Lost and never found!!

Seven of us in the gated community we live in (Vista) were pilloried for a couple of weeks - they called the process persuasion.  We were being coercively-cajoled into being members of the Management Committee (MC) for the coming year.  In February, even before the nebulous contours of our potential responsibilities got a semblance of definition, we got bulldozed into a `unanimous election process'.  In short order, we were led like lambs for slaughter to a platform for the community to hail the outcome.

While various other initiatives have been worked on with the knowledge of the residents, we kept one from their prying eyes till now and recently we decided to share this info with them.  The following communication was the means through which the dissemination took place:

"We think it is time to share with the community this information, lifting the curtain on a rather secretive project that has been undertaken by some members of the current MC.  If a member of the team was caught snooping around late in the night, during what looked like a regular post-prandial stroll or a couple of members were found suspiciously inspecting nooks and corners no self-respecting member of the community would have been seen in, there was always a good reason for that.  We have been doubling up as sleuths, voluntarily taking on the undeclared responsibility of restoring lost items to their rightful owners.  We thought we would keep this under the wraps and see the joy on the faces of the `missers' when we restored their 'missings' to them.   While the intentions have been very good, the results have not been very heartening, we should admit.  And herein lies the rub.

One of the things we did on priority when we took over was to check the email database and tabulate all the items mentioned as lost during the past few years.  What we found was staggering, to say the least.  Here goes:

-- Cricket bats which could have been used by about 5 full teams were reported missing.  We suspect that the bats have become part of a sustainable fuels related project, at the behest of someone who is partial to football.  I am sure he thought that the bats were being put to better use, after having seen the quality cricket games in Vista!! (Villas 1X7, X1, X3 and all the others,  take heart; we have not given up; we are made
of stronger stuff than that).

-- A couple of villas reported duplicate key bunches were missing.  It has been a few years since then.
Our immediate endeavour was to ensure that the owners were not standing outside the front door, stranded and waiting for the keys to surface.  Of course, we realised Vista residents are smarter than that - they must have quickly resorted to other solutions. (Villa X3 was one of the two, I think.  The other owner one probably moved residence!).

-- Quite a few people had lost umbrellas, shoes, slippers, sandals.  The team found, to its dismay, that information on the missing items in the database was neither adequate in terms of size, colour, brand etc nor graphic enough to enable differentiation amongst a whole lot of umbrellas and footwear we found invitingly lying around or attached to various residents.  (Sorry,  Villas XX7, X8, X1  - while we pursued
our search vigorously, there was very little hope because such items didnt seem to carry distinct identities, without which, you will agree, we were helpless!)

-- The most interesting missing item I personally identified was some `thread'; owner of Villa X5 had reported this.  Since the date of reporting was very close to Aavani Avittam, we patted ourselves on our backs for our sleuthing abilities and went about looking for `that type of thread'; but to no avail; we do hope he found the thread and did the right thing on that and subsequent Aavani Avittams.  Kudos to owner of V X5 - way to go, it takes courage to report this kind of loss!

-- We found that the owner of V 14X was identified with at least 3 different missing items; a cycle, a blackberry and something else.  We are asking her to hire her own detective team, for her past and future requirements, due to the inviolable rule that we cannot devote too much time on one household.

-- Now, we found some very baffling statements, in the process.  Mrs. S was missing children's play area; somebody was missing the `blue swimming pool' (I know that during our reign it had turned a bit green for a while, but we are saddened by this tendency of people to go to the extreme); someone seemed to indicate that he/she was missing the lake (we understand it was covered by water hyacinth but we swear we could see water here and there.  And, with Mr.N as the custodian, any attempt to physically transplant the lake would be a non-starter, you will agree!!).  We confess, we did not even go around looking for these items. 

-- Then came the absolute impossibles; these various items were listed in the context of `missing' things - `energy and enthusiasm', `human relationships and interactions', `big picture' (this was very dicey; we could not make out whether a very big picture was actually involved in this) etc etc.  While our smart team could hope to put its arms around `real' missing items, even we could not look for abstract things like these; so, we diligently and wisely excluded these items from our list, right at the beginning.  We did the next best thing to finding these - discussed this threadbare in a meeting for about 3 hours and concluded with deep sighs and huge headshakes.

-- There were a couple of inexplicable items with references to missing paras from some email message and the missing page of a passport with a visa stamp.  Well, well - when we reached these, we figured what faced us was a daunting and uphill task and decided to wind up our expedition, without further ado.  The only thing we could do was to write this note, so the community at least came abreast of our intent.  We agree, we do not have too much to show for our efforts. 

Signed by PV
Not on behalf of the MC

PS:  As usual, my severest critic of all times , who lives in my household and goes into the `teacher' mode with me whenever she gets an opportunity, told me that it is inappropriate to indicate the age of people I have named.  She had just passed me by (that is very normal), casting a look at this note and catching the vague outline of the numbers against the names.  Before I could clarify that those are villa numbers, she had deducted 10 marks from my score for the day and gone to work!!

