Science: Boon or Bane?

Education has taken me where music cannot follow.
Yet I am a musician more than a student,
More dark than I am grey, so popular
With my thoughts, that they aren't mine. Ever!
Not when they wake up at dawn, nor when they die at twilight!

     I wrote this in response to a post on someone else's blog. Someone who writes wonderfully (and is very famous for it too). Its basically a negative of his writing and only the last 2 lines are something that are different. But the theme is one that lies close to heart. The very Floyd-ian "We don't need no education" theme.

     I have now maintained for many years that it is science that ruined me. Maybe not all of education did but science definitely did. I learnt laws, learnt logic, learnt cause and effect and learnt that everything has a rational explanation - if it didn't then it was my duty to find one. I learnt to look at possibility and probability and learnt to revel in compliments like "iska dimaag computer se bhi tez chalta hai!" And while my chest was swelling with pride at my brilliant rationality I never figured what I was unlearning.

     The more I learnt to explore, to find solutions, to widen the realms of logic, the more constricted my thought got. I am now left bound by rules, by connections, by associations, by plausibility. My imagination today is limitless as long as it stays within the limits of science. The days it manages to break free of its boundaries it pretends to dazzle, displaying islets of transcendence that exhilarate and disappoint at the same time. The sky is the limit and the eye can see as far as the horizon and even a little beyond but those are the boundaries that are.Those are the boundaries where creativity starts, where music and poetry bud, where reality actually begins. Those are the boundaries that sometimes disappear, at other times melt for a while so that I am able to see what is beyond, what actually lies within, occasional glimpses into the self.

     And then boundaries reappear; fences preventing the mind from wandering, keeping the unknown dangers away. Those are the times the rant against science bounces off those barricades and resonates. The last time it did so was in the presence of a ten-year-old who was aghast at the thought. A boy who like some strange doppelganger from my past began recounting the boons of science. How many of us wrote of science being a bane in those essays, I wonder. But is the rant against science valid? Wasn't Einstein a scientist as well as one of the greatest philosophers I know? Weren't most, if not all, inventions a result of creativity, of pushing the limits, setting new boundaries or eliminating them altogether? Am I the one at fault then? I believe it is a bit of both, a curtailment by laws of an already limited creative cesspool!

     Which brings me back to the original 'unpopular' post by another who initially made his name in science but didn't let it tie him down, who I remember on a terrace, amidst puffs of smoke, talking about an unrest - to leave it all aside and follow the creative spark - which he did. Its the only time I met him but I remember being envious because he had a passion that I had lost then. Today he is a star, making music that has given me much joy, but I am no longer envious, because I have rekindled something of my own too. I don't wish fame (because frankly I am not that good) but I hope to keep on pushing my own boundaries. Maybe someday I will be able to see beyond the horizon by myself and not need even the occasional shoulder to stand upon.

Till then...


Education has taken me where dreams cannot follow.
Yet I am a dreamer more than a student,
More dark than I am grey, so popular
With my thoughts, that they aren't mine. Ever!
Not when they wake up at dawn, nor when they die at twilight!

Mindless Ranting!

The appropriation of symbols has long been a bone of contention with me. I am not against symbolism per se but when I was growing up if you were happy you could be gay and gaiety did not equal homosexuality. I'm not sure if the original meanings of the word even exist in a dictionary today. Which brings me to my other bone of contention - homophobia. Due to the sudden outpouring of love for all things GLBT in the media and especially in the movies it is now politically incorrect to make a joke about homosexuality. I understand that sexual orientations vary and I accept it but just because it exists doesnt mean I need to celebrate, dance and sing about it, and worse stii, if I dont go all hoopla about it doesnt automatically make me a homophobe. I mean you may have a different predisposition but that doesnt make you special or worthy of special treatment. It does not make you a symbol of progress of the human races. Which brings me back to my rant against symbols. Like colours for example - why is it when I wear green on independence day I am asked if I am celebrating with the 'neighbours', green is 1/3 rd the colour of 'our' flag too or when my friend buys a blue bike it somehow raises eyebrows of a casteist nature. These are colours, just like saffron is a colour, and they belong to all of us - u, me, him, her, everyone!

