The Flautist

My legs kicked up the dust from the earth as I walked rather briskly. I hummed a tune and my footsteps, with their regular pattern, provided a steady beat. The road was long, winding and soul-less. The fact that there was no one in a kilometre’s range didn’t bother me; on the contrary, I was glad that I was alone. I am somewhat of a loner-- the type of person one would rarely come across nowadays. I detest the mad rush that one associates with city-life, chatting with people, waiting in bus-stops, shopping in markets. I enjoy long walks around the hills with only the trees, wild flowers and birds for company.
My destination was less than a kilometre away.

Within minutes, my eyes rested on a sight that I never tire of. The spectacle of a river in November is something else. It isn’t brimming with water as it usual is in the monsoons nor does it go dry as in mid-summer. It is just right. I made my way to my favourite spot and sat down--my legs being tickled by the lukewarm water of the river. The river sparkled in the sun's glorious rays; the kingfisher scouted the water-surface waiting to plunge, the white birds played about in gay abandon and the boatman rowed along peacefully. The sky was a myriad of colours--violet, blue, with streaks of bright orange and yellow--- as the light faded and the sun sank. It was time to go.

I got up, wiped the dust off my backside and turned to go. The silence was stunning; the nocturnal insects were yet to exercise their vocal chords. And through the silence, a flute played the raga Kalyani--the most melodious Kalyani that I had ever heard. Everything seemed to stay still for a moment, captivated by the mesmerising tune and the purity of sound. I stood, rooted, listening to the flute in the distance which went flawlessly from one note to another. I had heard several flautists in innumerable kutcheris, but none had been able to enchant me in the way that this one had done. Probably it was because the sound was natural, not amplified by speakers and microphones or probably because there weren’t several hundred persons around me, but only an expanse of blue, both above and below.

Kalyani was followed by Chakravaka, one of my favourite ragas. I lay down on the banks, closed my eyes and listened. Initially, he tinkered with the mandharasthayis*, rarely rising above the gandhara**. Then, all of a sudden, like a spitting cobra raising its hood, he leapt majestically to the higher notes. I imagined dancing patterns that rose and fell with the svaras***, but soon gave up---he was just too quick for me. He would produce the most intricate of gamakas with as much difficulty as a fish has in water. I felt myself soaring away into the skies, flooded by the sheer force of the notes. He had gained complete control over the ocean of my emotions with just his flute, like a boatman conquering the seas with his oars. The man was a genius and had it not been pitch-dark, I would have walked along the banks and not rest till I found him.

The next day, I set out well before dawn, with only the stars for company. I had rarely been to the river this early, but the flute's enchanting melodies had given me no sleep the previous night. I had vowed to come back at day-break and find the flautist.
Soon, it was twilight-- faint light seeped through the clouds and the early-rising birds stirred into action. The world was painted in a dull orange; the chill of the night had just begun to wear off.

By the time I reached the river, now dullish grey in colour, a deep-red Sun had just risen. The birds twittered noisily as if in applause of the arrival of the master in the horizon. I scanned, intently, the banks of the river, hoping to spot somebody. At the far end, the boatman prodded the water with his oar, trying to gauge the level of water. He made his way towards his boat, untied it, and rowed along towards me. He stroked along gracefully and with ease. There was a lazy charm in his movements that I loved watching. It gave me the impression that nothing ever troubled him--as if he was one with the world.

Presently, he was metres away from me, and I gave him a smile. He returned it, slowed down and asked--
"Shekhar! What are you doing here so early? Sunrise at dawn, eh?
"Yes, you can say so"
"Well, I must really be going along, I don’t row about this early in the morning, you see"
"Okay then--- Wait!"
"Yes?"
"When I came yesterday, I heard someone playing the flute. Do you know who it was?"
"Oh, him! I don’t know who he is. But he spent the night in that deserted hut over there. I think he played through the night. In fact, he swam over for dinner with us"
"Swam over?"
"Yes. Poor chap, he seemed to be terribly hungry. I fed him with whatever we had. He seemed to love my wife's cooking. Said he had never had such stuff in years. I told him he could stay with us for the night, but he insisted on going back to the hut. Said he loved a swim in the river in the night-time"
"Is he there now?"
"No, I checked in just before I saw you. He seems to have gone. I am quite sure he didn’t drown though, for he played the flute nearly until dawn"

I was aghast. I searched every nook and corner of the hut for some clue that would lead me to him. The stunning clarity of the flute, the grace with which he played kept coming back to me. There was a certain rustic charisma about the way he played—it was untouched by other influences. In short, it was pure Carnatic music. I went back everyday for at least a month, hoping that one day he would return and once more entrance me with his flute.