Interested in this retainer contract??

`Arre, tumhara naam Varadarajan hai ki nahin; mai khali number confirm karne ke liye phone kar rahaa hun' said an oily voice, with a hint of impatience because, as usual, I was trying to dance around the periphery

with the call from an unknown number, prompting the caller to repeat his query for the third time.  By now, I was not only irritated with the intrusion but was galled by the rudeness of the individual.  I disconnected

without answering the question and started to read through the article on the betting scandal haunting the Pakistan Cricket team.

I had just returned after the Sunday cricket game inside Adarsh Vista, the community in which I live now -capped by a last ball win I had personally handed over to the opponents.  I had the ball in my hand and had coolly run 5 yards towards the wicket and was close enough to crash the ball into the stumps with the batsman nowhere in sight; and at the last moment, had tossed the ball to the beckoning wicket keeper, who seemed keen to receive the ball and do the needful.  But, lo and behold, just as the ball left my hand, the guy stood up and let it float away.  I felt like a fool because, between us, we fluffed a sitter, thereby converting a certain 'tie' into a frustrating loss for our team.  Some seven pairs of eyes, to which my team-mates were attached,  balefully glared at me, as if my stupidity had resulted in the first ever defeat for them.  Their angst, as that of all the unseen spectators, was perfectly justified.  I was responsible for the loss and was immersed in a healthy dose of self-pity, when the above call came.  I am sure the readers can comprehend my reaction, even though the caller probably was livid!

Two hours later, another man called; this voice was suave and pretty cultured and the caller desired conversation with me after confirming that I was who I was supposed to be.  But the opening gambit from his side had the potential to derail the discussion right-away --- he offered a retainer for me to be on his roll.  I did not realise that my consultancy work had acquired such a global reputation that strangers would offer deals over phone.  So, I  balked at this and the caller smartly figured out I was confused.  He offered to elaborate.  He said the retainer was for aiding a start-up betting company in Bangalore, especially for subtle collaboration during future cricket games.  He wanted to leverage my standing in the community and my proven ability to screw-up easy opportunities, as evidenced during that morning's game, to spread the tentacles of his start-up betting company.  He said he heard from his head-hunter about me after the last-ball bungling of mine that day and made an immediate, board-level decision that I was immensely qualified to be on his roll. He even offered to rename me ---choices were `Walajah Raja'  (just to let me retain a semblance of dignity and a bit of my name)!! Or something totally off the wall his Board would decide.   Citizenship of Pakistan could be organized and I could be settled in pretty quickly, once I graduated from Sunday Vista cricket (no, not in cricket skills; he hinted there was no hope of that at all; but in terms of improvement as a furtive collaborator) to higher planes within the organization.  I was told that being a wicket keeper, I had the incredible opportunity to be a direct understudy with Kamran Akmal  and climb up the rankings in their domain, if I fulfilled my promise as a bungler.  I was even told that I had the good fortune of hobnobbing with some of the Pakistani greats - past and contemporary -  in the entire gamut of activities from spot-fixing to throwing matches, so that I picked up the intricacies of the trade quickly.

Disoriented by this direct assault without any preamble, I was stuttering wildly just as Wodehouse made Lord Emsworth stutter whenever the latter was confronted with a perilous situation involving his favourite pig, the Empress.  That, this man decided was the result of dilemma on my part and went on a `convincing drive',  to apply further pressure by stating that I would not be alone in this recruitment drive.  A captain from that Sunday's game, who completely 'forgot'  the presence of an ace-bowler in his team till the last over and thereby contributed a good chunk of runs by over-bowling himself and that man who was pretending to be the wicket keeper to me during my last ball gaffe, were both on the list and were being approached as we spoke.  This captain had the markings of being a good deputy to Salman Butt, he said. Actually he had a good point.  He challenged me to explain why I, being a regular wicket keeper was fielding at square leg and the `pretender' wicket-keeper, who was from the batting side, managed to displace me at the crucial time!!  Obviously I had no explanation.  And he chuckled with the satisfaction of a man who has done a good day's work and said that his talent-spotter had done a great job of rounding us up for his company.

It did'nt look like those guys would take a `no' for an answer.  I am scurrying around to find out what the others are doing, so that our collective response is appropriate!!

PS:  Just heard on Radio Pakistan - `Now, on to Sports News.  First, we will look at all the results of tomorrow's cricket matches.........' (I borrowed that from some other source).

Mutthiah Muralidharan and Malinga

Recently, there have been many an eulogy of Mutthiah Muralidharan, in the context of his 800th test wicket as well his audacity in almost fixing the date for his achievement!!  A rather innocuous write-up by a friend on Murali just managed to needle me into expressing my thoughts on this record-holder.

