tell him stories and he would listen. A wonderfully warm, generous man- we spent so many pleasant evenings together. I lost touch with him after marriage, more’s the pity but whenever I think back to my college days I remember Haroon and that “luck by chance” encounter. ----------------------------------- Friendships happen in strange and unusual ways, sometimes for brief periods of time. But that does not make them any less meaningful. That afternoon and it’s aftermath is something I shall always remember fondly.... -----------------//----------//--------- Narrated by Goddess Sangita ----------------//-----------/ Chronicled by Her slave scribe Riley the Dog

A Few Good Men and the Fortress That Wasn’t

The cricket ball has a hard cork core which is covered in leather and weighs 5.7 oz. As kids we called it a “hard” ball, because that’s what it is. When it strikes you on the body, it hurts. On the final day of the Brisbane test, Cummins and Hazelwood struck Pujara eleven times on his helmet, back, chest and once, crushingly, on his fingers, an incident that made him leap in the air in pain. On that day, Pujara was not The Wall. He was Rocky Balboa taking a battering from Clubber Lang and coming back for more. He wasn’t batting as much as absorbing deliveries, absorbing everything until they had nothing left to fling at the others... ———————————————— The Woolongabba cricket ground in Brisbane( Gabba for short) is Australian cricket’s safe place. Here’s where they come to flex their muscles, bully the opposition and take a lead in the series because it’s always the first test. This time, even better- it was the decider. The last time Australia lost there was in 1988 to a West Indian attack consisting of Ambrose, Walsh, Marshall and Patterson. A total of over 1,400 test wickets when they finished. This time it was Siraj, Thakur, Saini, Washington and Natarajan. A total of four test matches between them. The fortress was safer than safe. It was reinforced concrete up against toy pistols. And yet..... —————————————————— Washington isn’t Sundar. He is the son of Sundar. Sundar, a cricketer himself had a neighbour who sponsored his expenses and encouraged him to play at whatever level he could. When that neighbour passed due to illness, Sundar was determined to honour him and decided to name his first born after him. Hence, Washington- he of the languid grace and long limbs and that off drive that he played thrice against Cummins. All of 21 years of age, with the eyes of a child and the steel of a veteran. ——————————————————- Rishabh Pant has a problem. He has a belief in his own ability that is so steadfast that nothing can quite shake it. That’s a problem in India where we like our heroes to doubt themselves on a regular basis, once every morning and twice on weekends. Rishabh Pant is the king of the audacious shot- the loft against the turn, the falling down lap, the hook from above his eyeline. If he were Australian they would name him Adam Gilchrist and sing hosannas to him. In India, though, Pant has a problem. Fortunately for us, he doesn’t know it. —————————- Shubhman Gill reminds people of Dilip Vengsarkar. Some people say he is a right handed Saurav Ganguly. Shubhman Gill, however, would like people to remember him as Shubman Gill. And if he keeps playing that patented slap cut off the fastest bowler in world cricket, keeps stepping out to a quality off spinner to drive him against the turn and keeps smiling self deprecatingly when they