In our endeavor to educate the ignorant public (you, that is), we have decided to take up a sensitive topic which is How to tell an Australian cricketer from a monkey. We know this a very tricky subject and that even experts like Harbhajan Singh have been known to make mistakes (he recently called the Australian cricketer Andrew Symonds a monkey and nearly got suspended. Silly of him. He should have said "ape", which scientists will tell you is different from "monkey").
As we were saying, it can be done, telling them apart, that is. By the time you are done reading this article you will be distinguishing between Australian Cricketers and monkeys with a confidence rate of 71.224%
Let's start with the basics. Australian cricketers are not monkeys. We know this is hard to believe but trust us. There are many points of difference, though most of them are discernible only under an electron microscope.
Firstly, monkeys are primates but unlike humans, do not have an opposing thumb. Australian cricketers, who resemble humans more closely, do. This enables them to bunch up their digits into a fist and extend only the middle one, the universal gorilla symbol for love and friendship.
Secondly, the average Australian cricketer has less hair than most species of monkey. This is the best distinguishing physical characteristic, according to several authorities in this field, because facial features can be very misleading. The leading case on the topic is Symonds v/s Singh where the plaintiff sued the defendant for having called him, the plaintiff, a monkey face. The courts ruled against the plaintiff on the grounds of reasonable similarity.
Thirdly, most monkeys in the wild do not appeal in unison, unlike the Australian cricketers. Their preferred method of pressuring the umpire would be to bite him in the nuts. This is why the BCCI, along with the entire Indian cricket team, wants Umpires Bucknor and Benson to officiate in the Jungle Olympics.
And lastly, Australian cricketers, unlike monkeys, do not mate promiscuously with multiple females. Unless they are Shane Warne.
We hope this article was illuminating, though the space provided was hardly enough to do justice to this vast subject. The reader is most welcome to attend the author's lectures delivered in the primates section of the Bombay zoo. He will be the one scratching his butt. Aussie style.
Showing posts with label Incisive commentary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Incisive commentary. Show all posts
Friday, January 11, 2008
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
How did Benazir die?
In an effort to make sense of the myriad theories about Ms. Benazir Bhutto's death, this blog decided to depute its worthless-but-devoted-to-journalism founder Narendra Shenoy to Pakistan to find the truth.
Honest and intrepid, Shenoy's quest started with preparing ground research. Fearlessly typing in "Pakistan terrorism Bhutto Assassination" into a toolbar graciously provided by M/s Google & Co. for this very purpose, Shenoy speedily unearthed a few unknown but potentially deadly facts about that fine country, listed below for your benefit
1. Ain't no democracy there
2. No government even
3. No law and order neither
4. Plenty bearded blokes who are living in AD 632 and who can shoot quicker than they can think
Having unearthed all that information, Shenoy stretched out on the living room sofa and, deciding that this crime was best solved by employing the little grey cells, poured himself an 18 year old Glenfiddich. 'Bout as old as little Bilawal' he reflected. "More mature than him, though".
Scotland yard had been called in earlier and had delivered its verdict. "Sniper", Inspector Plod had told the press.
A little earlier, a Pakistan government (assuming one exists) spokesman had declared that Ms. Bhutto died from hitting her head on the door handle of her car when a human bomb went off.
When she died of course, the official (if there is such a thing in Pakistan) report was that she was gunned down by two people wielding assault machine guns.
Easily confused with a sniper, of course.
"Plod, you're an ass", said Shenoy, to the Scotland yard detective. "It's clear as daylight. The murder was committed by administering strychnine through her anti-dandruff shampoo medicine, which was given to her by the husband of her former maid whom she had dismissed for being a thief and thus competing with her husband Asif Ali Zardari."
The case solved, Shenoy decided to take the rest of the day off and reflect on the wisdom and inner beauty of this fine lady who had left no stone unturned in her effort to liberate the people of Kashmir by waging a jihad against the Pandits who, with their wives and children posed a dangerous threat to the people of Kashmir, especially by being unarmed just so that they could pretend to be innocent.