I know there are many ardent fans of Murali, but I must confess I am not one of them.  While I have no problem in recognizing all the hurdles he had to jump over to attain his record (which may not be broken for a long time) and therefore his grit and passion for the game, I am not able to reconcile what he peddled as off-spin bowling with `classical spin bowling,' as we know.  Bedi might have crossed the rubicon of civility  when he called Murali a `javeline thrower' rather than an off-spinner, but I must confess I share Bedi's sentiment when it comes to Murali's action.  I cannot think of any other player in the history of cricket who has had such an `unusual' action and was permitted by the establishment to go the distance.  While many have pointed out the fact that this unfortunate bowler has gone through umpteen tests, most imposed and some voluntary.  I dont think Murali becomes a hero just because he submitted himself to all the tests required of him -- he is the cricket equivalent of an `accused' in the legal parlance.  I believe he had no choice, if he wanted to continue and he was not doing any favour to anyone except himself.  And, to his credit, those who scrutinised him, thought it best to let him go on.  That blessed him with legitimacy alright.  While I am not even interested in going into the details of the tests and results thereof (obviously because I am not an expert in measuring bent angles and reasons therefor).  But, as a fan of classical spin bowling of bowlers like Prasanna, Bedi, Venkat, V.V.Kumar, Doshi, Shivalkar, Shane Warne, Underwood, Benaud,  (and we can go on, I guess) and their great actions, I do see why Murali was lucky to survive in first class cricket after those calls by Darrel Hair.  Murali got called for his off-breaks, then the wily fox he is, he bowled a few leg breaks to complete the over and again got called for chucking.  Gleefully he smiled and told his team-mates `look, this is all pre-meditated; otherwise, how can he call me for chucking when I bowl leg-breaks in between??'.  It is indeed almost impossible to chuck a leg-break, as we know, due to the grip and the position of the wrist.  But that is neither here nor there.  The dye was cast and many cricket fans across the globe, who were bewildered by the action of this bowler earlier, nodded and muttered `I thought so!', agreeing with Hair.

Believe me, I am going by what I can see with my naked eye and I dont need the crutch of a Hair or any other umpire.  The problem is, as medically certified, that Murali had a deformity in his bowling arm which did not permit him to straighten the arm as much as normally would have been possible without the deformity.  The authorities devised tests and agreed on a 15 degree angle by which the bowling arm can be crooked by the bowler at the time of delivery.  Where the exact number came from and why might have been explained somewhere, but that was never going to be satisfactory.  Now, if another bowler comes along with a greater degree of deformity and he had a crook his arm even more than Murali to complete the delivery, would this other bowler also be allowed to continue, after a minor adjustment to the 15 degree limit?  Medical certification may state a fact, but the question is whether the permitted degree of crookedness of the arm can be adjusted endlessly to allow bowlers to become something less in the bargain??  Unfortunately, in my opinion, the answer should be a resounding `no' and should have been the case with Murali also.

The other lame argument in favour of Murali has been, well he is not a pace bowler, so even if the action is not completely good, so what.  He is not going to fell anyone with the ball.  Now, that is a diabolical argument.  In my opinion, it is not a coincidence that Murali probably is able to extract more out of any pitch, even the most unresponsive ones, than any other spinner.  One can test this easily by `bowling' a few off breaks and then slightly crooking the arm and `throwing' a few.  The turn and bounce are very different in the latter case, to the significant advantage of the bowler.   If Murali and Prasanna have bowled together at any time, I can bet my bottom dollar that Murali would have got much better turn and bounce than Prasanna on any wicket anywhere!! 

Having said all that,  Murali is the record holder and kudos to him.  He is a respectable man, who overcame humungous difficulties to achieve what he did.  My only wish is that he had reaped that harvest with a sickle less crooked!!

While we were talking of unusual actions, someone asked `what about Malinga?'.  What about Malinga? Yes, his action is absolutely unconventional, but that is not what we are talking about when Murali is the subject.  I hope the difference is clear. Actually,  when I look at people with round-arm
action like Malinga, I wonder how they ever manage to land the balls in the right place, especially at that pace!!  I believe it is much easier to bowl in a particular area, if you have the conventional over-arm action.  Think about it, when you are bowling round-arm, a-la Malinga, the wrist while delivering the ball, is so far away from the head/face, that it requires a lot more skill and practice to sling it to land in a particular spot and manage the pace and direction too.  Try throwing the ball over-arm Vs round-arm and you will know which is more difficult.  So, Malinga's action makes it much more difficult for him and there lies the skill in managing to do what he does, rifling in those toe-crunching yorkers he bowls with unfailing regularity.  I think he is a wonderful bowler, albeit with a different type of action. But his arm is still straight at delivery and action is still legal!!