Last week, during the annual celebrations, several renowned musicians came to sing and play. After one particularly masterful performance by a great performer, one of my friends remarked
“Scintillating. Superbly scintillating. I don’t think I have heard anything like that before”
I smiled, and said with a heavy heart,
“When you have seen the Everest, no mountain looks imposing enough”
“What does that mean?"
“You see, one evening, not too long ago, I made my way to the river….” I began and couldn’t help feeling like the mythological golden mongoose for whom no sacrifice was as great as the Brahmin’s.

*Lower notes
**Ga(Third of the seven svaras)
***notes

Thambi

Ravi stood beside the door, a smile extending from ear to ear. He was no more than 4 feet tall, but wore a bag that was twice his size. His well-oiled hair was neatly parted on one side and he held a smaller bag that had his Tiffin-box and his water bottle.
“Go quickly”, his mother told him, “You might miss the bus”. The last bit that his mother had told him, he knew, was something that was as unlikely as him getting a prize in the quiz competition that he was going to attend the very day. Missing the bus and going to school by car was a distant dream, a luxury that only his brother was entitled to. His brother knew exactly how long to stay in the toilet (thereby missing the wretched bus), an art that his brother assured him would come only with experience.
“And where do Muslims go to?” his mother asked asked, hoping at least something she had taught him the previous night had gone into his little head.
“Mosque” he screamed and sped away, his little bag swinging from one end to the other.

His teacher guided him into a room filled with students of all ages. She told him his number and he made his way to his seat. He sat between 2 girls, both at least 5 years older than him. They looked at him and giggled; he distinctly heard the words “Cute boy” and felt terribly annoyed. He shuffled and shifted in his seat, determined not to look at either of them. He removed his pencil-box and sharpened his pencil wondering where the invigilator was.

Before long, he was given his “Question paper” and an adjoining sheet where he had to mark his answers. With an air of confidence that would have given Vivian Richards a run for his money, he looked at Question 1.
Who is the India’s Minister for External Affairs?
He scratched his head and bit his pencil. He knew just one Minister and that was the Prime Minister. And as far as he could remember, the country had just one minister and a President. He looked at the choices and he smiled. Option ‘b’ was ‘Manmohan Singh’. He calmly circled the option. One down; 49 to go!

The next few questions were a cinch. One asked about some Minister in Punjab and he wrote Yuvraj Singh; the answer to the next one he was sure was “Eyeball”, the question being “Which part of the body is most affected by smoking?” and another asked about the author of David Copperfield and he guessed “Uncle Pai”. After a few more questions he stood up, his head barely clearing the top of the table, and asked
“Madam, I think you have given me the wrong OPTIONS”

The invigilator peered at the tiny figure from behind thick, teacher-like glasses, and with a superior smile that had sympathy and a touch of frustration written all over it, she asked, “Oh, is it?” Wrong options indeed!
Within a few minutes she was back from wherever she had gone looking slightly flustered. “I am really sorry,” she said, “That paper wasn’t meant for you. It was for the sixth standard students” and handed him another question paper.

*****

“So, thambi, how was the quiz?”
“Very difficult”, he said and dug out the question paper from his bag and placed it in his mother’s outstretched hand.
“Now, let me see. Who is the king of the forest?”
“Tree!” he screamed. That was probably the easiest question.
“….And the father of the nation?” she asked, with a slight frown on her face.
“God?” he asked uncertainly. He didn’t see her shake her head in displeasure.
“Name a faithful animal.” She asked hopefully.
“Fox. F for faithful, F for fox” he chanted, running around the room, pretending to be a train.
“And where do Muslims go to?” Did her forget that too?
“Church” he yelled at the top of his voice and sped away from the room, tired of his mother’s incessant questioning, leaving her to her own thoughts.