The Ballad of Reading Gaol

I have busy been studying (a perennial mistress of a doctor, trust me!) Hence, whatever little sparks of inspiration have flashed have been smothered, hidden or even outright killed!

So I'm borrowing from Oscar Wilde tonight and his Ballad of Reading Gaol!!

Please read the whole poem if you can lay your hands on it. I've been the richer for the experience of doing so!

(Excerpt from) The Ballad of Reading Gaol

                                                                        - Oscar Wilde

.....The man had killed the thing he loved

  And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves

  By each let this be heard,

Some do it with a bitter look,

  Some with a flattering word,

The coward does it with a kiss,

  The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,

  And some when they are old;

Some strangle with the hands of Lust,

  Some with the hands of Gold:

The kindest use a knife, because

  The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,

  Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

  And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

  Yet each man does not die.......

याद आया एक रंग

उस झील की झिलमिलाती हुई नीली शांति 

एक नाव,एक मांझी और एक महकती कहानी
पानी में खड़ा एक पेड़, जाने क्यों विद्रोही?
और तुम्हारी साँसों की अनकही गवाही।

आज फिर याद आया है वह किनारा मुझे;
एक सुबह जो धुंध में कही खो गई थी;
क़दमों की आहटें  कुछ अनसुनी जो रह गई थी;
और राह में वह जो मोड़ अचानक आया था।

कुछ दूर तुम चले थे एक राह पर।
कुछ दूर मैं चला था दूसरी पर।
कहाँ जाने राहें अनजान हुई थी अपनी?
और कब जाने परिचय हुआ उनसे फिर?

मुडके देखू पीछे तो डरावना अँधेरा है,
एक चीत्कार की गूँज, एक काले जंगल का साया है।
कुछ भूरी टूटी शाखें है, और बिखरे पीले पत्ते है।
कुछ पदचिन्ह भी छूटे है, अधूरे से, फैले हुए लाल धब्बे।

शूल थे या टूटे हुए सपनो के शीशे?
न जाने ऐसे क्यों हमने पैरों को रंगे थे?

हाथ बढ़ाकर आज इस धूसर आईने को 

थोडा पोछा है, थोडा साफ़ किया है,

कुछ टहनियाँ हटाई है, कुछ पत्ते समेटे है
तो रंगों के बीच ओझल एक सच्चाई नज़र आयी है
कि आज भी वही हाथ है, आज भी तुम्हारा साथ है।  

OUR story

Our story, yours and mine

Twice written on the scrolls of time.
Fancy brushfuls of colours and blues,
Splotches of black and graying hues!
First time over, written so fast
The ink didn't dry before the future was past.

Streaks and blurs where teardrops fell,

Tender moments, omitted lines will tell.
And once the gloss was made by veneer
The unfortunate tale went static, I fear.
But time, my love, is an artist true
A painter, a poet and a sculptor too.
So she etched once more with chisel and fire,
Charred the end and smouldered desire,
Washed the soot and dust with tears,
Bore some holes of hope and fears.
The paint, the ink once more they flow
The winds of time since slower they blow.
And as I stand here gazing upon this tale,
I cannot make out the fresh from the stale.

The strokes, the splotches, the colours, the grays,
Have merged and flowed so many ways,
That 'our' story; yours and mine
Cannot be retold even by time!

Love

She was Kashmiri, you could tell! She was as fair as the snow, beautiful and elegant and when she smiled her cheeks turned an apple red just like her nose did when she was angry. Her eyes shimmered like the Dal lake and her beauty stayed with you long after you had left her company. She had to be Kashmiri.

I first saw her sitting at the window of the college bus. She had her face turned away towards her friend and suddenly she threw her head back and laughed turning towards the window. I was left rooted to the ground as the laughter sparkled in her eyes and then spread all along her countenance. It was like watching a flower bloom, captured on film and then sped up so it felt like it was all happening then. The bus sputtered to life and moved away and it was a long while later that I realised that the only movement I had since made was to let my eyes follow the bus as far as they could. I was thunderstruck and willed myself away to the drudges of life that no longer seemed as miserable as a while ago. Believe it or not I would soon forget all about her existence.