Honest and intrepid, Shenoy's quest started with preparing ground research. Fearlessly typing in "Pakistan terrorism Bhutto Assassination" into a toolbar graciously provided by M/s Google & Co. for this very purpose, Shenoy speedily unearthed a few unknown but potentially deadly facts about that fine country, listed below for your benefit
1. Ain't no democracy there
2. No government even
3. No law and order neither
4. Plenty bearded blokes who are living in AD 632 and who can shoot quicker than they can think
Having unearthed all that information, Shenoy stretched out on the living room sofa and, deciding that this crime was best solved by employing the little grey cells, poured himself an 18 year old Glenfiddich. 'Bout as old as little Bilawal' he reflected. "More mature than him, though".
Scotland yard had been called in earlier and had delivered its verdict. "Sniper", Inspector Plod had told the press.
A little earlier, a Pakistan government (assuming one exists) spokesman had declared that Ms. Bhutto died from hitting her head on the door handle of her car when a human bomb went off.
When she died of course, the official (if there is such a thing in Pakistan) report was that she was gunned down by two people wielding assault machine guns.
Easily confused with a sniper, of course.
"Plod, you're an ass", said Shenoy, to the Scotland yard detective. "It's clear as daylight. The murder was committed by administering strychnine through her anti-dandruff shampoo medicine, which was given to her by the husband of her former maid whom she had dismissed for being a thief and thus competing with her husband Asif Ali Zardari."
The case solved, Shenoy decided to take the rest of the day off and reflect on the wisdom and inner beauty of this fine lady who had left no stone unturned in her effort to liberate the people of Kashmir by waging a jihad against the Pandits who, with their wives and children posed a dangerous threat to the people of Kashmir, especially by being unarmed just so that they could pretend to be innocent.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Crisis in the Australian Cricket Team
Tempers are frayed in the board-room of the Australian Cricket Selection Board. An unnamed source told us that the entire team was summoned today and given a dressing down by the Chairman of the Selectors. Captain Ricky Ponting took the brunt of the assault and later tearfully admitted to the unnamed source that he was powerless to do anything about it. The Chairman of the Selectors later played down the incident and promised that his team would be turning around soon and that they would learn from the mistakes of the past.
At the heart of the trouble is the crushing defeat that the Aussies inflicted on the Indian cricket team, visiting and currently playing a test series. As is well known, the immense popularity of the game in the Indian subcontinent is what is paying everybody's salary. Worried that frequent defeats of the Indian team might lower viewer interest and thereby hurt the board's advertising revenues, the Australian Cricket Board had specifically instructed their team to lose to the Indians or, if for some reason they can't, as often happens to teams playing chronic losers like India, at least win by extremely slender margins.
This, the board felt, was completely ignored by Ponting and his men. First, they pounded the Indian bowling attack all around the field on the flimsy grounds that it was ineffectual. Ponting's sarcastic remark, that if the board wanted batsmen who could lose their wickets to the Indian attack, they had better recruit blind players, did not go well with the selectors. Ponting later apologized for it, though he privately told our source that he was not sure that even blind batsmen could manage this.
The meeting broke for lunch, in an attempt to cool tempers, but when it re-convened, the bowlers came in for a bit of stick, as they say in cricketing terms. It has been decided to enrol them for the crash course on bowling half volleys, a regular course being conducted by the advanced training program of the Indian Cricket Board. The Indian cricket board have been informally sounded out about this and have graciously agreed to impart the necessary skills to the Australian bowlers. A sports psychologist's services have been sought, to "de-competitise" the Australians. India has some of the best in this field.
When this reporter contacted the Chairman of the Selectors for his comment, the official reply was that there was no problem and the situation was under control. Privately, an unnamed source assured this reporter that the team has been instructed to lose by an innings. The idea is that even if they goof up, they could still lose by a narrower margin.
What will happen is something that only time will tell, but there is no doubt that the Australians are serious this time. The national coach of Australia is reported to have told the Indian batsmen Dravid and Jaffer that the rules of the game permitted a player to actually hit the ball with the bat, something which they reportedly found shocking and heretical, but being the fine players that they are, are actually considering it.
The situation, in short, is hopeful.
Narendra Shenoy
Special Reporter on Global Cricketing Matters
Melbourne.
