An end to this pain

O alien! This is not your abode,
You belong to the planet where screams and nightmares rule;

Say me hi, if you really insist,
But rush off to say bye in the same breath;

Yours are not the ways I wish to tread on,
Nor hit the wall they ultimately end on;

Pain, pain go away! Pain, pain go away!
But before you go -- make me strong, show me way!

Waka Waka Finale

Curiously enough Waka means poetry in Japanese and quite fittingly the poetic display of Spanish team won them the FIFA World Cup 2010. The intricate passing, ability to play in the triangular formations, supernatural awareness of their teammates’ positions, patient build-up of highest quality and belief in their type of football got the La Furia Roja (The Red Fury) their first world cup. The team shed the tag of perennial under-achievers to put the most coveted trophy on the earth alongside their Euro 2008 crown. They still under-achieved in terms of number of goals they scored in the tournament. For a team which averaged 3 goals per match in 10 qualifying matches, 8 goals in 7 matches was definitely below par. But had the football been only about the goals, the game would be decided in the 10 minutes of penalty shootout rather than 90 minutes of tactical brilliance.

The signs could have not been more ominous in the beginning. Their most potent striker, Fernando Torres, was nursing injury and was not at his best. They lost in their first match against Switzerland which only knew how to unfailingly block the ever raging Spanish bulls. History was against them as no team which lost their initial match in the world cup ever went on to win the trophy. But the history is made by those who dare to believe. The signs were already there in that match. They kept working on the passes; they kept their cool and showed indefatigable will to trust their brand of football. As the tournament progressed, they got better and better. It was like a beautiful orchestra. Sadly it never reached to its rightful crescendo.

They were destined to be winners. This golden generation of Spanish football has all the qualities which make a team successful. They have the most creative midfielders in the world – Xavi and Iniesta. Xavi completed the highest percentage of passes in the championship. He was the master orchestrator. Iniesta was fast, imaginative and subtle – in a sort of poetic justice, he scored the winning goal in the final. He was omni-present throughout the tournament. He was in left, right and center, on flanks, in attacking positions and in defending positions. The opposition must have feared him the most as he might hold the distinction of being fouled the maximum number of times. In Xabi Alonso and Busquets, they have the best of the holding midfielders. While Torres left his shooting shoes somewhere in Spain, David Villa came to the fore. Sergio Ramos ran like a mad bull and perhaps deserved many goals, and still managed to perform his defensive duty with exceptional accuracy. Capdavila was so efficient that he almost managed to go unnoticed. Piquet and Puyol made sure that they could defend a slightest margin of one goal. When everything else failed, there was captain Iker Casillas who again proved that he is the best goalie in the world. All the reserve players were so good that it was injustice to leave them on bench, but such was talent in this side. Llorente was remarkable in league stage, Pedro entertained in semifinal and Navas and Febregas illuminated the Soccer City in the final. Then there was grand old guiding force behind the Spanish armada - Vicente Del Bosque.

In a country fiercely fragmented, the credit goes to Del Bosque, a Madrid coach, to lead the team which consisted mainly of Catalonia players and a few from Madrid, Basque and Canary Islands to the glory. The country is already reeling under financial turmoil and touted to be the next ‘Greek’ tragedy. But the win gave them something to rejoice and revel in. There was everything Spanish about the win. They played like a team. They showed great respect for the head of the family (the coach). They were selfless (almost, as Pedro showed his selfish side against Germany in the semifinal, and immediately got retributive justice in the form of substitution) – so much selfless that the midfielders wanted to pass even when they were in the sight of the goal. Iniesta and Xavi were like monks in the garb of footballers. Following Bhagwad Geeta’s immortal philosophy, they continued performing their karma without any visible wish for the fruits. They showed how the beautiful game should be played. When there was scare in the final, San Casillas (Saint Casillas) saved them to elevate his status from a saint to a god. Iniesta’s message on his jersey was a great tribute to Dani Jarque who dies last year: Dani Jarque siempre con nosotros ( Jarque, You are always with us).

