[The article has been originlly published here. Tanul hopes to write with increased regularity at Holdingwilley]
India has never been a land where wicketkeeper's willow has dictated the terms to the ball. There have always been wicket keepers who can bat a bit. Yes. And I do remember Mongia's 152 against Australia, and his inconsistent pinch hitting prowess, Dasgupta's innings to salvage our pride against the Proteas. But, these examples are few and far. Wicketkeepers have always been the guardians of the tailenders. Nothing more. Nothing less.
That sunny morning in Vishakhapatnam saw a wicket keeper of a different kind. India was playing Pakistan. And while batting first, a wicket fell in the 4th over, and in walked a batsman, who was heard of only on the domestic circuit, and faintly in the previous series against Bangladesh. He made his way to the centre, and it was a clear indication that he had been sent as a pinch hitter. His first major one day innings, and all the team wants is to utilize the first 15 overs. The whole country would be content with a snappy 40. He begins his innings - for the lack of a polite word - shoddily. He knicks the balls outside off to third man, gets beaten. But, even then manages a brisk start. We don't care either. Runs are important, no matter how they come, one of the staple lines in the annals of a cricket commentator’s book is repeated for the nth time to reassure our woot against a nervous, inept batting display by a newbie.
Slowly, but surely, he settles. Both in the pitch, the international arena, and his own skin. And then he bats, as if there is indeed no tomorrow. He goes down the track, cuts, pulls, hits the ball for a single and steals a two. We are reminded that he would keep wickets for us, later in the day. Damn! He could get into any side just on the basis of his batting. Similar to Sehwag, he hasn't got the best of techniques, but, his hand-eye-coordination has pummeled Pakistan to ignominy. 148 runs at a blinding speed. Take that!
The biggest disservice to some one's talent is by labeling his work of genius as a 'fluke'. A one off thing. 148 was a chocolate syrup. But, was he here to stay? The majority was still skeptical. Dhoni blurred the line, some months later at Jaipur. There are some players with which you associate something very personal. For me, if you say Jonty Rhodes, the first thing that flashes my mind is him running out Inzamam-ul-Haq by breaking the stumps in the '92 World Cup. Every cricket fanatic has a distinct remembrance of each player. I never knew I would associate one with M.S. Dhoni, from that day on. It had to be that six he hit over the covers on the bowling of Chaminda Vaas. The beauty of the shot was, it was played with such nonchalance that the outcome of it seemed to be completely divorced with the effort. Effortless. He didn't even step out. He just planted his front foot forward, and the ball sailed into the stands stamped with Dhoni's brilliance. 183 runs he scored, that day. Did I say something about 'fluke' some lines ago? Pardon me.
Dhoni's batting was never high on technique. No one was oblivious to the fact, and we were happy to embrace it, because when he hit those attempted yorkers in the death overs with maddening fury, suddenly, the paragraph number three of the page 23 of the batting manual seemed oh-so-silly and supplementary. Dhoni was the weapon we needed in the death overs. We had always made hay while the ball was nice and hard, courtesy the Sehwags, Sachins, and the Gangulys. The lower half now looked all the more dangerous with the combination of Yuvraj and Dhoni, especially while chasing. Team India had a new swagger while chasing those days. Even 90 off the last 10, wasn't a big deal anymore. The big boys were in town.
Then, the team got embroiled in multiple controversies, and before one could get hold of what was happening - M.S.Dhoni was the captain of the Indian team. With great power comes great responsibility. Every Indian Skipper, it seems, is a big fan of this quote from Spiderman. Captaincy for the Indian players is sadly a license of not playing their natural game. It happened to so many before Dhoni. But, for all we knew Dhoni was the maverick. The new face of the Indian cricket. He took some brave decision, and India was back to its merry ways of winning. But, somewhere down the line, Dhoni metamorphosed from a slogger to an accumulator. Initially, he carried even this job with perfection, even sans any big hits, his strike rate was around 100. But, the question is: Was it required, the change? Is, M.S.Dhoni the man who is destined to rotate the strike, and steady the ship? Just because he is the captain of the Indian Team, now? We can have other players to do the job. Dhoni proved his mettle even in his new avatar (he averages a whopping 58 as a captain, as opposed to 44 as non-captain!), but, didn’t he sacrifice his natural self in the process that hurt the team’s prospects in the long run?( Although his average has increased considerably, his strike rate went down substantially too, and his strike rate in T20 has been abdominally low.)