The next I saw her was a result of boredom almost six months after lightning had first struck. A friend was going out to meet someone and I in my boredom decided to tag along, an unwelcome tag but I think he went to bed thanking my intrusion. I, on the other hand, still am not sure. It is by now obvious who met that evening but what isn’t obvious is that she too had brought a friend along. Whether that was another instance of intrusion I never came to know but what I know is that it had been a moonless night; until then. As she glided towards me the darkness seemed to vanish, those lakes in her eyes still shimmered and so lost was I in them that I missed her name. I think that was the last time she glanced at me that evening and I spent the next few hours with her friend having quite a fun time I have to admit, but this time I was not to forget her existence.

Actually I saw her almost daily since, initially by coincidence I believe but with time I feel my eyes just found her out. We studied in the same college and so my eyes often found her. Found her as she fussed over her books by the library, found her as she drank at the water cooler, found her while she playfully hit out at the guy hitting on her, found her when she seemed lost in thought, as she twirled that errant lock that had slipped on to her cheek twice before she tucked it back in place. And while my eyes found her, the rest of the world seemed to obliterate, there would be a buzz around but no sound, a sea of shapes but only blurs in my sight, no smell nor taste I could feel. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t stalking her. These 'sightings' were few and far in between and at other times I still continued to be my gregarious, whole-hearted, flirty self.

She, as far as anyone could tell, remembered me as much as the moon on that moonless night. But then slowly something changed, those locks seemed to misbehave a little more than usual and the third twirl of her fingers seemed longer and playful, the smile seemed to linger a little longer and the eyes seemed to flick sideways, fix towards where I stood just for a moment before making their way over to the object of her desire. I knew her name by now and much else that I wasn’t sure if I needed to but I didn’t know if I, myself existed. 

And so I didn’t know for another two years until that last day before vacations started. That day the eyes didn’t flick past me, the errant lock wasn’t tucked away and she smiled straight at me. It was like the sun shining through on a foggy winter morning, it felt like someone had poured warm chocolate straight into my heart and I beamed back at her. I do not know what to make of it but I 'felt' my own smile that day. As I stood there that smile felt like my only existence, like my body wasn’t there, like my heart wasn’t beating and like there were no lips smiling, just a pure bundle of warmth and energy that was beaming. I cannot describe that feeling, that smile, that warmth but I can say I have never felt that way again. I don’t know how long it was that we smiled at each other, time I believe had stopped. I don’t quite remember anything afterwards except that I didn’t see her until almost two months later. 

Two months later when I saw her, it was again as she sat in a bus. This wasn’t a college bus and she had her entire luggage loaded in and there were a lot of people waving goodbye to her. I stood at a distance watching, not sure what expression I was wearing and she had those eyes fixed upon me. Those eyes that shone brilliantly enough to light up the world yet were deep enough to hide you from its glare. From that distance I could see that those shimmering lakes were brimming today yet she was smiling at me, neither a warm smile nor a forlorn one; just a smile. I could tell that for her too at that moment nothing else existed, not the cacophony of the bus engines and horns, neither the smell of freshly brewing tea nor the garish banners of the upcoming festivals; nothing existed but a young man with disheveled hair, a lopsided shoulder and a stupid grin. The bus moved along but neither did her gaze leave me nor did mine. It was a long while later, when my friend placed a cup of tea in my hand, that I realised that the bus was gone and a longer while later that she was too. 

I would be lying if I said I haven’t thought about her since but I have never wondered what it was that transpired between us nor have I ever tried to decipher that parting gaze from her. It was special whatever it was and I still do not know what I should call that feeling I felt when I smiled that day. I have never mentioned her to anyone nor have I any hidden mementos pressed in withered books. I would probably have never even written this down had it not been for the indomitable Gulzar writing

Hamne dekhin hain un aankhon ki mahakti khushboo
Haath se chhoo ke ise rishton kaa ilzaam na do
Sirf ehsaas hai ye rooh se mahsoos karo
Pyaar ko pyaar hi rahne do koyi naam na do

The Rain

The first rains of the monsoon....reminded me of something I wrote more than 8 years ago in the middle of summer, in the middle of the most arid region I have lived in with absolutely no chance of rain anywhere in the near future...