sledge him- we will. Shubhman Gill doesn’t know it yet but he’s special. Very special. ———————————- Sachin Tendulkar once told Shardul Thakur to lose weight or he’d lose his chance of playing cricket at any level. He listened. Mohammed Siraj gets hit all over the park in the IPL. That’s because he always looks for wickets and his red ball stats are outstanding. This the selectors know and he is an inspired pick. Natarajan is a fairy tale that deserves an entire book. These three hold the key, a key one fears won’t fit the lock that must be opened. We shall see... ———————————- There are 328 to be made in the fourth innings to win. Thats because the unlikely quartet took all twenty Australian wickets. And yet that’s more than anybody’s ever made there to win. It’s almost a hundred more than the previous highest, it’s an insurmountable mountain, an uncrossable sea, a bridge too far and every other cliche in The Book of the Impossible. Also, it seems pertinent to mention that this Indian side just got rolled over for 36 by the exact same bowling attack, exactly a month ago. So, just to clarify- this task, boys and girls, is impossible. Everybody knows this, accepts this and waits for the inevitable. Everybody except this Indian team. They haven’t got the memo. ———————————— So onwards and forwards then, to the final day at the Gabba. Three previous tests and four days of jousting here have led to this. It has to end today, not least because there’s not much left in the tank for both teams. One final push.... There are several ways to skin a cat but only two ways to dismantle a fortress. You can charge at it with a battering ram and smash open the ramparts, or you can Trojan horse your way in, with stealth and finesse. As is becoming usual with this Indian team, they chose a third way- a combination of both. Shubhman Gill started off the morning with rapier thrusts of his bat of such precision that he found gaps where none existed. The attack was dismantled gently, almost apologetically and by the time Lyon got him to nick off to slip, he had made 91. At the other end, Pujara the human sponge was absorbing.... At tea we were 38 overs from safety with seven wickets in hand. I felt able to finally unclench my jaw, unlace my locked in prayer hands and sit down. We could draw this. We would draw this. Until Pant, with a violent paroxysm, launched Lyon over long on for six. The battering ram was here. Rahul, my lad and I exchanged glances. Were we... were we actually going for this? My heart, which had settled into something resembling a rhythm, began its staccato drumming again... —————————- It’s 7 30 in the evening and Rahul and I are taking our usual drive. Today, there’s pin drop silence in the car. “So,” he says” Are we going to address the elephant in the room or what”. I’m still silent. Driving. From the corner of my eye I see him nod. “ Can’t process it yet, can you, Annu”? Process this. No Kohli. The entire bowling attack, seven of them, rendered hors de combat. Somehow we’re level at Melbourne after having made 36 at Adelaide. Somehow we bat 130 overs on one hamstring and a prayer to draw at Sydney. And then we go and do the unthinkable- we dismantle Australia at Brisbane. Process this? Not today, perhaps never. But I know that the tears of joy flow as easily for me today as they did when I was a child in shorts. And I know that I need several drinks to live and relive every moment of this monumental triumph. Now that, I can process.....