Bluto To The Rescue

The sun was at its radiant best, heat waves scorching everything around. I didn’t mind it though; 12 years in Manipal had given me enough courage and skill to withstand the mid-afternoon sun or even thunderous showers, for that matter. Furthermore, tall trees towered around me, all welcoming me to their side and shade was plentiful. The tiles were burning, but my corner was on the cement platform above the kitchen. My books, ranging from "A text book of Social Science", to Tintin comics were all sprayed around me. I formed the centre of the mess, my head on one branch of the tree that came into the platform, my ears plugged into a Walkman, a schoolbook in hand. It was my "Room on the roof", a corner that belonged exclusively to me.

It was just then that I heard this noise. If Kumbarkarna's tummy had ever growled, then that is how it might have sounded. It was a sound that I knew well but wasn’t actually expecting; it was the sound of footsteps on the tiles. Shit! My worst fears were confirmed. The roof, in fact, didn’t belong exclusively to me; it was also inhabited by some insects, a couple of worms, mongooses in the night (I have never spotted one), and MONKEYS.

It just sat there, a few metres away, staring solemnly at me, scratching its head. Black-faced and furry, with a tail that reminds one of a burnt Lanka, it waited. My immediate impulse was to run, to jump of the roof and make it to the house. But, my legs didn’t move and I didn’t want to leave my books, least of all my Walkman behind. I tried pretending that it didn’t exist and returned back to my books.

Pretending to be oblivious of something only makes you more aware of it and that is exactly what happened. The first thing I noticed, for instance, as I stared at my Social textbook was that the picture on the cover had 3 monkeys, all with long and bushy tails. The first name I saw was a certain Mr.Hanumanth Baliga, one of the members of the writing committee of the text book. And really, it is near impossible to read when someone stares so unabashedly at you from a distance of 5 metres.

With all the slyness that I could conjure, I turned my gaze, ever so carefully, in the direction of the monkey. I looked and immediately turned away, my eyes tightly shut, and stifled a scream. Indeed, for a second, a picture of a 5-foot monkey-magnet in my place flashed before my eyes, for there was no longer one, but three monkeys! They all sat in the same position and one of them even had a baby clinging to its stomach. I didn’t dare look again.

I carefully picked up my books, again superbly conscious of every move I was making, like a thief trying to steal from a super-mall with cameras all around him. I planned my get away quite simply. There was a guava tree that I could hop on and then with some deft footwork I would make my way onto the compound wall and jump beyond the bushes and run like crazy. It seemed liked the Indian batting line-up on paper, extremely promising but terribly unpredictable.

And while I was completely immersed in this line of thought, I felt a gentle tug at the wire that made its way into my ears. This time I knew what it was before even looking. The baby monkey, as mischievous as ever, seemed to be fascinated by my Walkman and had calmly strolled across to have a look at it.
"HANUMAN" I fittingly screamed, and I heard noises beyond the tiles from the asbestos. More monkeys.
"ARREY BOLSHANKARS, HELP ME. AYYO, HELP"

And somehow, since Hanuman himself couldn’t come in his usual form (that would have made me faint), he sent a substitute. 15 feet below, running at the speed of knots in a whirlwind of dust encircling it, ran Bluto; his head raised in my direction, tail wagging frantically and barking in a frenzy. My prayers had been answered; my Hanuman had arrived. He climbed the roof in the very manner that I had planned to get off and landed right in front of me.

What happened next on the roof, I still don’t know. I gathered all my books, hopped, jumped and ran. In less than a quarter of a minute, I was home, panting hard, but terribly relieved. And all I had to show for my adventure was a shirt that had torn somewhere during my frantic run.

That evening, as I made my way past my neighbour's house, I saw Bluto. It had a brand new shining collar.
"Bluto has lost his collar again" said my neighbour, an amicable old man, well into his 70s.
"Actually, Uncle, I think I know where it is, but I don’t think I will be going there in a very very long time" I said, and with a wink at Bluto, I ran past the house singing praises of the Lord Hanuman.