The rain puts up a show

Holding every eye in rapture,

Little boys rise in pleasure

Its beauty to forever capture.

The heavens seem to bulge

Through sheets of blue and gray;

Lines and curves of nature

Lilting imaginations play.

Every boy in playful glee

Looks through enchanted eyes

At laden clouds, so soft

And each of them tries;

To reach out and feel

To touch them with his lips

To hold them in his hand and squeeze

Until the nectar drips.

Oh! The feeling rises up

Coursing through his veins.

The cups of heaven grip his soul

Until the elixir drains.

Such is the beauty of the rain

Getting you all wet.

It’ll make hearts flutter,

Till every sun has set 

Perhaps

Happened to stumble across Pablo Neruda and his poem Perhaps.... the following is heavily inspired by the same...

Perhaps to live a lifetime is to share a moment with you,

To close my eyes so your smell would linger a while longer.

The colour of your eyes, lighting a mellow brown dusk

As the cherry blossoms freeze in the moment, still!

Nothing stirs but a familiar pang in our hearts.

As you walk away the moment is passed but is now forever,

The eyes cannot wash away the taste that binds my lips

And that little bit of your smile that you left behind

Fills and outgrows the void

Because in that moment ‘we’ were

And so ‘we’ will always be

And maybe ‘you’ will live a lifetime longer than ‘me’

But ‘we’ will always live a lifetime together and free.

How long is the night?

I still remember those afternoons under the mango tree.

You’d cut your elbow and I’d scraped my knee.

When school was out and the days were free,

And the fiery 'gulmohar' stood out bright

While I didn’t know how long was the night!

Playing cricket for hours in the park.

To the orchards on secret missions we’d embark

And return home only late after dark

To play some more in the false light.

And I didn’t know how long was the night!

I remember growing up with the guys.

Every girl and our rarely successful tries!

The honesty in those white lies

To try and break up a fight.

But I didn’t know how long was the night!

I still remember the sky and its flaming hues

When you kissed away the blues.

When there was no need nor excuse

To hold each other so tight.

Yet I didn’t know how long was the night!

I still remember when the doctor said what he did.

I can still taste the tears you hid

When that final goodbye we bid.

Though I’m still up for the fight,

Now I know how long is the night!

Deja vu

My mom is a great cook and I know many a satiated stomach that would vouch for it. I remember a time as a kid, when she made vada-pav or pav bhaji or pani puri or samosas at home. My dad would rave about them, compare them with the ones you got in hotels and how these tasted better, were healthier and eventually cheaper too, although he never failed to acknowledge the effort my mother put into making them. I, on the other hand, loved them but somehow always felt that there was something extra to the food we got outside (my father always said the 'extra' was the grime and sweat from the vendor's fingers).

A lot of river has become the sea since and I have spent a lot of that time eating in various places all around the globe. And when the other day my wife and me decided to bake some pizzas at home and then finish off the weekend with some homemade salami and sausage cheeseburgers, I was astounded by my words that accompanied those burgers. My wife smiled as I told her how we should henceforth only eat pizzas and burgers made at home, as they were so much tastier, so much healthier and so so much cheaper. It did take a little bit of effort but it was worth it. My 9 month old kept staring at me as I spoke. I don't figure he was having the same thoughts I used to have all those years ago, but I wonder how long before he will!

