The Preciously Talented Wall

Not so long ago, I had posted a facebook status update indicating that I thought the phrase 'The Wall' was rather a poor nickname for someone who has arguably been the most effective Indian of the past decade.

This status update was made the subject of plenty of Inference and yours truly was upbraided in no small measure for using the 'F word'. Indeed this little word has caused plenty of heartache, plenty of debate and much Russell Peterhood as regards its versatility when it is in fact no more versatile than any expletive that implies the fascinating things it does.

I choose, however, for this post to dwell upon another more Inferentially acceptable F word : Fortress. And I intend to use the same Rahul Dravid for this purpose.

I first saw Dravid on TV in the Lords test of 1996, where he was overshadowed by Ganguly (my silly seven year old mind thought so anyway). He seemed rather too inclined to lean forward, plant the foot and halt the progress of the ball, in a word - defend. Furthermore, the expression on his face was rather uncomfortable; he looked to me like a toothless crocodile - menacing but incapable of causing damage.

Fortunately for me and the historical record of my intelligence, this opinion was not to last very long. Within a year, Dravid had become my favourite Indian batsman , within two years he became the reason I still supported the Indian cricket team on a few occasions. And now that I know Rahul Dravid is never again going to walk in for India at number three, those occasions are set to diminish further.
But enough about me. Let's talk about the man himself. A man who has been cliched by people as 'Lacking Talent but making up through Sheer Hard Work' .
I don't know precisely what the Oxford dictionary's definition of 'talent' is but I know very well what I consider it to be. To me, an exceptional talent is one capable of performing what very few others can. And in cricket, the ability to score of  quality bowling, particularly quality fast bowling on a helpful track, seems to be the single most elusive one.
Dravid possesses this ability in bountiful quantities, as he has proved on countless occasions, the most stark being last year, his thirty-ninth in this world and last as a Test batsman. That lightning response when he saw a fast bowler attempting to bounce him out, be it a 6'6" English Broad or a 5'8" Barbadian Edwards. That wonderful straight bat with the perfectly soft hands when  a tricky good length delivery swinging away outside the off stump approached. That rock solid defence when they tried to slip in a yorker to break through his fortress. Ever so often, that glorious square drive, never hit too hard, as authoritative as a Supreme Court judge and as balanced as the Tied Test. And occasionally, the commanding  pull shot  no one else in the team dared  play. All these are indications of an exceptional talent made all the more phenomenal by the fact that fast bowlers and greentops in India are about as sparse as hundreds have been for Tendulkar in the past year.
Yet, Dravid will continue to have patronising words like 'gritty' and 'technically perfect' associated with him. And the primary reason for this is because if he lacks one quality, it is the (quite unnecessary) ability to make his innings look spectacular. He possesses neither the crease-grace of Tendulkar  nor the flashiness of Sehwag. His style is a down to earth and practical with everything geared towards effectiveness for the team. And it is this, which is perhaps his greatest talent, which has lead the  cricket-watching flock to bandy their ridiculous adjectives around.

But then, he is a possessed of another great gift and that is wisdom. And therefore, unlike me,  while he is aware of all of this, he very likely gives not a damn about it. 

Opera Time

Unusual as this may sound in a city whose Western musical taste is largely herd-motivated, February is turning out to be a very exciting month for something rather different. In a first, the NCPA has managed to tie the tiny, egotistical and infighting western classical music community of Mumbai together, to combine them with a bunch of Kazakhs, a couple of 'maestros', two trained opera instructors and some fabulously talented soloists to stage what is easily the largest undertaking of art music the city has witnessed in a while.

Saturday , the 18th of February saw the first of three runs of the double opera performance - Pagliacci by Leoncavallo and Cavaleria Rusticanna by Mascagni.  Both operas demand large choruses - the Paglacci set was  designed for seventy five and that of Cavaleria exceeded a hundred. The Carmina Burana, a profane, repetitive work by Carl Orff which is to be staged later this month demands a huge chorus as well; this is what will wind up the entire festival and is an appropriately loud ending to it all.

In Mumbai, many of us who have studied music for years, indeed a large number of music teachers in the city, bypass opera completely when it comes to musical instruction. We are taught our respective instrument, the pretentious and the interested attend the occasional concert for that instrument - at the very maximum, Zubin Mehta's symphonic concerts are given some importance. In a city which has an entire area known as 'Opera House' , opera has remained a caricature for most of us - the word invokes images of a fat lady singing F6 and breaking wine glasses in the process. For others it is viewed suspiciously , as something dandy and elitist. Still others look down upon it as being overblown, over-dramatic and altogether ridiculous.