At the heart of the trouble is the crushing defeat that the Aussies inflicted on the Indian cricket team, visiting and currently playing a test series. As is well known, the immense popularity of the game in the Indian subcontinent is what is paying everybody's salary. Worried that frequent defeats of the Indian team might lower viewer interest and thereby hurt the board's advertising revenues, the Australian Cricket Board had specifically instructed their team to lose to the Indians or, if for some reason they can't, as often happens to teams playing chronic losers like India, at least win by extremely slender margins.
This, the board felt, was completely ignored by Ponting and his men. First, they pounded the Indian bowling attack all around the field on the flimsy grounds that it was ineffectual. Ponting's sarcastic remark, that if the board wanted batsmen who could lose their wickets to the Indian attack, they had better recruit blind players, did not go well with the selectors. Ponting later apologized for it, though he privately told our source that he was not sure that even blind batsmen could manage this.
The meeting broke for lunch, in an attempt to cool tempers, but when it re-convened, the bowlers came in for a bit of stick, as they say in cricketing terms. It has been decided to enrol them for the crash course on bowling half volleys, a regular course being conducted by the advanced training program of the Indian Cricket Board. The Indian cricket board have been informally sounded out about this and have graciously agreed to impart the necessary skills to the Australian bowlers. A sports psychologist's services have been sought, to "de-competitise" the Australians. India has some of the best in this field.
When this reporter contacted the Chairman of the Selectors for his comment, the official reply was that there was no problem and the situation was under control. Privately, an unnamed source assured this reporter that the team has been instructed to lose by an innings. The idea is that even if they goof up, they could still lose by a narrower margin.
What will happen is something that only time will tell, but there is no doubt that the Australians are serious this time. The national coach of Australia is reported to have told the Indian batsmen Dravid and Jaffer that the rules of the game permitted a player to actually hit the ball with the bat, something which they reportedly found shocking and heretical, but being the fine players that they are, are actually considering it.
The situation, in short, is hopeful.
Narendra Shenoy
Special Reporter on Global Cricketing Matters
Melbourne.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Mom, can I be a nail polish designer?
As I struggle through life cursing the economy for making me work, I often day dream about being an oil sheikh or one of those technology geeks who get paid 400 million for starting webmail companies.
Idle dreams, of course. I could never be an oil sheikh. I haven't the foggiest idea how to wear a bed sheet with a rubber band around my head to keep it in place, and continue to be taken seriously by society.
And webmail company founder is totally out because there are more webmail companies out there than grocery stores. Missed the bus, I think.
But now I have decided on what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a nail polish designer.
I'm not kidding, this breed exists. Indeed it is thriving. I used to think designer perfumes were bad enough but nail polish? I can almost imagine the designer, rushing off to work in the morning after a quick breakfast and the customary peck on the cheek for wife and kids, negotiating the rush hour, finding a parking slot and getting into office and doing......what? What does one have to do to design nail polish? Have meetings, using Excel spread sheets and powerpoint presentations? Sit with pots of color and keep mixing batches?
My wife is not amused by this cynicism. You are a boor and a brute, she tells me, for casting aspersions on Manish Malhotra's enormous contribution to the vast and challenging science of nail polish design. She is right about the "boor and brute" bit. I have the artistic inclination of a raccoon. And actually, I am lucky she buys his nail polish and not his clothes, which generally cost as much as a a space rocket launch, even though they look like a bunch of fabric rolled in haste.
But nail polish designer is what I shall be when I grow up, though I shall have to study deeply the exalted subject of air kissing which is when you kiss somebody touching cheeks and making loud duck smack noises to mimic an actual kiss. This is to convey the delicate social message that I am a very nice person and I don't mind actually inhabiting the same geographical location as a low life like you but I wouldn't dream of actually kissing you because you're probably diseased but hey what will people think so here's an air kiss. That is a level of sophistication that will take years of practice for me to reach so until then, Monisha Jaisingh, Manish Malhotra, you guys are safe. Carry on. Design your little nail polishes. And get ready for competition.
Idle dreams, of course. I could never be an oil sheikh. I haven't the foggiest idea how to wear a bed sheet with a rubber band around my head to keep it in place, and continue to be taken seriously by society.
And webmail company founder is totally out because there are more webmail companies out there than grocery stores. Missed the bus, I think.
But now I have decided on what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a nail polish designer.