Riots

The night wasn’t silent; the streets weren’t dark. The lights weren’t put off, the owls weren’t hooting. The moon hid behind dark grey clouds as if unable to witness what was happening below. Dogs howled; women and children cried. The earth shook, unable to bear the weight of the stampede above. The wind whooshed past at a frightening speed carrying with it the dust, the flames, and everything else that dared to cross its way. Pandemonium prevailed.

It all started with the sound of footsteps. A group of people, all hooded and armed, galloped across the street. Then came an ear-piercing scream and the sound of wreckage. A house was blasted open and set on fire. Within minutes, chants were heard and someone sobbed loudly. More people, all armed, arrived.

And in the midst of this chaos, beside a heavily paan-stained wall by the street, he lay down. He could hardly move, and yet he tried.
"Help me" he screamed.
But there was too much going on, too much noise. And each man had his own life to take care of.
'Help me" he cried again, his voice now going down a few decibels. He could feel the darkness engulfing him, his life slowly ebbing away.

They moved through the panicked crowd with unusual finesse, cutting across people like a scissors through paper. They were all armed, as if forewarned of the likelihood of something of this sort happening and they were all similarly dressed. One of them spotted him, lying beside the river of blood that now flowed by the street and alerted the rest. They waltzed across the crowd, against the flow of people, and made it to him.
"Baba" said one of them, the moment they reached his side, kneeling by him.
He opened his eyes. There were 6 of them; all wearing grim yet determined faces. He couldn’t smile, but there was the slightest shake of the head.
"Baba, what is your name?"
The question brought him back to his senses. Everything came into focus just then. He stared into those deep-brown eyes that reflected the dancing flames all around, and realised that it was now a matter of life and death. He thought he spotted a streak of greying hair below the hood on the lower parts of the jaw and the cheek and with that much of a pause said,
"Abdul. Abdul Khan"

They immediately rose, eyes showing not any hint of pity for the man through whose stomach was pierced a bloodstained sword. As swift as ever, they turned and merged with the crowd not once looking back at the blood splattered shirt or the almost-still body.
"Bastards", he bellowed after them," the name is Hari Gopal".
But they had gone-- gone too far away and he was left all alone.

Swades--a masterpiece

It was way past 11 in the night. All was silent, still except for the TV in the living room that Amma was watching. I was working on my maths. My eyes were growing groggier with every passing second and my head was sinking. And then I heard this tune-- a tune that, for me, was more than just a tune--an anthem, a prayer. My head gave a sudden jerk and popped up, my limbs felt a new flush of energy flowing through, my tired eyes shone like the Buddha's after enlightenment, and my ears went upright. I ran to the living room, looked for hardly a second at the TV screen, and then asked a question that I had already known the answer to, "Swadesaa?"

I am, by nature, a person of stunningly strong likes. As a child of 10, I read Kamala Subramaniam's humungous Mahabharatha and immediately fell in love with Radheya (Karna). He wasnt the most perfect of charachters, Hell, he wasn’t even on the good side. And yet I adored him. Notwithstanding the fact that he was a mortal, I said my prayers to him daily before I slept.I have a fanatic's liking for VVS Laxman, who again, is not the most fancied of players in the Indian team. I love Kumble, for his unorthodox style of bowling and I love this lovely little book written by Ruskin Bond called "Scenes from a writer's life" that contains writings by him when he was young and raw at 16. And I love Swades, for its simple flow which is akin to Bond's style of writing or Laxman's batting.

Swades is my favourite movie. The storyline is amazing, the cast is brilliant and the director is one of the best in the industry. And yet, what draws me towards the movie like insects to light are the scenes. The scenes revel in highlighting the simple pleasures of life. Every scene is an experience; a piece of masterly craftmanship on the part of the director.And some of the them are so special and extraordinaly simple(yet happy) that one just cannot help smiling. The indescribable feeling of superlative elation after watching some of the scenes is something that I never have been able to draw from other movies, Indian or otherwise.
Mohan Bhargav,the main protagonist(played brilliantly by SRK), is not a person blessed with extraordinary brainpower or masculine abilities, but is a very real NRI. The characters, which are portrayed flawlessly, are genuine and exactly the type of people one would come across in such situations.