What most us who have been a part of this experience( I was singing in the chorus too before I was chucked out in absentia) have  realised, is that opera IS all those things. The stories are ridiculous, the emotions they invoke are overdone and the results are virtually  impossible. Furthermore, the plots are mind-numbingly similar : Tenor wants to sleep with soprano, bass strongly objects to this (generally, bass is father/husband of soprano), contralto tries to counsel soprano, soprano pigheadedly  ignores counselling, tenor has his way with soprano, bass erupts like a microwaved egg yolk,  delivers furious harangue to wall or terrified manservant,   challenges tenor to duel, kills tenor (sometimes tenor kills bass)  and soprano is left weeping .


Stop to think for a minute. Can anyone take repeat after repeat of this, albeit to different music and sets, seriously? Indeed could anyone, even the most eighteenth century of eighteenth century Italians have been actually entertained by it all?
The answer is no and yes. For here lies the true secret to the fascinating world of opera love - opera is never meant to be taken too seriously. The very characteristics that make it foolish and ridiculous are the ones  that make it so very spectacular .  Just suppose the Queen of the Night had politely told her daughter that she had had enough of Sarastro and it was time to administer a spot of  arsenic in the evening soup. Altogether a much more plausible scenario than the mixture of yelling, singing and brandishing of  knives that Mozart actually used; but ask yourself : would the divine notes of Der Holle Rache been possible had it actually panned out this way? I think not.

There is a lot one can find in opera when one does go into its finer points, the most notable being that it is the closest one can get to complete live art ( I quote Wagner) - a combination of music, art design and drama. However, appreciating completely each aspect and then appreciating the whole is still some distance away; we are just beginning and it is certainly an acquired taste.

I genuinely hope that this does not end up being a once in a decade event about which we reminisce, misty-eyed, in our dotage. I would even be so bold as to wish the NCPA  make this Mumbai's yearly opera season - progressively bigger and grander. And most importantly, I hope that this is the start of an opera culture in our city. Mumbai needs it.

Eh?

Apologies to the millions of avid readers who have been breathlessly awaiting this moment, but I have been somewhat occupied in the past month. Several tasks contributed to this state of occupation - the most notable being my attempt at mastering the one handed push-up. For those of you who aren't quite sure what this is, prostrate yourself on the ground, shove an arm dead in front of your nose and let the other one dangle limply by your side. Then push for all you are worth, making sure not to let the mid-riff lag or the spirits sag. Either one of these will cause you to end up with a premature slipped disc, a malady that  one of my fifth cousins regularly suffers from.
However when you achieve complete control of your buttocks and their  corresponding frontals you will experience the joyous sensation having executed the one handed push up. Your arm will experience tremendous pain and you will be unable to shake hands with a German woman for a week.

A forgotten letter from Ganguly

                      ** The Royal Residence of His Ganguliness, the Prince of Calcutta **

Dear Suresh Raina,

It seems to me that you , though highly talented, have got your priorities mixed up. A few days ago, I heard from Duncan Fletcher that you have been working extremely hard on playing the short ball because you want to excel at Test Cricket. This is a phase that I myself went through which led to my humiliation at the hands of Laxmipathy Balaji and a couple of old Australians . After this nadir, I decided to reflect. And now, eight years later I am in a position to advise.

In my inimitable style, I shall begin by calling a spade a spade and telling you that on air, Nasser Hussain called you a short ball donkey.
A cursory glance at the statement does not indicate much danger. After all, Nasser Hussain has used the D word before. Furthermore, IPL owners seldom watch Sky Sports (where Hussain commentates). And , let’s be honest about it,  they are the ones that matter these days , when international tours have become a gamble - with  bowlers  being permitted to bowl over 140 kph and groundsmen being allowed to grow grass on the pitch.


Let us, however, examine the identity of the man who has made the statement. Former 'English' captain, Nasser Hussain. Note my inverted commas please. For how indeed can an Englishman be named such? I have discussed the matter with Ravi Shastri and we agree that the jealous ECB have conspired to name their English captain with a subcontinent name. The mind games had already started when Hussain made his debut, not merely before this series as has been suggested by Sunil Gavaskar.

This ECB employee is is dangerous and will stop at nothing; he has now made disparaging remarks about the three most exciting Indian left-handers of the last decade: Myself, Yuvraj, and you.
In 2001/02, Nasser Hussain’s England and I were locked in a confrontation which was to cause me severe distress. I had a dream once: Nasser Hussain was entering Kolkata and was immediately greeted by a crowd of my subjects screaming "Nasser, go back". So far, so good. But then, all of a sudden, he turned into a bare-chested, cricket ball tossing Andrew Flintoff. The proud Calcuttans were replaced by nasty old men in suits and hats. And I was suddenly in the middle of Headingley stadium, frozen, as Flintoff rushed in towards me. He bowled a bouncer and then… then I woke up.