I'm not kidding, this breed exists. Indeed it is thriving. I used to think designer perfumes were bad enough but nail polish? I can almost imagine the designer, rushing off to work in the morning after a quick breakfast and the customary peck on the cheek for wife and kids, negotiating the rush hour, finding a parking slot and getting into office and doing......what? What does one have to do to design nail polish? Have meetings, using Excel spread sheets and powerpoint presentations? Sit with pots of color and keep mixing batches?
My wife is not amused by this cynicism. You are a boor and a brute, she tells me, for casting aspersions on Manish Malhotra's enormous contribution to the vast and challenging science of nail polish design. She is right about the "boor and brute" bit. I have the artistic inclination of a raccoon. And actually, I am lucky she buys his nail polish and not his clothes, which generally cost as much as a a space rocket launch, even though they look like a bunch of fabric rolled in haste.
But nail polish designer is what I shall be when I grow up, though I shall have to study deeply the exalted subject of air kissing which is when you kiss somebody touching cheeks and making loud duck smack noises to mimic an actual kiss. This is to convey the delicate social message that I am a very nice person and I don't mind actually inhabiting the same geographical location as a low life like you but I wouldn't dream of actually kissing you because you're probably diseased but hey what will people think so here's an air kiss. That is a level of sophistication that will take years of practice for me to reach so until then, Monisha Jaisingh, Manish Malhotra, you guys are safe. Carry on. Design your little nail polishes. And get ready for competition.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Windows Vista R in a circle
Computers and I used to get along very well in the 80s and part of the 90s. We understood each other very well. I, for example, could clearly visualize how the stuff that I typed tunneled its way through the little wire that connects the keyboard to the big box, on to the main processor which would chew on it carefully, digest its meaning and then spew out its reactions.
On some days - and don't we all have those - it would be in a foul mood and just say "BAD COMMAND OR FILE NAME" but most of the time it would just burst into a spreadsheet or word processor and all would be well. I would then type those "Dear Sir, Pursuant to our telephonic conversation of the 18th instant, I beg to draw your attention to..." kind of letters so popular those days.
If you wanted to spell check it, you'd have to select whatever text you wanted to spellcheck and then press "Ctrl" plus a few alphabets. Only then would any misspelled words be highlighted . It would not show any daft suggestions like now. "Narendra" would not automatically become "Clarendon" or "Kendra's" and "Shenoy" would most certainly not become "Phenotype", as it does now. Phenotype! I ask you! I have no idea what a phenotype is. Sounds like some kind of a psycho to me. "Psst! don't look now, but that guy with the shaggy hair is a raving phenotype!" We haven't had a phenotype in the Shenoy family for 57 generations!
As I was saying, I could understand the computer pretty well and the computer on its part understood me perfectly. It understood, for instance, that I was the proud kind of guy who would never beg anything of any body, leave alone the attention of some low-life whose telephonic conversations I had to pursue. The computer knew that it was just a matter of form. And if the computer guessed that I was an idiot, it maintained a dignified silence. It did not produce an "assistant" who rolled its eyes and behaved like a patronizing know-it-all.
Ironically, and this is where I put my most original observation that there is no justice in this world, the less people understood the computer, the richer Bill Gates and the software clan got. After a succession of bug-fests called Windows this and that, we now have a magic wand called Windows Vista R in a circle which, according to Bill Gates and his henchmen will make your business succeed like billy-o. The customers will walk in, according to these guys, and as soon as they realise you have purchased Windows Vista R in a circle, they will emit howls of joy and give you lots of business. Really! They must think we customers have water on our brains! (In my case, they're probably right but discerning people like yourself? No way!) Get more out of your Windows Vista R in a circle, urges Bill. Yeah sure! You know how Bill gets more out of Windows Vista R in a circle? HE SELLS IT TO IDIOTS LIKE YOU.
P.S. It has just been brought to my notice that Windows Vista R in a circle is actually not Windows Vista R in a circle but Windows Vista TM. Perhaps Bill thinks this makes it look less stupid.
On some days - and don't we all have those - it would be in a foul mood and just say "BAD COMMAND OR FILE NAME" but most of the time it would just burst into a spreadsheet or word processor and all would be well. I would then type those "Dear Sir, Pursuant to our telephonic conversation of the 18th instant, I beg to draw your attention to..." kind of letters so popular those days.