Airport Musings

A couple of weeks back I took a flight out of Mangalore to Bangalore.  Right through the cab ride to the airport from the city, the monk-like driver maintained a stoic silence, as if he had sworn to his mother that he would not speak to me at all.  That was fine with me because I was still groggy.  As we neared the airport and had the full view of the sloping sides of the hillock on which the airport sat, I was very comfortable in the cocoon of my taxi - until the silence was shattered by the driver, who obviously had decided to communicate!  His right hand shot out of the window as he pointed out a slope and said something in Tulu - he assumed I knew the language.  I didnt but the words `plane accident' were good enough pointers and I was jolted up; he was pointing in the general direction of the slope down which the Air India plane tumbled in flames some 2 weeks earlier.  There was no trace of the accident or any remnants of  the plane but I could recall all those horrid pictures beamed across TV screens for a few days.  I wished the driver had continued  his `mute' status and had not broken me into this significant piece of information just before I was myself taking a flight.  But then, the damage was done and  the driver relapsed into the state advocated by his mother, with a satisfied expression on his face.

I stumbled out of the taxi into the airport, still hassled by the single sentence the driver had spoken during  the entire journey and the reaction that it had evoked in me.  But that did not last long.  The first person I saw when I got into the airport was a foreign woman, wearing a T-Shirt screaming `Math is for uglies.  I dont do math'.  Well, she should have! If that dictum was right, she would have done well.  I wondered why people sport T- shirts with slogans which either dont fit in with their personalities or just dont make any sense at all.  May be, they have never read what is on the T.Shirt.

While I was checking in I specifically asked the girl at the counter whether I could carry my shaving razor on board.  She checked and told me it was  okay.  But as I was going through Security, the personnel there behaved as if I was trying to smuggle a  Uzi in my hand bag.  I was made to open the bag and 3 people  converged on it to inspect the heavy artillery I had concealed in my shaving kit.  I asked them what  the issue was and with the brusqueness that is typical of airport security people  who have identified a `problem passenger',  one said `please open the shaving kit, sir'.  I did and he pulled out the Mach 3 razor stem and the blade, with a gleeful smile as if he has had his prized catch for the day.  He called out to his superior (this worthy's moustache was an inch longer, so I presume it was his superior; or it could be that he is the specialist with razor blades!), who pompously got up after he froze the monitor in its current position and lumbered up to me.  All the four microscopically analysed the razor; the one who joined the group last kept looking  up from the bag at my face as if my visage was a montage of swiftly changing pictures and he did not want to miss any clue!  Then, he said to the others in Malayalam (nowadays nothing prepares you for the specific language you will encounter in an airport Security) that what they deduced was right and they should go ahead.  Now, I was all the more puzzled.  Even as I was wondering whether I was going to be jailed for carrying the razor, one of them peremptorily ordered me to move to one side and turned around to rummage a drawer close-by for some implement.  He brought a note book out, asked for my boarding pass, entered the details on that and asked me to sign.  The notation read `9Wxxx-Seq No.26-Razor blade'.  I am still trying to figure out what really happened there!  If that was the high-point of the Mangalore Airport Security personnel's life on that day, phew - what can I say??

Mangalore airport lounge has the capacity to hold about 100 passengers, waiting to board flights.  The airlines and the airport authorities, in their infinite wisdom, had decided that about 30 minutes would be adequate buffer between two flights and accordingly just as one set of people move out of the lounge towards the aircraft, another set begins moving in.  But, as it happened that day, two flights were delayed by over an hour and the lounge was already choc-a-bloc.  So, there was some intense scrutiny at the boarding pass while one got into  the lounge area, just to ensure that you were on the next flight out.  You could have got admission into the parliament a little more easily.  I managed to squeeze myself into one of the three seats strategically located between the coffee vendor and the water dispenser.  Obviously liquids were flowing generously all around and some of it splashed on to the seats closeby.  The other two seats were taken by a gentleman in white dhoti and shirt and his wife in a Kanjeevaram   After a few minutes, the wife expressed her desire to get a cup of coffee, after wondering whether it was as good as what she made at home.  The gentleman must have thought that this was a good opportunity to pass subtle judgement on the quality of coffee at home, for he promptly procured coffee in a paper cup and handed that over to the wife.  The coffee vendors at airports do not pretend to be adept at matching the heat of the liquid to the ability of the paper cup to contain the  same.  While the transfer from the vendor to the husband and to the wife thereon took place swiftly, the wife had no one to transfer to, since she was the ultimate user.  Now, she was stuck with a very hot paper cup, which she juggled from one hand to the other for 10 seconds before muttering under her breath to the husband `what the hell have you done??  How am I supposed to hold this??'.  Husbands, as a species, do not have the genius to resolve such problems quickly, so this one just looked at the wife bemusedly and blinked a few times.  So, the wife barked at him -no longer under the breath - to get another paper cup, even as she looked for a place to park the scalding offender.  But the airport authorities would rather have provided another seat for a harried passenger than space for a paper cup, as you know.  So, she continued to juggle, a couple of drops of coffee splashing on to her Kanjeevaram, evoking a suitable amount of horror in her expression.  At this juncture, the husband returned with a pathetic look on his face, which screamed 'no extra paper cup'!!  He explained or tried to (the repeated movement of the jaw up and down was the indication, a la Robert in Everybody Loves Raymond), that extra cups are not freely doled out by the vendor.  But before he had finished, the lady was at the coffee vendor's throat in a flash.  I think that guy got what he deserved.  After a very concise dose of dignified shouting, the lady returned to her seat with not one but two extra cups.  She pleasantly asked her husband whether  he wanted to have a sip!!  Her way of driving home the point, I guess.  All the husband could do was to turn to the vendor and glare at him in disgust!