प्यार तो प्यार होता है

प्यार तो प्यार होता है 

सच्चा या झूठा नहीं 

दिल हमारा अब भी दिल है 

अच्छा या टूटा नहीं  

राह में कितने हैं हमराही मिलते 

कुछ दूर तो है वह साथ चलते 

कोई सपनो की तरह है आगे बढ़ जाते 

कोई साए की तरह शाम के साथ है ढलते 

तुम भी मिले थे यूँ ही कही 

ख्वाब से थे पल वह सभी  

आज मगर है धुंधले रंग वही 

हाथ बढ़ाकर छू  ना ले अभी 

चंचल यह राह कुछ ऐसे है मुड़े 

ज़िन्दगी से रिश्ते कुछ ऐसे है जुड़े 

कि एहसास है पुराना, शुरुआत नई 

मुस्कान है खिली पर आँसू वही 

रातों में अब रह गयी है बस करवटे

सपनों के चेहरों पर पड़ी है सलवटे 

फिर भी है हवा यह जुल्फों को उडाती 

शायद उम्मीदों की जंजीरों से है छुड़ाती   

क्यों कि 

प्यार तो प्यार होता है 

सच्चा या झूठा नहीं 

दिल हमारा अब भी दिल है 

अच्छा या टूटा नहीं  

Reality

Prof. Dumbledore: Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?

Daily conversation with my patients' relatives!

Free gyan!!

There are just that many people you can make happy in your life. And when I say ‘that many’ I mean just one. I’m sure you’ve figured by now that I mean your own self. It is amazing that when you look back at your life you realize that every time you made someone unhappy or hurt them was when you yourself were unhappy or hurting. So just keep it simple, try and keep yourself happy and you’ll see that happiness spreads infectiously, much like the conjunctivitis my wife is suffering from.

Add to this the special hardship when you are one of a breed of instinctive people. People who make decisions based more on instinct (distinguished from impulse) than on elaborate thought or inspection. Such people when given the gift of introspection fare very poorly. Normally, when you make an instinctive decision and it’s the wrong one, you move on from it to the next instinctual response. But when the mistake is major and leaves someone you care for (apparently) irreparably hurt, you are consumed by the demons of introspection, leaving you clouded in doubt. Suddenly you are left thinking about the decisions you will make, wondering if they will be right or wrong, trying to evaluate the pros and cons – a process that you were hitherto unaware of. Thereby leaving you second guessing yourself; and although the number of right and wrong decisions that you make by either process remains the same the anguish associated with each decision (right or wrong) is significantly elevated (p<0.0001).

So what is the answer? It would be simple – just go back to that instinctive style of yours. But introspection is a gift you cannot return! But it definitely is one you can learn to forget. Till then just go by what makes you happy (at least that way someone is happy) and ignore the guilt that has already built. Along the way you will find you have lost what you have ignored and are at peace with what you have forgotten and that the instincts are back and the people who were unhappy are smiling again.

A day at the Opera!

Posting this from a train.... (how u love technology sometimes!!)

     I love my country, and I love nothing more than it's countryside! In my view, there is no better way to experience it than by undertaking a long distance train journey. Flights miss out on the point completely while road trips require too much attention to the road and very little freedom of thought (in addition to the change (for better or worse) that the touch of a road brings to the countryside).

     So it was fantastic standing at the door, wind blowing your hair back as scene after scene of beauty passed you by. Palm plantations that stood against a lazy morning sky as if painted on a gray canvas, the leaves coloring from a yellowish brown to a deep shade of green as my eyes moved up, blushing like a new bride under an admiring eye. And a farmer who had burnt the undergrowth in his coconut grove set up a sight so spectacular, it was like watching poetry in slow motion from a fast moving train. The smoke curling up slowly held from it's escape by the foliage, forming snaky wisps brilliantly lit by the morning sun, providing the background on which the dreamy smoke extended it's arms welcoming you to an embrace that would hide you from all the worries that last night you went to bed with.

     The sun as the day progressed worked overtime as conductor of an orchestra played by undulating green fields, by banana trees standing in row, by hilltops dressed in brown and green, by little shanties standing proud and by big cities whose sudden discordant notes jarred you back to reality, but without which the composition would be incomplete. Oh! What fun it is when lunch is followed by a shimmering lake caressed by a strong wind, its touch visibly leaving the lake aroused with passion, and yet in her arousal she welcomed like her own children the little birds that landed and took off leaving behind a trail of ripples that the brilliance of the conductor in the sky so subtly highlighted.