If you wanted to spell check it, you'd have to select whatever text you wanted to spellcheck and then press "Ctrl" plus a few alphabets. Only then would any misspelled words be highlighted . It would not show any daft suggestions like now. "Narendra" would not automatically become "Clarendon" or "Kendra's" and "Shenoy" would most certainly not become "Phenotype", as it does now. Phenotype! I ask you! I have no idea what a phenotype is. Sounds like some kind of a psycho to me. "Psst! don't look now, but that guy with the shaggy hair is a raving phenotype!" We haven't had a phenotype in the Shenoy family for 57 generations!
As I was saying, I could understand the computer pretty well and the computer on its part understood me perfectly. It understood, for instance, that I was the proud kind of guy who would never beg anything of any body, leave alone the attention of some low-life whose telephonic conversations I had to pursue. The computer knew that it was just a matter of form. And if the computer guessed that I was an idiot, it maintained a dignified silence. It did not produce an "assistant" who rolled its eyes and behaved like a patronizing know-it-all.
Ironically, and this is where I put my most original observation that there is no justice in this world, the less people understood the computer, the richer Bill Gates and the software clan got. After a succession of bug-fests called Windows this and that, we now have a magic wand called Windows Vista R in a circle which, according to Bill Gates and his henchmen will make your business succeed like billy-o. The customers will walk in, according to these guys, and as soon as they realise you have purchased Windows Vista R in a circle, they will emit howls of joy and give you lots of business. Really! They must think we customers have water on our brains! (In my case, they're probably right but discerning people like yourself? No way!) Get more out of your Windows Vista R in a circle, urges Bill. Yeah sure! You know how Bill gets more out of Windows Vista R in a circle? HE SELLS IT TO IDIOTS LIKE YOU.
P.S. It has just been brought to my notice that Windows Vista R in a circle is actually not Windows Vista R in a circle but Windows Vista TM. Perhaps Bill thinks this makes it look less stupid.
Monday, April 23, 2007
I love my government
I just love my government. I've spent all of today on a pavement outside the regional passport office in Bombay trying to get a ECNR* stamp on my passport. "The how much??" said my friend 'Jack' who is culturally disadvantaged where it comes to comprehending the finer points of Indian Laws. He was brought up in America. We will keep one minute's silence to mourn his disabilities and move on to an erudite analysis of how the bureaucracy works hard to make your life fuller and more meaningful.
First, the facts. It so happened, dear reader, that we landed up at 6.00 am, application form and all documents under the sun in hand, on the pavement outside the Regional Passport Office. That early because we were advised that the queues could get really long. Some 50 people had already beaten us to it.
Just ahead of us was a distinguished looking gentleman dressed in formal office wear, shoes shined to a finish that slobs like me can only dream of. He had the air of someone who was turning the wheels of the economy. Which he was, because we later discovered that he was a very senior officer of the Reserve Bank of India. I, for one, found it surprising that someone of so exalted a station in life could not manage to find a lackey to stand in for him, like so many other prosperous people who sauntered in languorously at 9.30 and occupied positions that seedy looking gentlemen had been occupying since earlier than six.
Some of the poor saps who had been standing there since 6 in the morning took umbrage at this and protested loudly. There was a brief altercation where the contestants discussed intimate details of relationships between them and their close female relatives in extremely crass and graphic terms. Then one of the worthies bitch-slapped the other, raising the volume of the argument by several hundred decibels. Soon, the cops turned up and sadly, for the bunch of us who were enjoying this immensely, restored law and order.
Meanwhile, my friend the Reserve Bank Governor was getting increasingly concerned that in his absence, the wheels of the economy might just stop turning and vociferated this concern several times in various grammatical structures. The beads of sweat appearing on his broad forehead, for some reason, struck Sheela and me as droll.
Presently, I decided to forage for some coffee and went walkabout. Presently, I came across a Cafe Coffee Day outlet whose employees were stretching, yawning and rubbing their eyes. They firmly told me that the shop had not yet opened for business, but I'm not a Bombayite for nothing. Ten minutes later, they were pouring out three Cafe Lattes, one thoughtfully ordered for Mr. Indian Alan Greenspan. When I gave him the coffee, he was really overcome with emotion. If he had had a daughter of marriageable age, I am sure he would have wedded her to me. Sheela of course did not agree with this analysis, citing some lame reason like he's not blind. Be that as it may, we spent the rest of the morning being fawned upon by him.