I have a complaint though. My biggest worries for the final were not founded in my fear of seeing the side losing. I knew they cannot be defeated if they play the way only they can. It was about the aggressive physical play of the Dutch. Within first couple of minutes, Robie Van Persie jabbed Busquets behind his knee without any intention of playing the ball. A few minutes later, Mark Van Bommel came rushing and slid to dispossess Iniesta from behind. No wonder Van Bommel is hated by the opposition fans wherever he plays his club football. The Dutch dedicated themselves to gamesmanship against the beautiful game of their opponents. As Van Bommel went down, he carried on Iniesta with him. It was that natural human folly grounded in the envy – I will get down but make sure you accompany me. De Jong kicked Alonso in his chest as if to prove that they were in a bout of wrestling. And it was form of WWE because the Dutch were good actors also. Quite predictably Spain responded the way the Dutch wanted – by reciprocating, though not as pugnaciously but still uncharacteristically. The team which got only three yellow cards in their first 7 matches got 5 more in the final game (though I do not understand what prompted the Yorkshire referee to give card to Xavi, and Iniesta was carded for removing his jersey after celebrating the goal). The Dutch surely got better of the Spain there, getting 1 red card and 7 yellow cards. A world record for total number of cards in a final. I remembered the match between Portugal and the Netherlands in the previous world cup when they wrestled with each other in the infamous match.

My fascination for Spanish team was born out of the fair play they demonstrated and rightly rewarded with fair play award in the 2006 edition of the tournament. They shared the honors then with Brazil. Though they even denied sharing the fair play award with anyone this time, I wish they had less yellow cards in the final or no cards at all. Agreed that the Dutch started it all and the Spain were dragged into the brawl, but they should have displayed the same hermit like qualities with which they won my heart. For once Iniesta was flustered by the Dutch sandwiching him anywhere and everywhere. As Gandhiji put it, the means to an end is as important as the end itself, though they won all fair and square. A little more fairness and beauty would not have harmed. One word for the Dutch – the will to win got them into the tactic to play physically aggressive but they showed great character when they refused to play the corner when jabulani jump beat Casillas and also the respect they showed for the winner before the victory march in the ground. That prompts me to think that there is nothing like black and white, in football in particular and in life in general. Like in Marodana’s beard and suit, there is shade of grey in everything.

It was necessary for them to win to show the world that you can win fairly and beautifully and can still gain respect of your opponents. The match with Germans was the best of the tournament when it came to fair play. There lies the hope for the future – both Spain and German teams are quite young and if they continued playing fair and with flair, the beautiful game will win many more hearts. They will represent all the good there is in football. As the game goes to Brazil from South Africa, the Samba dance will take over after 4 years. One just hopes that the sound of the irritable vuvuzela dies soon and the fair play never does.

Out in a City Market

The Saturday morning is fulfilling its promise of non-stop reading the newspaper without any thought of getting ready and going to office. While I find myself lost between the colorful pages, the phone ring brings me back from the world of newsprint. I answer without looking at the screen to see who the caller is. “Ready for an adventure?” asks the caller. It is Mihir on the other side. “What?” I am startled by this sudden inquiry from a person for whom the only real adventure lies in gulping pitchers of beer down in as less time as possible and it’s still too early to go to a pub! In that state of bafflement, I still ask what kind of adventure he is referring though I am sure about the answer. But it turns out to be a different one. He wants me to accompany him to City Market. Now for those who think that going to a market does not qualify as an adventure, it will be good to know that in the world where we do most of the shopping online, visiting small and crowded shops in narrow alleys of a bustling market and bargaining about everything gives you some sense of adventure. I have been hoping to visit the market for a long time and grab the opportunity at first go.