     All this on the backdrop of a sky that changed all day long, so subtly that you never noticed it until the encore when suddenly the rage of red and the fire of orange blossomed and the sun decided to be more than just the conductor and took over the playing of the final piece. Filling out the stage with his fiery presence, dominating the colors of the new bride, of the passionate lake and it's homecoming children, taking the pride as well as the embarrassment of the city and filling it with a color that dominated your senses such that you could for a while taste the fire within, hear the heartbeat of passion, smell a forbidden yearning and reach out and touch a bit of paradise.

     And as you reached out your hand in love you saw the sky blush to a rosy pink and as you pulled your hand back there was the violet of jealousy and eventually the darkness indicating the end of the best opera you could have asked for. Then just as you began to smile at the thought of how your heart was left a churning pot of emotions you realized that it was not over yet. Because the sky had handed over it's brilliant blazing gold coin to the night in exchange for a purse full of silver ornaments so she may win your heart all over again! (to continue...I hope!)

Chequered Knights!!

This is one continues from where "World Champions of College Cricket" left off!!


(contd.).........and the tall, languid coach (Abhijit ‘Gary’ Kasture) who with his book and pen (didn’t then have his now omnipresent laptop) always had the most accurate statistics and tips at the end of the day’s play.Well I call him Gary not just in relation to the South African of the same name but also the Russian, for besides cricket there was one other passionate sport we played – chess.
     The closer to the exams we got the more time we spent indoors, the more chess we played and on the night before some exams I think we played more chess than we read our books. Two rooms in our hostel were always open for party irrespective of the occassion or of the presence of their owners. One was 90 (that was Amit's and mine) and the other was 75 (Dharmya and Swapnil), and chess we played. Played as if we were addicted to it, we couldn't stop, couldn't walk away, no matter how tired, no matter how important a job we had, no matter if we had an exam the next day - we played.
     Lets first name the addicts – there was the GM (Subir Roy) undisputed King of chess in the college, an eccentric fat guy whose logic though brilliant was always off-centre. Then there was the Mukesh loving, Anil Kapoor fan (Abhijeet Shinde) who would die if ever he was caught doing anything that was the norm. From reading only the most obscure textbooks for his exams to sleeping more often at the dhaba than in his room to never being seen in class, this guy was one specimen. Then there was Gopal "Ashwin" Borkar, the fellow who refused to waste his time playing before the exams. So he sat studying in the same room we were playing in and probably knew every move being made better than anyone else. Gary Kasture, singing Swapnil and myself completed the rest.
     Now let me tell you something about chess – it is not a 2 player game, atleast not when we played it. It was a 6 player (could be more) game always. Even though only 2 people sat at a game at a time, every move was debated, dissected and discussed by everyone and then often changed by majority consensus (Subir had veto powers, I should add). One game lasted for hours and could only be interrupted for a snack from Bhagwanta, who like his name was God when hunger struck at midnight.
     There are many memories that come from these chess marathons, one in particular involves an unfortunate junior (Bagate, I think) who while on an errand had the audacity to say chess was his ‘hobby’ and then looking at Subir felt he could beat him easily in no time. He spent the whole night playing chess and the only thing he beat that night was his head on the wall in regret. There was one game in particular where I think we had 5 queens to his none by the time we beat him, and whenever he asked for a break I think he sat at the window forlornly staring at the ladies’ hostel and laughing out to himself.
     Most of these chess sprees were in room no. 75, for in my room lived the great leveler, the batting genius (Amit Hartalkar) who never played chess but could end any game of chess in a draw. One swell blow when everyone was at the height of their frenzy trying to come up with a miracle move and he would scatter the board with a smile that only he could get away with. Of course we could have set the board up again exactly the way it was but the guy on the losing side of the board would never agree, would he?
     What happened in those exams and what the results were I do not wish to comment upon but it would suffice to say that each one of the people aforementioned are doctors today doing good work somewhere, hoping that they could one more time walk out onto that field or spend an entire night playing chess or just be a bunch of kids with wide eyes and big ideals again!

World Champions of College Cricket!