Eventually, our turn came and we were ushered in to a hall which mercifully had air conditioning. At the stroke of ten, a lady possessing the eyes and dental features of a medieval dragon appeared behind the desk. The place came alive and the chaps in front of us were summoned.
They went in the manner of aztecs going to the head priest to have their hearts cut out. With trepidation, if you know what I mean. The dragon lady spoke sharply and flames shot out from her eyes, but she did not actually bite them, which livened me up considerably.
I was next. The dragon eyes went over the documents. They looked up and started frying me on a low flame. "Where's your address proof?" they asked. I opened my mouth to speak but no words would come out of my parched throat. With a croaking sound, I proffered my ration card. The eyes raised the temperature to "medium". "Ration card is not proof enough" they said and told me to prove that I existed in some way acceptable to the God Baal, or prepare to be sacrificed. "What about my passport? Isn't that proof of residence?" I asked, throwing all caution to the winds. The flame went to "high" and with a muted scream I hightailed out of there faster than a ninety pound weakling at a bodybuilders' convention.
Such then is my tale. On the morrow, better prepared and wearing holy charms, I managed to satisfy the lady (document wise, that is) and won for myself an ECNR stamp on my passport. I am now in the exclusive club of distinguished people who can visit the Middle East, Japan, Korea, China, Africa and South America without having to ask anyone. I bet you
can't do that. So bow, underling. Accept your inferiority
*Foot Note: ECNR stands for Emigration Clearance Not Required. If you need to know more than that, I suggest you meditate under the Bodhi Tree. Its either that or read the Government Rule Book. Whichever is easier for you.
First, the facts. It so happened, dear reader, that we landed up at 6.00 am, application form and all documents under the sun in hand, on the pavement outside the Regional Passport Office. That early because we were advised that the queues could get really long. Some 50 people had already beaten us to it.
Just ahead of us was a distinguished looking gentleman dressed in formal office wear, shoes shined to a finish that slobs like me can only dream of. He had the air of someone who was turning the wheels of the economy. Which he was, because we later discovered that he was a very senior officer of the Reserve Bank of India. I, for one, found it surprising that someone of so exalted a station in life could not manage to find a lackey to stand in for him, like so many other prosperous people who sauntered in languorously at 9.30 and occupied positions that seedy looking gentlemen had been occupying since earlier than six.
Some of the poor saps who had been standing there since 6 in the morning took umbrage at this and protested loudly. There was a brief altercation where the contestants discussed intimate details of relationships between them and their close female relatives in extremely crass and graphic terms. Then one of the worthies bitch-slapped the other, raising the volume of the argument by several hundred decibels. Soon, the cops turned up and sadly, for the bunch of us who were enjoying this immensely, restored law and order.
Meanwhile, my friend the Reserve Bank Governor was getting increasingly concerned that in his absence, the wheels of the economy might just stop turning and vociferated this concern several times in various grammatical structures. The beads of sweat appearing on his broad forehead, for some reason, struck Sheela and me as droll.
Presently, I decided to forage for some coffee and went walkabout. Presently, I came across a Cafe Coffee Day outlet whose employees were stretching, yawning and rubbing their eyes. They firmly told me that the shop had not yet opened for business, but I'm not a Bombayite for nothing. Ten minutes later, they were pouring out three Cafe Lattes, one thoughtfully ordered for Mr. Indian Alan Greenspan. When I gave him the coffee, he was really overcome with emotion. If he had had a daughter of marriageable age, I am sure he would have wedded her to me. Sheela of course did not agree with this analysis, citing some lame reason like he's not blind. Be that as it may, we spent the rest of the morning being fawned upon by him.
Eventually, our turn came and we were ushered in to a hall which mercifully had air conditioning. At the stroke of ten, a lady possessing the eyes and dental features of a medieval dragon appeared behind the desk. The place came alive and the chaps in front of us were summoned.
They went in the manner of aztecs going to the head priest to have their hearts cut out. With trepidation, if you know what I mean. The dragon lady spoke sharply and flames shot out from her eyes, but she did not actually bite them, which livened me up considerably.