Along with the obvious cost-advantage, these markets also offer the charm of old world: criss-crossing of streets, frantic negotiating of vendors and buyers, an occasional roadblock by a cow or a hand-cart, people rushing like ants and delight of some tasty street food. Our shopping list includes dry fruits, books, spices and thermocol balls (you heard it right, the tiny balls with which a bean bag is stuffed). Not surprisingly, the market has designated streets for different items: there is a street for spices, for dry fruits, for books, for sarees, for clothes and on and on. The trouble is that we do not know the names of these streets or their locations. We just decide to roam around and find our way somehow. We start with the dry fruits as the quantity is less and it also empties the wallet faster. We just need to unburden, don’t we?

The spices market is really the extension of the street where we find the dry fruits. You cannot miss it as the smell of the Indian spices is unmistakable. That moment you realize what really drew Vasco de Gama to India five centuries back: it was not the temptation of gold; it was the smell of the famed Indian spices over the oceanic air. The closure of the spice route must have been crisis for the Europeans from which they had to bail themselves out if they wanted to add spice to their lives. For a few moments I breathed more pepper, chilly and turmeric than oxygen! Mihir comes up with this patentable idea of inventing cameras which can capture images as well as smell. Very imaginative but I hope it does not happen else people will never get out of their couch in their air-conditioned rooms once they capture the smell.

Cubbonpet delights us beyond limit. We want a coffee/tea break and there is no better place than the one we have just hit. Curiously named Indian Coffee Bar, the place serves exquisite South Indian filtered coffee (as per Mihir’s testimony as I do not drink coffee). Mihir is ecstatic, again, for the idea of combining a bar and café together which can serve finely brewed beer and filtered coffee, both his favorite drinks. We also buy some coffee powder from the opposite shop and observe the big machine eating the coffee beans and grinding it to powder form.

While roaming around, we find the shop which sells thermocol balls. The shop is full of the little things for decoration and parties. From every corner, the glossy and funky specimens are dangling above your head. We buy two big packets, each around 3 feet high. The tiny ultra-white balls shine through the thin transparent plastic cover. As we head for the Avenue Street (the book market), someone pokes a hole in one of the plastic covers. Mihir goes back to the shop to get the cellotape while I wait outside when the other plastic bag also decides to give company to its cousin. We somehow patch both the bags but the thin plastic remains a constant threat.

Avenue Street is the place to buy the books for schools/colleges. Mihir has a long list of Computer Engineering books to buy so I wait outside the shop with the bags of thermocol balls. The fun begins now. Within seconds the bright thermocol balls seduce the onlookers. They become the object of their curiosity. Everybody wants to know why I have bought two full bags. A few of them want to know the price. A fellow - obviously inspired by the Indian film industry – assumes that the plastic balls are going to be used in a wedding scene in some movie. He wants to know the movie name. I unsuccessfully look for a place I can hide behind to fend off the questions. Luckily Mihir does not take too long and I survive the onslaught of the questioning brigade.

It takes a while to reach to the place where we have parked the bike from the Avenue Street. Chikpet, Balepet, Nagrathpet, Tharaupet and many more streets are on the way. On every corner or cross-road, I try to put the image in my memory so that I can call upon these images when I need to visit it again, though I am quite sure I will not remember it; not for my memory will abandon me but because what I see embodies beautiful chaos and there is no fix pattern to chaos which you can recollect. As a pillion rider, my duty is to hold those two bags containing thermocol balls on my lap, one on each side. They completely shield me from both the sides so much that only my back is visible. If someone sees Mihir driving from front, she will imagine that he is propelled by two white cylindrical engines on the back of the bike. I have more romantic version though. Remember that poster of a popular Bollywood movie, in which that lady with a soft voice, Karishma Kapoor, and ever-smiling Madhuri Dikshit are in arms of SRK on each side. I, in fact, have fairer beauties on my lap – the Karishmas and Madhuris of the world are pale in comparison to those white balls. And the plastic covers give them a transparent skin. My mother once told us a story in which a beauty of a princess was described in terms of her transparent skin: when she drank water, one could see the water rushing down her throat. Such was her skin! This is by no means to suggest that I am SRK (!!!) but when a 3 arms length plastic bag full of mushy balls can be Mrs. Nene, nothing seems too far-fetched. And ultimately, dil to pagal hai! Enough of the silly fiction! Our SRK falls flat when the bike stops at Church Street on Brigade Road. Mihir wants to have coffee at recently moved Coffee House.