Variants of this dream occurred for months - all of them had two things in common: Nasser Hussain, and Andrew Flintoff without his shirt.

My rivalry with the English and an innate, unnecessary complex about the short ball were at the root of this. I soon got my revenge though, and it has gone down in the annals of Natwest Trophy history. After I had done my singularly unique act of imitation, tiresome Englishmen did not enter my dreams any more. I was able to sleep comfortably and I felt more secure about my status as the captain that ushered in a New, Aggressive and Fearless India.

Why have I told you this? So that you may listen, and learn. You are a bright young star and you too have a problem with the short ball. Remember not to waste your time trying to correct it - it is already too late and simply not worth the effort. The point, my boy, is believe in yourself. Be fiery. Do not hesitate to make a display. Play to your strengths. Which is clearly IPL cricket and limited overs matches in the subcontinent.

Which brings me to my final point. You may hear Me, in my commentary, regularly referring to how you should be tackling the short ball and how you should prepare properly for Test matches. Take it with a pinch of salt. What I really have to communicate to you, I have done so in this letter. Retire from overseas cricket, Suresh. You have a long and fruitful career record ahead of you. Don't ruin it.

Your Prince, philosopher and guide,

Sourav Ganguly

Why Fast?

Fasting has a rich and colourful history. After all Jesus did it for forty days, Gandhi did it for plenty of days and I continue to do it every Good Friday. The results of the fasting by the aforementioned : the defeat of the Devil , the defeat of the British and grand effects which remain to be seen.
However, my friends, there has lately been a besmirching of the grave tradition of fasting. For yesterday, five thousand rickshaw drivers sat cross-legged beneath the peepul trees outside the transport department, subsisting purely on a diet of air and and dust. That's right, our rickshaw drivers  decided to go on a Fast - one that promises to be more gruelling than that of Baba Ramdev and nearly at par with Mr. Modi.
One can sympathise with both Baba Ramdev's and Mr Modi's fasts. After all , Baba Ramdev is a yoga instructor and yogic instructors who don't periodically go on fasts are simply not the real deal. With Mr Modi, again, we understand. In a territory of political unrest such as Gujarat, there is nothing that soothes the rage of the fiery condemners like the knowledge that their prime target is going without three square meals.

But the rickshaw drivers?
At every step of the way, the connections don't quite add up. Let's take a possible series of connections :
I had my meter corrected -> I feel hard done by -> I fast.
Examine the first connection.. My meter has just been corrected. As a responsible citizen of India, shouldn't this be my reaction ? : "Excellent, one more substandard object in my country is now functioning as it should. Particularly since I deal directly with it. I will hold my head high, clap my grubby hands and laud the government hoping that the next item on the list is the foul roads".
Contrary to all expectation, the reaction of the rickshaw drivers was p-p-p-petulance.
And now, for the second connection:
 I am irritated and angry and therefore I fast.
Wouldn't this be more appropriate?  : "I am irritated and angry, therefore I drown my sorrows in food and drink". For I have noticed that Catholics are liable to be  irritable on Good Friday for no other reason than lack of food. And because it is self-imposed. If I, catholic, am on the street without anything to eat and no means to assuage my hunger, I would feel quite supplicant towards God and the public - an avemarie never too far from my lips. However , I am not destitute and not on the streets. Therefore, on Good Friday it is quite a different emotion that gnaws at my consciousness  - extreme, palpable irritation. And if I have another reason to be irritated before the hunger starts taking over, God help the poor fool who attempts to pronounce my name wrong.

Why have I said all this? Merely to point to the fact that if you are  a)Not Gandhi b) Not Baba Ramdev and c) Not Mr. Modi , fasting is simply not the solution .

However, for the rest of us, this debilitating fast which kept the rickshaw drivers off the road meant good news. The roads were cleaner, better, brighter. There were fewer cockroach like structures, and the ones present did not have  streams of red paan periodically shooting from their orifices (wherefore I infer that rickshaw-fasting includes abstinence from paan-chewing) . Furthermore, if one looked sufficiently far, one could see the odd rickshaw driver running away from a mob of other drivers determined to flog him. I gather these drivers-errant were caught  in the act of surreptitious ice-cream-indulgence by the fasting masses.

And now, I must become serious.
For I have a plan, O my brothers. In this modern mayhem called Modern Mother India, it is extremely easy to call a fast. Let's fast. You and I. I and you. Let's abstain from the cockroaches, let's use our God-given legs. This will cause the amusing incidents mentioned above to continue while improving our much battered health - battered further by the excreting cockroaches. For my part, I don't mind the enforcement of Pest Control till Andheri. Maybe we can all get used to that eventually. Whatever happens, if we adhere to this we will be in a position to assert that it is we, Homo Sapiens will be in control, and not the three legged insects.