I was next. The dragon eyes went over the documents. They looked up and started frying me on a low flame. "Where's your address proof?" they asked. I opened my mouth to speak but no words would come out of my parched throat. With a croaking sound, I proffered my ration card. The eyes raised the temperature to "medium". "Ration card is not proof enough" they said and told me to prove that I existed in some way acceptable to the God Baal, or prepare to be sacrificed. "What about my passport? Isn't that proof of residence?" I asked, throwing all caution to the winds. The flame went to "high" and with a muted scream I hightailed out of there faster than a ninety pound weakling at a bodybuilders' convention.
Such then is my tale. On the morrow, better prepared and wearing holy charms, I managed to satisfy the lady (document wise, that is) and won for myself an ECNR stamp on my passport. I am now in the exclusive club of distinguished people who can visit the Middle East, Japan, Korea, China, Africa and South America without having to ask anyone. I bet you
can't do that. So bow, underling. Accept your inferiority
*Foot Note: ECNR stands for Emigration Clearance Not Required. If you need to know more than that, I suggest you meditate under the Bodhi Tree. Its either that or read the Government Rule Book. Whichever is easier for you.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Yeah I think cricket sucks. So shoot me.
There was a time, long long ago, when I used to be a big cricket fan. I used to have Walter Mitty dreams of the Indian cricket selection committee coming home and pleading with my parents to let me play. "Madam, for the sake of our country, you must let young Narendra play" Umrigar would plead to my mother. "Sir, I can do nothing but appeal to you" Gundappa Vishwanath would say to my father, his eyes brimming with tears. "Sunil Gavaskar threatens fast unless Bombay Lad plays" the headlines would run. The visions would continue most agreeably- my parents acquiescing to a pause in my education. Me, pulverising the Pakistan bowling attack. Akram quitting in disgrace, having been hit for 20 boundaries continuously.
That history, sadly, was never written. For some reason, Umrigar and Vishwanath never made the pilgrimage to 8, Padmanagar. My biographers will grope in the dark to find satisfactory answers to this mystery. I'm not sure myself, though a certain reluctance on the part of the ball to have any significant contact with my bat might have been a factor.
All this actually is a round about way of illustrating my deep involvement with a game which I now consider to be a washout and a waste of time. I realize that this one statement has put me on the death list of many people and that the world is not big enough to hide me but hey, hear me out before you start oiling that assault rifle.
I was first put off when it dawned upon me that virtually all cricket matches are decided by one D. Ibrahim from somewhere in Karachi. His long range telepathic power is amazing. Whenever he so wishes, players find that they can't hold on to catches or make the crease in time or bowl to one's set field or whatever. Luckily for Ibby baby, there is a lot of money riding on these matches and thanks to his premonitions and telepathic powers, he always ends up winning tons of it. Just the other day, a West Indies player was taped having conversations with a bookie who was known to be a crony of the aforementioned Ibrahim. The investigating authorities soon declared that they did not have anything conclusive, that the concerned bookie had let for Dubai and thus was unavailable for questioning and that they were probably just talking about the weather. Ibby baby must have telepathically conveyed to the authorities news of impending accretion to their finances. Be that as it may, the fools are the public who insist on betting on something which is clearly stage managed.
Even more depressing is the thought that a mega-wimp team like the West Indies (population 3 to 4 million) has to be PAID to lose against India (population 1000 to 1200 million). Our players, in which all encompassing term I include part timers like Tendulkar and Sehwag who are patriotic enough to spare the country some time from their hectic ad-shoot schedules, are hyped to high heaven because everyone has a vested interest in doing so. All the companies who have invested multimillions in ad campaigns sponsor parties for journalists who compare them to Bradman and Richards - what a laugh!- and all the media guys are eager to do just whatever the advertisers tell them anyway because they are the meal ticket. Completely circular and self-serving and all the simpletons shuffling in and out of homes, offices, buses, trains and the selection commitee believe it to be gospel truth.
Still, there are a few redeeming features of modern cricket over the good ol' days. One, a lot of the cliches are gone. The don't seem to say "glorious uncertainties of cricket" anymore. I wish I knew who it was who had coined that phrase. He should be right up there with Shakespeare, Bob Dylan and Bill "I never had sex with that woman" Clinton amongst "the most quoted of our times". I have a strong feeling it is the immortal Narottam Puri who had managed to disengage the operation of his mind from the contents of his speech.