In a friendly gesture, I give one of my dashing girlfriends to him, for the time being, of course. Coffee house has changed the building, but still it feels the same as the old time. But my mind keeps nagging me that there is something really eerie about the place. It takes a while for me to figure out that it’s not as much about the Coffee House as the company we used to be with. Before career, family or ambition moved many friends to different cities, we used to come here in a big gang. There were constant blabbing and fights and discussions. I can still hear the chatter as if it happened the day before. I am happy at least Mihir is there. What the place will resemble when there is no one to sip coffee there from that happy bunch of people who formed my world then? A cemetery…may be. A ruined palace…perhaps. Time brews us all. That’s the bitter truth.

Fortunately some people cannot allow you to be sad. Mihir is one of them. My cup of grief is empty before he finishes his. We head back for home. On the way the mouth of one of the bag is open and I am not aware of it. A scooter-rider points to that. Before my fair lady dismembers into white spray like a falling star, I manage to shut the mouth off. The bags reach to the house safely, and so do we. We stuff the bean bag. By virtue of carrying the bags, I earn the right to dump myself on the bean bag whenever I am in the house. I do not waste much time to use that privilege. There certainly is fun in being a lazy bum once in a while.

Up and Close with Nandi Hills

It was Sabine’s idea to go to Nandi Hills, some 45 KM from Bangalore, and run from the base to the peak. As she put it, one can run/walk/crawl but should not stop on the way – what matters is the moving feet on the road. I needed a change from my routine running routes, so happily agreed to the proposal. Owing to the habit of my cook coming very late in the night, I could not sleep before midnight and I seriously doubted if I could run uphill after waking up early in the morning, deprived of much-needed rest before the run. Eventually when the morning arrived, rather too early at 4 AM, I woke up, feeling extremely good and light. I knew then it was going to be a great run.

We reached to GKVK at 5:15 after picking up Gopal from his home. There were more people than I imagined. Sabine was preparing for 100 KM Ultra run and this run was part of her uphill training. Sunil Chainani, the director of FabIndia, already ran 100 KM in previous Bangalore Ultra Marathon and is veteran long-distance runner now. Sindhu and Jagdish are regulars at GKVK and we often get to see them on the running trail. Then there was Rajesh, and another Rajesh and the third one could not join that day! Prakhar, Gopal and I completed the contingent. We set off from GKVK at 5:30 and reached the Nandi Hills base at 6:05.

Light had already started loosening the evil grip of darkness by the time we started running. It is actually a 7 KM tarred road from the base to the top and you go from 1000 meters at base to around 1450 meters at top. There are 41 curves; many of them sharp hair-pin bends. The initial half of the route is consistently and gradually increasing gradient. I started slow, but still found myself leading the peck. After about half a kilometer, my lungs already started working overtime. But the weather was beautiful; air fresh and rejuvenating. The monsoon had clearly set its sight on the hills, it seemed so, as all the hills were covered by the thick clouds as if they actually made the mountains! It was pretty sight to watch brown and green hills clad in the grey and silver clouds. Wind, though blowing in my face at times making running difficult, encouraged the trees to whistle and dance in early morning spectacle. The shrubs smelled of fresh rain and there was no stopping of cheerful little birds chirping and running wild.

I continued running without stopping for water after half-way. Prakhar convinced his driver to support us on our way, so we made his car a mobile support. We put all our water bottles and eatables in his car and the driver stopped and waited at some points on the way so we could get what we needed from the car. That relieved us from the trouble of carrying water in our hands. As I crossed 5 KM mark, I saw a fickle sign of the sun between the clouds. Surprisingly it was not crimson red or orange or golden. It donned the silver attire to go with the theme. I was happy that it was too shy to come out that day. That kept at least the trouble of heat out of our equation.