While we sat in the lounge, I heard an announcement that an Air India flight from Dubai has been diverted to Cochin because of bad weather at Mangalore airport.  I was aghast because exactly at that moment, a Jet Airways flight from Bombay was landing and moving towards the terminal.  And then a Kingfisher flight from Bangalore.  Now, why was it that what was good for the goose was not good for the  gander?  Obviously Air India was being economical with truth and this `we-do-not-land-unless-the-weather-is-perfect' posturing seemed like an excuse for some subterfuge.  A few Air India passengers with high energy and low IQ levels (this, you would agree, is a deadly combination) promptly started the usual yelling session, without any specific audience in mind.  But Air India personnel have perfected the art of handling such situations over the years and they did very well by being conspicuously absent from the scene. While this commotion was on, two other flights announced their departure and just flew away!!  Just at this moment, the announcer came on and said Air India regretted that they could not even give a time of arrival for the diverted flight because the weather continued to be bad in Mangalore airport.  Instantly, the decibal level of the yelling exercise went up by a few notches, still without anyone  paying any attention.  It has been over two weeks after my departure from that airport and I hope the Air India passengers have since left!!

Cut over to another  airport, another time.  This was a week back, on our way from Madras to New York, at the Brussels airport.  Those who have flown Jet Airways in this segment would have noticed that Brussels airport, during this stop-over, has a very strong resemblance in parts to an Indian airport or at least Singapore/Kuala Lumpur/Colombo.  The reason for this is that six Jet Airways flights from India and North America (moving  in the opposite direction) land at Brussels at the same time and for about 3 hours, the airport has around 1500 Indians recreating the `home' ambience on alien shores!!  At any point during this time, one can throw a brick in any general direction and hit about 10 Indians.  The consequence of this should also be clear.  We, Indians, have our own way of travelling and using transit time/space and nowhere else is this more evident than in Brussels.  During the transit security check, one could hear some 20 different languages being spoken, still some basic instructions from the Security pesonnel being misunderstood or ignored/flouted totally.  Queues with Indians take their own shapes and sometimes branches are formed organically even as the main trunk struggles to stay in some form of control.  Here, space for 4 queues were visible and but I could count some 7 different lines having formed.  Belgian authorities, I guess, have started managing Indians during this transit period in a very Indian way by ignoring all transgressions and hoping that nothing goes wrong.

Nocturnal debates

`Appa, Appa, get up!', hissed someone by my bedside, even though it must have been almost impossible to do the hissing without the help of sibilants in the words hissed!  I was groggy, as one would be if one had  gone to sleep very late and obviously was not able to figure out who was addressing me with such filial affection in the dead of the night.  The hazy form in the not-even-diffused-light zone that our bed room is, did not betray too many clues to the identity of this intruder into my sleep.  I got up with a start, sputtering a jumble which was meant to convey the profound question `who is it?'; but due to the mixed feelings of surprise, a bit of fright and anxiety, served straight from the blender of half-sleep, my question did not come out right and the unknown intruder was not impressed at all by my delivery capabilities.  He (even in that highly unsteady state, my sleuthing skills had not deserted me and I could divine that it was a male, from the voice) vented his displeasure by yanking my arm and bringing me outside the bed room.  He said `amma is sleeping, let us not disturb her', as a helpful footnote.  Very considerate of this mysterious guy, I thought, who is chivalrous enough to want to leave `amma' undisturbed, even as he uses reasonable force to get me out of the same bed!!  In the living room, with some feeble light seeping through from the street, I could see a very familiar face looking at me with a mixture of irritation and impatience.  Oh my God, this looks like my son from the US, I thought.  Well, that was good enough to trigger memories of a chain of recent events, which began with the son's arrival late in the night and culminated in our going to bed inordinately later.  I came out of my somnolence with a shudder, realizing fully that he desired urgent conversation with me.