Another improvement is the presence of eye-candy such as Mandira Bedi who distract you from the fact that the game is a no-brainer, even though the 'expert commentators' are legally required to invest into every captaincy decision a deep strategic significance. Excuse me while I laugh, but cricket strategy is spending a sleepless night of deep thinking by the captain, coach and key team members and the next day, having seven men on the off side and bowling outside the off stump. Real deep! Tic Tac Toe has more strategic fine points than that!
All in all, I think cricket has become too pretentious. Too many are glorified for too little and it shows on the quality of the game. What used to be a gentlemanly pastime has degenerated into a soap opera. I cant pinpoint any one reason why it sucks but then I cant pinpoint any one reason why "Kabhi Saas Bi whatever" sucks. It sucks.
That history, sadly, was never written. For some reason, Umrigar and Vishwanath never made the pilgrimage to 8, Padmanagar. My biographers will grope in the dark to find satisfactory answers to this mystery. I'm not sure myself, though a certain reluctance on the part of the ball to have any significant contact with my bat might have been a factor.
All this actually is a round about way of illustrating my deep involvement with a game which I now consider to be a washout and a waste of time. I realize that this one statement has put me on the death list of many people and that the world is not big enough to hide me but hey, hear me out before you start oiling that assault rifle.
I was first put off when it dawned upon me that virtually all cricket matches are decided by one D. Ibrahim from somewhere in Karachi. His long range telepathic power is amazing. Whenever he so wishes, players find that they can't hold on to catches or make the crease in time or bowl to one's set field or whatever. Luckily for Ibby baby, there is a lot of money riding on these matches and thanks to his premonitions and telepathic powers, he always ends up winning tons of it. Just the other day, a West Indies player was taped having conversations with a bookie who was known to be a crony of the aforementioned Ibrahim. The investigating authorities soon declared that they did not have anything conclusive, that the concerned bookie had let for Dubai and thus was unavailable for questioning and that they were probably just talking about the weather. Ibby baby must have telepathically conveyed to the authorities news of impending accretion to their finances. Be that as it may, the fools are the public who insist on betting on something which is clearly stage managed.
Even more depressing is the thought that a mega-wimp team like the West Indies (population 3 to 4 million) has to be PAID to lose against India (population 1000 to 1200 million). Our players, in which all encompassing term I include part timers like Tendulkar and Sehwag who are patriotic enough to spare the country some time from their hectic ad-shoot schedules, are hyped to high heaven because everyone has a vested interest in doing so. All the companies who have invested multimillions in ad campaigns sponsor parties for journalists who compare them to Bradman and Richards - what a laugh!- and all the media guys are eager to do just whatever the advertisers tell them anyway because they are the meal ticket. Completely circular and self-serving and all the simpletons shuffling in and out of homes, offices, buses, trains and the selection commitee believe it to be gospel truth.
Still, there are a few redeeming features of modern cricket over the good ol' days. One, a lot of the cliches are gone. The don't seem to say "glorious uncertainties of cricket" anymore. I wish I knew who it was who had coined that phrase. He should be right up there with Shakespeare, Bob Dylan and Bill "I never had sex with that woman" Clinton amongst "the most quoted of our times". I have a strong feeling it is the immortal Narottam Puri who had managed to disengage the operation of his mind from the contents of his speech.
Another improvement is the presence of eye-candy such as Mandira Bedi who distract you from the fact that the game is a no-brainer, even though the 'expert commentators' are legally required to invest into every captaincy decision a deep strategic significance. Excuse me while I laugh, but cricket strategy is spending a sleepless night of deep thinking by the captain, coach and key team members and the next day, having seven men on the off side and bowling outside the off stump. Real deep! Tic Tac Toe has more strategic fine points than that!
All in all, I think cricket has become too pretentious. Too many are glorified for too little and it shows on the quality of the game. What used to be a gentlemanly pastime has degenerated into a soap opera. I cant pinpoint any one reason why it sucks but then I cant pinpoint any one reason why "Kabhi Saas Bi whatever" sucks. It sucks.
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