Its cricket fever everywhere, more like lambast-your-team fever actually, so I did the same. “Out with the Duncan” (sounds so much like the way Mr. Sawant, my school P.T. teacher called us ‘donkey’) on social network and added how he had taken a world champion side and made it resemble my college cricket team. Not too much thought was actually put into the comparison but now that I think of it some common patterns do emerge. Ours too was a team that revolved around one man’s batting (Amit Hartalkar).
     A man who, when he batted, even the opposition couldn’t help but admire. A man who set records that were impossible then and seem improbable even now. A man whose legend eclipses all others before or after him. A man who told his batting partner (yours truly) that he would hit Sudeep’s first ball for a six and indeed deposited said delivery onto the boys’ hostel terrace. When he fell cheaply then we fell cheaply (except that one final where the middle and lower order pulled its weight). This man generally would come in after a swashbuckling opener (Pradnyesh ‘Sallu” Gorad) had lived by the sword and died by it too. A maverick who was as thrilling as he was exasperating. I am sure Swappy feels the same way about Sehwag as he did about Gorad in those days.

     Talking of Swapnil, he was one of the 2 bowlers we had. Of course we had others but the long and the short of our bowling attack were these 2 fellas. Iqbal, the “Malegaon Express” was just that – express fast, making the batsmen hop everytime he put his wrist into the action. The other (Swapnil Sonar) made the ball ‘sing’ like he sang in the canteen, line and length and movement on a tennis ball that you had to see to believe! But he came with a confidence that was like an icicle in the sun. Unplayable when ‘on-song’ he just needed a quiet word of encouragement when he wasn’t.
     Unfortunately the words of encouragement he got were never quiet. They came from a loud-mouthed oaf  (yours truly) who was probably the most frustrating wicket-keeper batsmen around. A batsman whom everyone had hopes from, who generally batted well in non-consequential friendly matches but not once in 5 years came up with an innings of worth when it mattered. When it came to wicket-keeping though, he was everywhere, most often in the oppositions’ faces, timing his abuses and insults so that his loud voice was not more than a foot away from the batsman’s ear when the choice word was uttered. His need for chatter made up for any lack of entertainment if the chip-chip-chip man (Dharmraj ‘Rajput’) was not manning the mic. 

     There were others in the team who should forgive me for not being able to mention them in detail – the left arm spinner (Sulabh Bhamare) who decimated the opposition in one series and then got banged all over the park in the next, the left-arm quick (Gopal 'Ashwin' Borkar) who probably played one match where he bowled one unplayable over due to his unerring angle and accuracy and another unplayable one because all the balls were wides, the excruciating middle order (Harshal, Durga, Gads) that knocked about runs one day and folded up the other, the complete team-man who fielded everywhere (Vijay Patil), wherever it may be never complaining once. The inexplicable left handed batsman (Nipam) who never needed a fielder on the off-side and the tall, languid coach (Abhijit ‘Gary’ Kasture) who with his book and pen (didn’t then have his now omnipresent laptop) always had the most accurate statistics and tips at the end of the day’s play.

Well I call him Gary not just in relation to the South African of the same name but also the Russian, for besides cricket there was one other passionate sport we played – chess..... (to be contd.)

Flight

Here's one more...night duties have their side effects...


Flight 

Let me take you to the ceiling of the world
Where we can sing a song of love.
Let me take you beneath the seas
Where we can find everlasting peace.
Let me lead your wings to the open sky
Where we can meet without goodbye.
Let me bridge this river wide
And lose to you my hollow pride.

And

Let me take with me your smile
When 'last I run my final mile!! 

Distance

Sometimes the teenager in me wakes up from slumber and then out comes some cheesy romantic poetry that once could have gotten me a lovely evening away from the solitude of my hostel room...today I just use it to put something on a blog that has been neglected for long...


Distance

I cannot bear to hear your voice some days
Because it reminds me in so many ways
Of all the words you didn't say
Of memories wilting in May
Of caresses and kisses so sweet
They never really were complete
No, I cannot bear to hear your voice
Talk to me and mesmerize
When the distance that my heart can leap
My eyes can only see and weep
So let the silence tonight prevail
When words we know are bound to fail.