The movie also brings out the best in A.R.Rahman, another wizard. The maestro is at his best when composing from his heart and this movie has so much soul in it that he really brings up tunes that will stay for a long, long time. Swades has songs that are truly Indian and extremely authentic--vintage ARR. But, really, what is so truly marvellous about the music is not the songs, but the tunes that pop up when the scenes are in progress--the background music-- reflect every single emotion felt by the characters and enhance the effectiveness of the scenes.

Swades, however, is not the most perfect of movies. It has its drawbacks. The movie is stretched on both sides and, sometimes, the story seems to stay still. It sometimes reminds me of the Suvarna river, here in Manipal, in mid-summer, extremely picturesque but unmoving. Gayathri Joshi as Sita in "Pal Pal..." could have been avoided. And yes, the movie does, every so often, seem like Ashutosh Gowariker hasn’t managed to get over the Lagaan hangover.But,really, all this bothers me as much as Andy Roddick bothers Roger Federer. Shah Rukh Khan plays his most meaningful character in a career spanning a decade-and-a half, Gayathri Joshi makes a more than impressive debut, and Ashutosh Gowariker bears bravely the weight of the movie on his shoulders.

There is a beauty in imperfection, a beauty in the flawed. And this movie, though not the most seamless of ones is unique. It has captured my heart like few others have done(and sends flutters down every part of my body) and I cant help but applaud a director who explores un-trodden pathways in Indian cinema. A movie that is truly Indian. Simple, soothing and soulful.

The Convert

I was 10 then. I lived in a different world--a world that I can only dream of now; a world where my biggest responsibility was to rise before 8 in the morning and not say "Arrey, 5 minutes Amma"; a world where my only prayer to God would be "Swami (I always address Him that way), please, please bring such heavy rain that the roof of the school building flies away and we have a holiday for at least a week".

And one splendidly bright morning in the month of August (the clear blue sky would have sent a chill down my spine had it not been a holiday), I was entertaining my friends, all comfortably seated around the computer monitor, when, there was a knock on the door. I sprinted towards the door, silently hoping that it was a courier so that I could try out my new signature that had the 'S' all loopy and winding.