It has become custom in India to paint the names and messages on rocks, and it was no different in Nandi Hills. Someone had decided to proclaim his love for a girl, so he would draw a heart, put an arrow within and write the name of his love-interest. Cupid game or stupid game, I asked? Then there was painting of the most famous and omnipresent of the all Gods in India, Hanuman, carrying the Sanjeevani Mountain to revive Lakshman. I thought about the Hindu Gods; a monkey is the most famous God and an avatar of Shiva, a turtle and a fish are made into Gods, cow is considered to be a mother, every God having an animal as His vehicle, there are temples on every reachable mountain top. What do all these suggest? Our ancestors were wise enough to carve an image of God in every life form and build temples in such places so that we could preserve the environment. It gives sanctity to the cause of the environment protection. There is so much to learn from the ancient wisdom.

The clouds got darker and thicker as I moved up. The gradient was steeper now and wind blew heavily. The winding hair-pin bends became pain now and I was almost jogging. As I turned after 6 KM mark on a sharp turn, I heard a few dogs barking. I passed by those dogs a few moments back. The noise got louder with each passing second. When I turned back, I found army of 4 dogs chasing me. I had to stop against my wish because they were adamant and relentless in their pursuit to slow me down from my slower than slowest speed. When I started running again, they started their chase again. I had no option but to walk for a while. But what I experienced was amazing. Water droplets started trickling in. The valley looked beautiful in rain from distance. The wind almost carried me along with it. The elements of nature conspired together to create that scenery. And the dogs were part of the whole scheme! They were not chasing me to bite, they came running to plead me to stop and savor the bounty of the nature. Happily I obliged. The dogs ran away once they realized that I got the message. The peak was just a few meters away but I was in no hurry. The light faded completely and it was totally dark. I could not make out if the silhouette at my arm’s length is of a tree or a cloud. The winding road was barely visible. Inevitably a few lines emerged from my heart:

The road is narrow and winding,

The conditions are tough and grinding;

The clouds of doubts blinds your vision,

And fear is in air beyond the reason;

But darkness gives way to the light,

Fear makes room for will to fight;

Only if you put your heart before your head,

There is always…always way ahead.

One more right turn and I reached to the entrance of the hill fort. 7 KM of running and I was celebrating my first uphill run. Sunil followed soon. Others were lagging behind. We did not want to stop so we ran downhill for a kilometer and joined them to go back to the peak again. We filled our mouths with bananas and cakes and refueled ourselves with water and Gatorade. The downhill run was easy, but hard on knees if one is not careful. Half way, Sunil and I decided to go uphill again instead of going down all the way. The sun finally gave vent to its wish to come out of the clouds. Everything dazzled in the bright sunlight. This time, after touching peak, I ran downhill till the base. When I touched the feet of Nandi at base, I noticed no pain in my body, and mind was still as fresh as before starting the run.

I was glad I finished my first hill training. That was the best run of my life. What made it easy and enjoyable? I was feeling very good that day from the beginning. I think it’s imperative to feel good to do well, to go beyond your limits, to surmount the seemingly insurmountable, though sometimes it’s difficult to feel good when you are going through rough patch, when the lady fate refuses to sleep with you. If you keep reminding yourself to feel good, no matter the circumstances, the life will not shy away from extending its helping hand towards you. Nandi Hills are out of way now, but there are mountains to climb and I wait for more beautiful mornings.

A few pieces, here and there

It has now become my habit to blog about my experience during the run. So this time I thought, instead of doing that, I will put down some nice quotes I noticed during Bangalore Sunfeast World 10K 2010 and Bangalore Duathlon(marriage of running and cycling) with a couple of photographs. So here it goes:

· I would rather wear out than rust away. (This one truly captures a runner's mindset)

· The race for education has no finish line. (How true!)

· I felt like running. (Is there a better reason to run?)

