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.