I couldn’t tell whose face was more disappointed. I saw no courier boy with a pen and paper in his hand and all they saw was a 10-year old who looked as if he had been told that he had to go back to school for an extra hour. The woman, however, smiled. I did the same, rather uncertainly. She looked about thirty and she had brought along a friend, a granny and a little girl.
"Yenu beku?" I asked (what do you want?)
"Ammey illva?" she asked back(Isn’t your mother there?). 'Malayalis' I thought.
"No, no one is at home" I replied, quickly switching languages. Better Malayalised English than Malayalised Kannada.
"Oh" she said, unable to mask her disappointment.
Then they had a little discussion amongst themselves while I practised some shots with the cricket bat that lay outside, getting restless with every passing second.
Then they suddenly stopped talking. She looked at me solemnly and asked,
"What is your name, kutty?"(Aha, kutty! definitely Malayalis!)
"Sharan"
"Do you believe in god?"
"Yes" (what is this?)
"Really? Which God?"
"Rama, Krishna, Shiva, Saraswathi, Vishnu..."
"You are Hindu!"
"Yes. I also like Brahma. He is my favourite. But we never pray to him"
"So, Shravan--"
"Its Sharan. And Oh! I almost forgot. I like Ganapthi too. I got prize for drawing him last year, you know?"
"Very good" she said, clearly unimpressed "Are you habby with your life?"
"Happy? Yes"
"Really?"
"Yes, umm...No” (Something told me she wanted ‘No’)
"Why aren’t you happy?"she asked, now clutching a cross that she wore around her neck.
"I don’t know" (You tell me!)
"I know, child. This world is so full of misery and zuffering. Even small children like you have so many broblems."
"!!?"(I had absolutely no idea what she was driving at)
But, do you wand to be really habby?"
"Mmm? Yes, I think so"(Please just let me go)
"Then read this bassage,” she said, extracting an old bound book that I immediately recognised as the 'Bible'.
"Okay." I said, and holding the book that was surprisingly heavy said, "Pasalm 23."
"Not Basalm, Psalm!"
"Psalm 23. A day will come when the tiger and the deer will live in harmony……………a child will put his hand in a snake's hole without fear"(I was beginning to get bored)
"Child, do you underzdand whad it means?"
"Yes"
"What does it mean?"
"Jungle book. I knew it was copied from somewhere. Was Kipling a christian?"
"Gibling? Who Gibling?"
"The author of Jungle book! It used to come on DD too! Don’t you remember the song? Jungle Jungle patha chala hey.……" I sang one full paragraph before I realised that she was not interested and quickly sang the first line again and stopped, looking slightly sheepish.
"But child, the paragraph is not about some Jungle book. It has a very deep meaning. It speaks of paradise on the earth. Where there exists perfect harmony and absolutely no fear. Do you understand me?"
"Paradise? I have been there. What ice creams you get! And the book shop next to it, what is it called? I forgot. Anyway, I bought an Enid Blyton there"
"No, No, child, Paradise is heaven. You get everything there. That is where He resides-- Jehovah, the father of Jesus. The ultimate supreme being....."
"No, Paradise is not heaven! That other shop, 'Muktha' is definitely heaven. You get better ice creams there and the choco-bars' I continued, looking mistily, " Only 5 Rs 50 paisa!"
"No, child. Its Jehovah-- father of Jesus Christ"
"Jehovah? I thought it was Thomas or someone like that"
She stood and just stared at me. Clearly it was a battle lost and it was time to go. I waited for her to make a move. At last, she fished in the back parts of her bag and handed over a small book that spoke of Jehovah and his son, Jesus Christ. She then added, somewhat tentatively,
"Son, I was wondering if you could give some monetary help"
"Monetary help? No, actually, I am busy now, and I am playing with my friends. So, I really can’t help. I am sorry"
"No, No, no help. Only some money"
"Money? I have no money"
"Actually, we give that book only to people who give donations...."
"Then, you can have it back. I have no problems"
"No, keep it child. Read it and become pure" she said sadly and turned to leave.
And then he came. My heart missed a beat, and I ran to the gate bumping into one of the three women, not even bothering to apologise. He smiled and gave me the post, a pen and the paper where I had to sign. I cracked my knuckles, practised writing the signature in mid-air and then with a flourish of fingers and ink, signed on the sheet. And the loopy and stylish ‘S’ came out just perfect!

Application for Transfer

Dear Mr. Raviteja,
All is not exactly well here. I do not get sleep in the nights anymore. I am afraid I am becoming an insomniac. The weather, the silence, the isolation, the nights do not agree with me at all.For the amount that I am getting from you to go through this hell I can stand all this. But, what I cant stand is the animals.
I have been afraid of animals since I was 4 years old. A kitten I was petting affectionately scratched me. I still have a scar on my left hand. When I was 11, I had a liking for doing cycle-riding. This liking(which now I think is madness) once made me to get up in the morning at 6 A.M and go around the town. There was not much light anywhere. While riding I saw two dogs lying and doing something that I cannot write about. I was getting scared but I bravely rode past them. And then they started to bark and chase me. I rode as fast as I could, but one dog came near my front tire while the other went near my back tire. I began shouting 'Help, Help' and then thinking that english speaking people might not be awake at this time, "Kapadi, Kapadi". My chappal fell of as I cycled for some distance. And then at the end of the road, a man saw me and threw stones at the dogs and made them scared. I didnt even stop to say 'thank you, sir'.I went home with only one chappal.
Here, it is very cold in the nights. I have asked for bedsheet from my servant, Ramu. But he is not knowing Kannada and I have learnt only third-language Hindi. I told him to get some blankets and he brought bangles. Sir, what will I do with bangles? But he is a fool and not understanding. He sometimes goes to jungle and catches mongooses or snakes. I say " Yeh govt. ka(or sometimes ki, ke etc) jungle hai. Yaha bete(hunting) nahi karnau(karnee, karna) hai" and he says "howdo, howdo"(yes, yes) shaking his head like he has some spring in it. I tell him it is not 'howdo' but 'houdhu', but as I said, he is a fool saying only 'howdo' like an Englishman.
In the nights I hear strange noises. Sometimes, I think it is only Ramu snoring. But can someone snore like a wolf howling? I have asked him from where the sounds are coming. But, he always repeats the sounds that he hears and says some strange things that I dont understand. Actually, if he speaks his Hindi a little slow, I can understand something at least. One day we heard a loud noise and he screamed and said 'Ye thi .....'. I am telling him that here is nothing called 'Yeti' and he is nodding his spring-head and saying 'howdo, howdo'. Sir, I am scared now. I dont know what will happen if the Yeti comes to my house one day.
It is 12o'clock now. Ramu is snoring loudly. The Yeti is also making noises. I am still not getting any sleep. I want to resign or get some transfer. I cannot stay here.Hope you can understand my handwriting.