`How can you guys sleep so soundly when there is such pandemonium around?' was the question my son posed after he ascertained that I was no longer more half-wit than usual.  Now, you will agree this is very rich, being asked this when I had gone to sleep almost 5 hours behind schedule.   I almost flared up, but restrained myself when I remembered he must be jet-lagging.  But that still did not explain the pandemonium bit, because people in the community I lived are so decent that they never get verbal or vocal expressing their displeasure; they prefer the silent weapon of email; so I sought elucidation.  He said `listen to that....that babel of voices'.  I harked and then yes, I heard.  A chorus of about 286 dogs and half that number of puppies, barking their heads off.  I could even tell that a majority of the canine fraternity were females, from the way they barked (I don't care to explain that further; I am smarter than you think!).   `Oh, that.  We have had this accompaniment to our sleep for the past few months', I explained.   `Nowadays, I find it difficult to slide into slumber, if the yelping concert is not presented at the usual time; tonight it seems to be delayed'.  My son did not hide his disgust and gave me that look which suggested that I should have my head examined without further delay.  I sat him down and laboured into a patient explanation.

This huge vacant lot behind our house has, of late, become the daily conference venue for all stray dogs in the neighbourhood.  There are a few huts in the lot, in which some workers lived with their families, the total population being around 30 or so.   We always wondered how they could ignore all this nuisance created by these strays in their midst and go on with their lives, as if the significant intrusion did not exist.  But then, we knew, as a community, the difficulties in dealing with a single stray and appreciated their inability to deal with a battalion of the species.  Invariably, the nocturnal debate commences around 11.30 pm, just about the time I had come to the conclusion that I should draw the curtain on my rather busy-doing-nothing special-routine and hit the sack.  I can always hear the clarion call coming from what I visualise as a senior dog, with the pretty guttural voice.  Whether it is the time of the day that prompts this call or some other unseen event triggers it, I have so far not been privy to, because I refuse the invitation to get close enough to observe the process more minutely.  And whether the dogs are assembled already when the call pans out, signalling the commencement of the debate or it is just that - 'an all-hands-to-the-deck' kind of call to the registered members of the association.  Whichever it is, I strongly believe the strays have a more effective medium of communication than humans do; as you can see, their way completely eliminates complaints such as `I dont see our email more than twice a day, so get real!'. You see, dont you, that by going public with the first set of howls, the senior dog leaves absolutely no room for any lingering doubt in the minds of the public.  Even some people might be somewhat tempted to participate; the call is that effective.

Now the activity begins in right earnest.  Initially, there are intermittent barks, as if the delegates are exchanging pleasantries like `how was dinner?' and `oh, dont ask; some awful offering at Vista; I just cant imagine how PEOPLE can suffer through such food'.  This relatively harmless pow-wow goes on for a few minutes.  Then,  two or three more senior dogs let out relatively placid but extended barks, as if they are setting the topic for the day and the tone too. This marks a change in the intensity level of the proceedings.  The tone of the debate gets testy, there is an edge of nastiness to the exchanges and there is some animated, group discussion; the problem is this invariably resembles the daily durbar that Arnab Goswamy holds (Times Now 9pm), where between Arnab and one so-called expert, they do not even let the other experts say a few words edgeways.  The consequence is nobody can hear even a couple of words properly till everyone realizes that the end has arrived when Arnab,  with terminal finality, pronounces that all the time he had has been used by four people talking concurrently and he will now move on to the another similarly lively discussion in 2 minutes, please dont go away!!  Indeed, there are lulls in the canine debate also, as if some voiceover-less commercial is running there (I wish I could look at the scene and validate this, but the light does not help) and then you can tell that the next bunch of experts have joined Arnab, going by the sheer cacophony that follows for the next 15 minutes.  There is not much variation from now on, until at some point, the senior dog orchestrates the crescendo and everyone pitches in and if your imagination is vivid enough you can visualise some dog heads falling on the ground due to some serious barking and howling!!  Then, there is silence, as if someone has switched things off...all at once.  It is almost like the cricket games we have in our community, with people appealing for something or the other every ball towards the end, play being stopped after every single ball to count the runs scored, right from the first run, in order to reconcile the number for both the sides, a few more shouts and loud pronouncements and then there is the quiet breakfast, instead of just silence in this case.  Could it be that the strays are eating a late supper at the end??  This is when I drift off to sleep.

Despite my best efforts to play out the scenario as truthfully to the original as possible, my son was ostensibly unconvinced and barked to me (contextually, everything sounds like a bark at this time of the night to me) to listen carefully.  He was not talking about dogs.  When I paid some attention, I could hear some voices, yes, voices shrieking away.  Oh, this was some vicious fighting going on at the back, as if people wanted to compete with the dogs for attention.   Men, women, children, everyone had something to say and the common denominators were the anger in their voices and the very high decibal level employed.   `This is very distressing, son; we had made our best efforts to tell these worker folks living behind our house to sort our their differences at a reasonable hour and in an amicable way (that means not more than 50 blows exchanged during one session); but they just dont seem to understand that other people need to sleep.  Last week, we went across, called the whole group and told them to appoint a Management Committee to resolve issues and if required to mediate between groups.  We were told that they had managed to set up the committee and people were happy that things were going well.  I wonder what has changed all of a sudden that tonight they are back to their best bickering selves.  We will check tomorrow, now you go back to sleep or enjoy your jetlag or whatever', I said to my son and re-retired to my bed.