Yesterday Once More

Before this, there was Melbourne 1981, a memory so delicious and pristine that I have stored it carefully in a corner vault of my brain, to be brought out and savoured every now and then. There was no television, only a trusted Grundig transistor radio- if you don’t know what that means, do that Google thing. I used to wake at 5 30 and when we batted, hope that Gavaskar wouldn’t make too many. Not because I didn’t like the man but when he scored, Viswanath would fail. Everyone knew that. And Viswanath failing was a fate worse than death for he was my first love until Tendulkar came along... This morning Gavaskar obliged by nicking off to Pascoe and thus allowed Vishy to play an innings of such distilled class that it had the Aussies applauding him off when he was done. 114 of the best. Our 230 was answered by a vehement riposte by Australia who got over 400. Match over? Far from it. We were a second innings team in those days and my fifteen year old self was supremely confident that we would come roaring back. And we did. You know how commentary from overseas came on the radio. In waves, as it were, waxing and waning, with periods of static and nothingness before the dulcet tones of Alan McGilvray and Jim Maxwell came reassuringly back. It therefore took me a while to understand what happened when Gavaskar, miffed at an lbw decision, decided to drag his partner off the field and concede the game. Saner counsel prevailed and we played on but 165 for one slid quickly to a little over three hundred and we left Australia 140 to win. I used to smuggle my Panasonic pocket radio into class whenever there was some cricket going on. We last benchers were generally ignored as long as we didn’t make a nuisance of ourselves. My modus operandi was to crouch below desk level, radio glued to my ear and recite the score sotto voce to the interested multitudes around me. Now and then I would pop up, nod knowledgeably at whatever the teacher said and then dart back down. Australia had a few overs to face on the fourth evening but our spearhead, Kapil Dev, was out with a hamstring injury. Shivlal Yadav too having been rendered hors de combat, we were effectively down to two bowlers. Grim outlook and another defeat staring us in the face. Nothing I wasn’t used to. When Ghavri got Dyson, in strode Greg Chappell. He was Australia’s captain and one of the best in the world and I knew in my heart that he would make an unbeaten fifty and Australia would coast home. Years later, I was able to lay my hands on a precious video cassette released by channel 9. It had some magnificent footage of cricket in Australia and a fair bit of this Melbourne test. You see Karsanbhai ambling in and delivering a very very medium paced delivery on Chappell’s pads.... Under the bench, I heard Chappell taking guard and then static and then- it couldn’t be, surely it couldn’t- the golden words- bowled himmmmmmmm. Ghavri had done the unthinkable and hit Chappell’s leg stump first ball. 99 times out of hundred, said Jim Maxwell, Chappell would have hit that to mid wicket for a couple. This just happened to be the hundredth time. I shot up like a periscope and said “bowled” and “Chappell” about fourteen times and wondered why nobody was sharing in my excitement. Only to turn around and look into the eyes of the short, portly teacher who was taking the class and was now breathing fire from close quarters. One of the delightful quirks of schooling in my era was a subject called “Lower Kannada”. It didn’t mean Kannada for the lowly, it meant that the Kannada was low- meaning easy. The subject was taught by this worthy who was, for some unfathomable reason, nicknamed “Gampa”. Normally affable, he was sometimes given to throwing bits of chalk at errant pupils, with a twinkle in his eye. At the moment, a twinkle didn’t seem on the cards. A baleful glare was what was directed towards me as to my horror I realised that the commentary was still going on. And there was a roar from the radio as Australia lost their third and the chaps behind me helpfully cheered. “ Silence”, roared Gampa. He crooked a finger towards me. “ Kodu”, he thundered and I hastily gave him the offending radio. Imperiously he now pointed to the door. “ Out!”, he said. I outed at the speed of knots. The rest of the day was spent standing in the hot December sun. I didn’t care. 24/ 3- could we dare dream of a miracle? Hope, that beautiful seductive mistress lodged herself firmly in my heart. Fast forward to the video cassette seen years later. Kapil Dev being interviewed and saying he felt he had to do something. Greg Chappell saying that the pitch played two heights- low and lower. Either way on day five, a pumped up on pain killers and steroid injected Kapil Dev ignored his damaged hamstring, bowled fast and straight and took 5/28. Australia rolled over for 83. In my mind still one of the greatest of all overseas wins, considering how unused we were to winning. Back home in Mangalore, my most unamused mother had to come to school to placate Gampa and reclaim my pocket radio. I was grounded for a week. Nothing mattered. I was in a haze of joy. A test match victory in Australia with a Vishy hundred- the cup of was runneth over like never before. And today, almost four decades later, I am pleased to report that our magnificent MCG victory of last week has left me with that same breathless feeling of joy. Where test match cricket is concerned, the little boy within pokes his head out and suffers when we lose and exults when we win. Most importantly, he is there- against all odds, he has survived the cynicism of the times to afford me that pure unadulterated happiness that only sporting success can bring. Happy new year, everybody. Perhaps we will conquer Covid and climate change and, even more importantly, win the Sydney test. Ahhh, hope...capricious hope....

Descent into Nothingness

Everytime we think things cant get any lower, they do.

We have been treated this week to the most brazen use of money power in politics that I have ever seen and this has happened in our state of Karnataka. In unintended irony, or cruel coincidence, Barack Obama exhorted American kids to 'beware of children in Bangalore and Beijing", for they might, he implied, steal American jobs if the local kids didnt buck up and hit the books. Well, they neednt worry about us Kannadigas for much longer, the way things are going.

The entire Karnataka story over the past couple of decades has been built on private enterprise. There was a brief period, during S. M. Krishna's time when we actually felt 'governed" and newspaper headlines were about new IT start ups and foreign investment. Alas, that was little more than one swallow and it did not a summer make, as our winter of discontent, plotted by the Machiavellian Gowda family has been nurtured spectacularly by this rudderless current dispensation, which teeters precariously on the precipice like a somnambulist on a tightrope.