Yours,
Chandrappa.ps-Here it is not raining, but I have a raincoat. The crows here are very bad and they like passing motion on me. So, I wear my raincoat and go to the river to do my sandhyavandana.My black raincoat is almost white now.

An Artist & His Art

The fast bowler began his sprint of a little over 25 metres; twice the length the ball would have to travel once it would be released. On the striker’s end, crouched with his piece of willow, stood a batsman, or rather an artist, for he was so gifted. The ball, a good delivery outside the off stump, wasn’t defended with a dead bat, or forcefully whacked through the covers, but was caressed with infinite tenderness--a flick of the wrists through mid-wicket. The sound of the bat hitting the ball wasn’t the usual ‘thump’, but a pleasing ‘chink’ (as Ravi Shastri puts it). The very next ball by the frustrated bowler was an average delivery on off stump that kept a little low. This ball, which even a number 11 would negotiate with ease, had this man playing all around it. The ball eventually found its way to the lower half of the off stick. The stunned batsman stood rooted to his ground. His face showed utter disbelief, but his eyes show fear—for the selectors’ axe isn’t too far away.

VVS Laxman isn’t just any other batsman. He is one who has the potential of being a phenomenon, one of the greatest the game has ever seen. He is one of the few who takes the skill of batsmanship to new highs. In fact, when he wields his willow, batting is not a skill, but an art. An art so pleasing that one becomes oblivious to all around oneself—the only desire of the heart is to see him bat.

He is definitely not an orthodox batsman. His shots are not technically perfect, his footwork unquestionably not among the best in the world. But, who cares? The Don’s shots weren’t really appropriate for a coaching manual either. He is as unpredictable as the rains in India, getting out to rank long hops that Geoff Boycott’s mum would dispatch with a hockey stick. Sometimes even his defence leaves a lot to be desired.

In the summer of 2001, when Indian cricket, still recovering from the match fixing scandal, touched new lows, a messiah of hope arrived. On the third day of the momentous Kolkata test match, the Laxman orchestra got cracking. An orchestra that played a wonderful symphony never heard before; an orchestra that lasted, indefatigably, an entire day; an orchestra that single-handedly lifted a team that was down in the dumps; an orchestra of grace, elegance and class.

However, Laxman’s career has never really taken off. The great innings of master-class and substance have been overshadowed by scratchy failures. His career graph, with so many ups and downs, would look more like a series of road-humps. In spite of being an extremely aggressive test batsman (when in full flow), his omission from the national side in the shorter version of the game has become a common sight.

Why does this happen? How can a man so very gifted unable to live up to even the most modest of expectations? How long can one say that he is unable to take the pressure or, probably, is short of confidence? A man who has played nearly a decade of international cricket will know how to handle pressure and work his way out of lean patches.