· We are a team in a solo sport. (My own creation - a tribute to my Runnerhood friends)

· If you are not going to cheer them, why did you come here? (Overheard a mother scolding her son who was not too enthusiastic about cheering runners)

My favorite memory, though of those runs, turns out to be during Bangalore Sunfeast World 10K 2010. As I passed by Cubbon Park Library, I saw a girl holding a banner bigger than her size with the message “My daddy is the best”. One of our Runnerhood members, Rajesh, reached to her and said that he also thought her daddy was the best. Later on, while we were feasting on apples, we came to know that she was daughter of Gopal, our fellow runner(Bib no 1550 in below photograph)!

बारिश

द्वंद्व खेलते काले घने बादलो से शुरू होती
गरजती, असीम आकाश के प्रचंड रूप का प्रचार करती
टप्प टप्प गिरती ठंडी बूंदों से, मासूम हंसी सी
ह्रदय के द्वार पे दस्तक देती है ये बारिश |

पेड़ों पे जमी हुई धुल को उड़ाती
मानो बेजान इंसान को झंझोद्ती
हवा में सरसराते पत्तो से सिमटकर
उनको फिर से हरा कर देती है ये बारिश |

स्वयं को नष्ट कर देने की चाह लिए
अविरत गिरते ये बूंदों के मोती
धरती की रगों में खून की तरह मिलकर
नए जीवन के आरम्भ का एलान करती है ये बारिश |

कभी तो प्रियतमा से दूर अकेले प्रेमी को
बेचैन बनाती, विवश करती, तडपाती,
तो कभी दुनिया की भागदौड़ में भटके इंसान को
अपने आप ही से मिला देती है ये बारिश |||

Love, Hate and All That

It was the second league match between Mumbai Indians (MI) and Rajasthan Royals (RR) during the recently concluded IPL season 3. I was obviously supporting MI as the God of Cricket plays for that team. The going was good for the Mumbai side and Sachin was at his best. He hit a brilliant unbeaten half-century to take his side to a strong position in the first innings. He particularly hit very good boundaries to Shane Warne and exploited the field placements to his advantage in the final overs. All was well.

The Rajasthan batting started the way I wanted. They lost a couple of wickets in first 4 overs. Shane Watson was a key player and when he got run out in a horrible manner, I was quite exuberant. I was happy noticing his sad face while he was making his way towards the dug-out. When Yusuf Pathan, the last hope for the stumbling Royals, got out, I jumped out of my seat and celebrated as if I had won the world cup for my country. But there was something really unpleasant and sadistic in that celebration. I soon realized that my joy was not result of my love for Sachin as much as for my hate for Shane Warne and some of his teammates, notably Shane Watson. That was quite disturbing. My ecstasy was justified when Sachin was playing like only he could. But marveling at the misery of Shane Watson or misfortune of his team was mean by all standards.

The realization got me into thinking – what makes me hate Shane Warne? As some people point out, he is not quite a gentleman in the game of the gentlemen. His methods, and execution of them, are quite questionable at times. In short, he is not a good man. But does hating him make me any better? Or more importantly, does it make me worse than him, assuming he is actually a bad person? He is one of our own lot…a fellow human being…as imperfect as we all are. So what really makes us hate other people?

Before I understand source or the cause of hate, my thoughts wandered to the topic of love – the equally celebrated, if not more, brother (or sister, if you will) of hate. The case of love is no less intriguing. It escapes the clutches of reason effortlessly. It gives a miss to the rationale and intelligence, which we proudly consider the gift received only by the mankind. Take the case of Sachin – while all his good shots are considered to be straight out of heaven, like the holy river of Ganges, whenever he gets out, I so conveniently blame the bad bounce, the bad luck or bad umpiring for his dismissal. My love for him does not make me accept that he may be imperfect, out of form or simply, outplayed. When we love someone, we simply underplay her mistakes and impropriety, and overplay her achievements and good deeds, however small they are, again and again.

The question becomes bigger and sharper – why do we hate or love as much as we do? I am sure I am not the first to ask this question, and certainly not the last. Many people have asked the same question to themselves. So do we really have the answer? Or is there no answer because the answer is more uncomfortable than the question? Blaise Pascal, the wise man, did provide one satisfactory explanation – Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas (The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing). I managed to get one different explanation though – these are not to be understood, but experienced.