Next day, a few of our wise men went to the back-lot to talk to the workers and my son went along, at my invitation to see how wisdom and experience are best used in mediation.  We were told that some stray dogs 'belonging' to one group were stoned by another group last night due to the unscheduled howling session, leading to viscerally verbal volleys.  We asked what happened to the management committee route for resolutions.  One young guy told us `sir, yes, that would have probably worked normally.  But in this case, there was no chance'.  We asked `why?'; he said `the management committee itself was split vertically and the two groups were at each other's throats to signal the start of the fight, due to their allegiance to specific strays.  After that the rest of the residents split according to their preference and joined the fight. You did not tell us how such cases can be sorted out!!'.  The only sound I could hear was my son laughing away like a mad man, despite all the others glaring at him malevolently.

How, indeed, to solve such predicaments ??  We are still searching for answers....

An elite restaurant in a small town!!

During student life sinful living for us was only in the realms of fantasy and what was in the pocket supported an occasional binge at a road-side eatery where food was good, so long as we were not finicky about the ambience and cleanliness. I dont believe any of us had seen a five-star hotel or a really upmarket restaurant in a good city.  So, the range of our gastronomical imagination never took us beyond what we could actually see on Thuthukudi streets (or may be Madurai), in terms of the class of the restaurant.  In that context, Indian Coffee House (ICH, for short) was probably the equivalent of a 5-star eatery for us those days.  ICH was located, as most people know, next to Sridhara Vilas and that suited most of us since that fell smack in the middle of the town when we criss-crossed from one end to another for whatever inane reason.  Year 1970 and place, Thuthukudi!!

They had nice tables with chequered, red-white table cloth and comfortable, low chairs.  The waiters wore white trousers, white cotton coats and white `Gandhi' caps made of thick cotton.  This ensemble definitely elevated the ranking of ICH a few notches in our perception, because those were the days when waiters in more humble restaurants moved about with veshti in half mast, a shirt and a napkin on the shoulders, with the ubiquitous pencil daintily poised behind one ear.   The ambience in ICH was much better than any other restaurant I had visited those days. As a result, for most of us, ICH became the benchmark insofaras our vision of fine-dining was concerned.  Those were the ways of the uninitiated and callow youth that we were, who had not seen better; but what was in the domain of the unknown did not affect us and ICH retained the prime slot for long.

Much as I try, I cannot recall having eaten anything else in ICH, other than their iconic Masala Dosai.  The dosai itself was just outstanding, probably one of the best I had eaten. But the way it was presented and the camaraderie with which it was done by that little rascal Ramadas (he was our Aasthana waiter, whenever we visited) enhanced the whole eating experience, as to-day's marketing guru would have opined!  Ramadas was all of 5 feet, chirpy as a bird and he knew how to keep a customer.  I would have gladly certified that `he was an asset to the establishment' if anyone had asked!! While dealing with Ramadas one felt as if he was your personal valet for the limited time and the very idea made one euphoric, especially considering the fact that the depleted coffers at one's disposal boasted all of about 1 rupee or so.  I dont even remember
Ramadas going to another table when we were around; he would chat about college; about tennis (he knew we played at the club nearby, often); and cricket (most of our celebrations of victories were at ICH).  So the rapport was absolutely brilliant.  And a few times a few of us had fallen a tad short of dough and had to request him to `adjust' the bill accordingly and he obliged without blinking an eye-lid.  You
could expect that kind of `service' if you were a heavy tipper, but he knew we were just about scrounging the bottom and would give him a small tip when we could.  That endeared him to us for ever.  But, whenever we ate with my friend's brother (who was into business at that time), we ensured that Ramadas got a heavy tip
and that kept Ramadas going for some time.

Now, going back to the presentation part, ICH was the only joint where the masala dosai came quartered,  in 4 pieces.  It had a crisp, golden brown crust, just so right, with a filling that was partial to onion and chillies rather than potato and tasted very different in some indescribable way.  And it would come to you in a plate, cut into 4 pieces, with a hint of butter lingering somewhere inside.  And the crust/mavu was a bit thicker than the other restaurants and that made the whole dosai a bit heavier and easier to carve into pieces.  Now, even
though the dosai came with the usual accompanying suspects, chutney and sambar, one never really needed those; almost as if the dosai was arrogant enough to tell us `you dont those silly crutches to enjoy me!'.   We just succumbed to the appeal earnestly. And Ramadas was always there till the first few morsels glided in and the verdict was pronounced.  Despite that one being our 256th dosai, he was still anxious to know whether they got it right!!  I believe that made for the consistent quality of the product in ICH. 