And this is where the technique factor comes into play. Laxman is blessed with tremendous amounts of hand-eye coordination which, many a time, makes up for his extremely shoddy footwork, his penchant for prodding way outside the off stump. His unrivalled wrists keep in check other aspects of his faulty technique. But, cricket is a game that is fast changing. With the increased use of technology in all the aspects of the game, it is of utmost importance for a batsman to keep changing his style of play. Teams all around the world have a computer-literate coach and at least one computer analyst. Every player’s strong points and weaknesses are scrutinized and a well thought strategy is chalked out for him.

This is where Laxman falls short. He is one among a breed of batsmen for whom batting came as naturally as composing music did for A.R.Rahman. All the various coaches he had helped him develop his game without really tampering much with his style. Laxman’s greatest strength is also his weakest link. His unique and artistic style of play kept many a bowler lost for options. But now, well into his 8th year as an international cricketer, Laxman’s batting has been analysed; cracks in his batting have been figured out. The bowlers bowl according to a plan—they bait him. Laxman, sadly, is yet to find a counter attack—a master plan that will cover up for the chinks in his armoury. The fact is that Laxman hasn’t gone down as a batsman, but he has failed to adapt. He has failed to make those slight variations in his game that would keep his place a certainty in the side.

Ian Chapel was, once, asked to change his grip by the great Sir Don himself and this tremendously improved his all round abilities as a batsman. With some luck, Laxman too might pick up a tip or two from some great Indian batsmen and might be back among the runs again. With a few months to go before the next season begins, Laxman has some time to reassess his game. Hopefully, the coming season will see a fully rejuvenated Laxman, rearing to go. For as the proverb goes, “Form is temporary, Class is permanent”.

Naxals

"Be silent. There might be thieves around here"
"Or possibly even Naxals and..... AAAAAAH"
"What happened?"
"You would nearly have had my shirt burning. Hold that fire-stick a little higher"
"But, you didn’t have to shout--"
"Papa, what are nacsals"
"Ask Amma"
"Amma, what are nacsals"
"Shhh"
"Snake!"
"Where?"
"No, that was only your amma shhhing"
"Amma shhhed, not ssssssed"
"SHH, keep quite and walk on."
"Ahu, I want to see the snake"
"There is no snake, nana"
"But, amma, you shouted 'snake' just now"
"Don’t shout."
"I said snail, not snake"
"Oh, okay. Papa what are nacsals"
"Naxals, not nacsals"
"Whatever. What are they?"
"They are forest ghosts"
"Really? I want to see them"
"You cant see ghosts"
"My teacher says you can. She saw one when she was 5 years old and I am five years old now"
"Okay"
"Forest ghost. Ey, Forest ghost. Where are you? Naskul, come out"
"Keep quite, little rascal"
"I want to see forest ghost"
"Shh"
"How far is it from here"
"About 5 minutes"

*******

WHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOO
"What was that?"
"That was the sound of the forest ghost"
"Are owls forest ghosts?"
"That was not an owl. It was the naxal"
"Only Owls can make sounds like that. Not rascals--- sorry nascals. My teacher says.."

*******

"Do nusmskulls live on trees?"
"Ask amma"
"Amma, Do numbskulls live on trees?"
"No, only in palaces"
"Why are they called forest ghosts if they live in palaces?"
"They live in palaces in the forest"
"The 'Phantom' lives in a forest palace"
"Very good, Now keep quite. I think your father doesn’t know the way home"
"Doesn’t know the way, hah"
"WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"
"Keep quiet, will you?"
"I am calling the nascel"
"Naxals will come whether you call them or not'

*******

"Do you know where we are going?"
"Yes I do"
"Is this the right way home?"
"This is a short-cut"
"I think we are lost"
"No, we are not"

*******

"AAAAAAAAAAH, drop the stick. drop it now"
"Papa, the grass is burning"
"MY shirt is too"
"Run, Babu, Run"
"Amma, why is papa rolling on the ground? I want to do it too"
"He is on fire, damnit"
"He is on fire. The grass is on fire. Amma, don’t hit him like that"
"Run babu, the fire is spreading"
"I want to do rolling like papa. ROLL, Roll..."

********

"There is the house"
"Lovely shortcut you found"
"I guess it cost us one shirt"
"How sad papa, we still didn’t find a single muscle--sorry nascle"