There are two things about this scenario which distress me and should distress you, too, dear reader. The first is that private enterprise,even in a democracy, can only take you thus far. The state cannot abdicate its role on providing law and order, delivering basic infrastructure and creating a congenial environment for investment. On all counts, the state is absent or incredibly incompetent. The condition of the Shiradi Ghat linking Bangalore to Mangalore and which sees a humongous amount of traffic each day is but one example of a lack of will on getting things done. Claiming that highway maintainence is a central subject just wont wash. Why is the state government there, if not to exert pressure and get things done? What about our pathetic electricity shortages as early as the month of November? How can industry or, indeed, the common man function without he absolute basics...bijli, pani, sadak...being assured?

The second thing is, if at all, more worrying...it is the general inability or the lack of interest of the voter in making the government work. The circus of the last few days- legislators fiddling in resorts while North Karnataka drowned, chief ministers reduced to teary eyed wimps begging to be allowed to stay in power, goons lording it over the system- will be forgotten in a few weeks. Business as usual. That would be a travesty. And it neednt be.

Where is the media when we need it? If it was public power and incessant media pressure that managed to put the wretched Manu Sharma into jail, then why cant we join together to create a stink about why a decent and upright officer like Mr Baligar was summarily transferred? I shed no tears for the all powerful lady minister who has had to put in her papers. But we should-more importantly, every Bangalorean should- be concerned when the few remaining upright beaurocrats in the city are harassed till their resolve is broken. But maybe Mr Baligar isnt Page 3 enough to get this full frontal treatment from the press.

It's time we lived in a democracy. A REAL democracy, where every citizen has a say in what happens. And that will not happen, till we punish those who take us for granted, again and again and again....

Politics is supposed to be the second oldest profession. I have come to realize that it bears a very close resemblance to the first.
Ronald Reagan

"This is it"....Goodbye, MJ....

We’d heard tales about how haggard and worn out he looked. We’d nodded knowingly and murmured when we were told that he had become a freak for whom nothing mattered. We went to the theatre, completely expecting to see a man who didn’t know if he was coming or going. Not a bit of it.

Liz Taylor, MJ’s pal of long standing, might have gone over the top when she said that This is It was the finest bit of film making she had ever seen. There is no doubt, however, that this is a remarkable vignette of the King of Pop, showcasing what was best about this remarkable artiste, the likes of whom will never be seen again.

"This is it" is a montage of rehearsal videos of what would have been, from the looks of it, an awe inspiring series of fifty concerts in London. Skillfully edited to give continuity to the songs, it reminds us of why this man was indubitably the greatest performer this planet has ever seen. If Sachin Tendulkar was born to play cricket, then Michael Jackson was born to perform on stage. It is here that he truly comes alive, picking up cues, singing and dancing effortlessly, without breaking a sweat, even as those around him try to keep up and are left shaking their heads in wonder and awe.

There are breathtaking sequences in the movie. The Smooth Criminal video is beautifully done, with the suave Humphrey Bogart woven into it and the classic Thriller , which shot MJ to centre stage, is there with all it’s incredible special effects. The streak of perfectionism of the man is evident everywhere, as he checks every dance move, every note, every nuance.Everything is done quietly, in his soft voice-no yelling, no rudeness, no show of temper even when things are not to his liking. Even the patented crotch grab is done almost delicately and dozens of times. Nothing less than the best will satisfy him. He wants to give the people an adventure, his fans “a show they will never forget”. How tragic that it was all nipped in the bud.

You come out with a lump in your throat, for this gentle, troubled man who wrestled with his demons and ultimately lost the fight. Whatever be his personal life this moonwalker extraordinaire blazed a path that others can only dream of following. True genius is usually flawed but no less impressive for that.