The only other thing we had in ICH always was the cuppa!  Very good filter coffee it was and we always felt like Wooster after a sumptuous Jeeves breakfast, when we were done!  And we paid something like a princely 1 rupee for this whole orgasmic experience!!   The only time when the fare varied was when the aforesaid friend's brother, after a game of tennis at IOC, smilingly told me `Raju, you played well today;
so take me to ICH'.  I had absolutely no hesitation in saying yes, because despite the way it started, the friend's brother paid up the bill always. On those occasions, the only change was we had 2 masala dosais each, instead of the usual, since Mani could support a few more of those!

Once a couple of friends,  Mohan, Raghavan and I were already inside ICH with our cycles parked out.  We had seen Kannamani, another friend, breezing past us in the opposite direction in a hell of a hurry; we did not know whether he saw us or not and we were a bit perturbed because we had money only for 3 dosais and coffees and there was no way of stretching things even a bit.  So, as we sat down, Raghavan said `ippa Kannamani vandhudaporaan' and chuckled.  We chose to ignore that warning at our own peril. The dosais had just arrived, and lo and behold, Kannamani did make his appearance with an effusive `Kannamani Vandhachu'!  We were flabbergasted and asked him how he knew we were in ICH. He said to me `with your horse standing outside, how can anyone not know you guys were here'?  He was referring to my cycle from the 1920s (my grandfather's - it had a Royce dynamo and other attractive `imported' features),
which was a foot taller than all the other cycles and had an imposing presence anywhere!  We had to scrounge and ask Ramadas to make some `adjustment' once more, for Kannamani had all of 25 paise on him for the repast!

ICH shut down sometime soon after I left, probably.  I dont know exactly when.  Also, I heard that Ramadas became a rickshaw puller and was finally involved in a murder case.  Ramadas and a murder??  I wish I could find out where he is now...would love to take care of his requirements for those simple, but lovely gestures of his during those fantastic visits to ICH.

The best tribute to ICH was that, as long as it was around, some of us refused to step into Sridhara Vilas, despite the latter being touted as a better family restaurant by our parents!!

Cricket???

Let me confess, I am not a fan of T20, whatever the entertainment value is.  So, these are undoubtedly the views of a prejudiced man.  I am willing to be pilloried, all for a good cause!

If you come to analyze the game -- I would warn against taking too long or being too clinical, since this is a capsule version and would not bear great scrutiny -- clearly Cricket as we know has been bastardized (forgive the language) badly in order to create this huge rigmarole, which is supposed to keep people on the edge for 3.5 hours.  Only because anything less than a four or a six every ball is below par for the course! This is a game in which, in order to succeed s a batsman, one has to remove the left leg (if a right-hander) to clear the way and assume a positively ugly posture to heave the ball over the fence, contrary to whatever we have learnt. A game, wherein, we see batsmen crawling (sometimes on all fours) all across the crease in an attempt to play a crass, cross-batted cow-shot-slog or play what has become the most artistic shot of this form of cricket, a convoluted scoop from way outside the off to the finest of fine legs; a game in which, many a time, a batsman looks like he is going to use the bat as a spoon to move the ball into his own or the wicket-keeper's mouth and succeeds in scoring boundaries; a game which makes all the commentators agree that `it was a good/genuine cricket shot' about 4 times in a match, thereby confirming that the rest of the proceedings was obviously not cricket, as they know.  And they should know!! And, oh, a game in which the bowler is just expected to provide as little fodder to the batsman as possible,  with the least support in the field,  little else.

A game which can make a heroes of batsman who would probably find it difficult to score 10 scratchy runs in other, more probing forms of the game, if he is lucky to escape with the chances he offers to get out;  a game, in which, a good bowler like Ashwin has to bowl alternately with his regular and round-arm actions to `deceive' the batsman.  In essence, this version of the game is all about getting runs, regardless of  how crude the methods are.  The end is all that matters, the means be damned!  Considering that, what else could we expect from those managing this game than sleaze, corruption, absolute disregard for laws of the land and willingness to share the ill-earned millions with others of their ilk??  Why are we surprised??  May be, by the extent of the disease; looks like in every turn in the administration of the game, someone has benefited from the devious actions of the crooked bosses and that virtually mirrors which happens on the field.

May be, the jury is still out on that.  But, I can tell you, it is all bemusing.  Do I watch the games?  I do,
once in a while, to check if anything has changed!  Yes there is change, but not for the better...but can never sit through the whole 20 hours of one side.  And believe me, I am the kind of guy, who used to hang on to Radio Ceylon, broadcasting the commentary on a game between University of Colombo and University of Kandy (or something similar), just to feel the flow of the great game, however obscure the names were, no matter one did not know anyone amongst the 22 players!! 

Like so many other things  in modern life, this version of cricket has come to pass and we just have to put up with that, I guess.  Probably because this game also requires a set of skills and pays the players rather well for a short day's work.  And some people don't seem to mind and are willing to be entertained this way.  But, for god's sake, don't expect me to love and embrace it.