So, when India required 60 off the last 5 against England to be alive in the recently concluded T20 World Cup, and when Dhoni walked in. It was still possible. After all he was the same Dhoni, who had hit Vass of cover for that six, who used to heave his bat to dug out the yorkers and send them sailing over long on. Or, wasn’t he? He had been playing like a dormant volcano recently. But, the faith that he would explode was still there. He did not. He could not. His identity that he had bartered to shelter the team's interest, ironically, betrayed the very team when it needed him the most.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Chungking Express
Originally written for Passionforcinema.com. The post has been published here.
There are some movies that numb you, some leave you awestruck by its novelty, some inspire you, some make you laugh your gut out, some make you cry. But, I had never fallen in love with a movie. Not until I saw Chungking Express. This is not a critique of the movie in any way. This is my love letter to Chungking Express. Very few things, let alone movies have given me the pure inherent joy, as much as this movie did. So much beauty is packed into even the minutest of frame that you want to choke yourself with happiness. It is very difficult to describe what it feels like. It is an awful personal experience. Quentin Tarantino, once said in his own inimitable style with respect to this movie, “This movie made me cry. Not because the movie was sad, but, because I was amazed how much I could love any movie.”
The movie begins rather gloomily to a lovelorn cop, and takes us through protagonist’s same predicament in the second story too, but there is an unmistakable strong thread of hope that runs through both the stories. Hope is really an amazing thing. It is free and comes in many forms. For Cop 223 it came in the forms of Pineapple cans. He broke up with his girlfriend on the 1st April and gave 30 days to the relationship by purchasing a pineapple can that expires on the 1st May, each day of the month. If she doesn’t come by the 1st of May,the relationship would expire as would the pineapple cans, he believes. Through his soliloquy, he questions whether every tangible or intangible thing in this world comes with an expiry date? That is one question, that raises some circuituitous answers.
She doesn’t come to him and thus, on the 1st May, he eats all the pineapple cans and consequently becomes sick. Relationships, if turned to stomach disorder, should be flushed down the toilet. He finally decides to fall out of love by falling in love (A debatable concept, but, won’t go into that for now!).
Even the protagonist of the second story(cop 663) keeps hoping and waiting for his love to turn up. Foolishly wishing she would leap out of the closet and surprise him. If only wishes structured the outcome of things in life. Meanwhile he keeps meeting the shy May at the Express restaurant, his past doesn’t let go of him to even think about the present. May harbors feeling for him, but their story doesn’t venture via the normal boy-meet-girl caper. Infact, almost bowing to an idealistic definition of love, she just keeps him happy without even being with him. That is where Chungking Express packs a punch, it goes to the idealistic realms of love without being corny. She tidies his apartment, as if the soaps, towels and goldfish are the only way of stepping into the inaccessible 663’s life, and she is happy doing that. She represents the change in his life. In truly one of the movie’s most ironic and poignant scenes, the cop 663 stands in front of the closet hoping to be surprised by his girlfriend. But, nothing of the sort happens. Instead, we see May hiding in the closet. Dejected on not getting any reply, the cop turns back. How often have we been near to love only to turn our back against it?
The movie scoops out dollops of realism moments before its ending. When the cop 663 expresses his desire of dating her, May agrees. She reaches the place of the date and is about to meet the cop 663. About to have an interesting conversation with the man, whose inanimated life she has changed. From a distance. Would the conversation be interesting? She is shy, what would she speak? Does she have butterflies in stomach? Does she see herself or 663? Or, herself and 663? Together? What does she see and think. None of the above. She sees the name of the restaurant she is headed towards, and possibly a beginning of a new life for her. She sees the name of the restaurant emblazoned in golden colours – California. It is raining. She sees the water droplets caressing her most beautiful dream, as if they were her messengers. Now, she sees herself and decides. Obviously, Wong Kar Wai doesn’t sketch the details for us, but the close up of the the california for few seconds is enough to get what is being said. She decides amidst all this, she has been missing herself. She wants to love 663, but, not by compromising herself. She decides its not time. Not yet. She leaves something for the cop 663.
True to her promise, May returns to cop 663. In a fitting display of roles reversal, he is working in the Express restaurant in the same fashion May used to (the loud california dreamin’ song blaring on). May walks in carrying with herself not only a calm satisfaction of having giving this relationship the requisite time, but also living her the life way she always wanted to, so as to carry no regretfull What-ifs of the past. The destination of the economic class boarding pass is unknown. But, it has two passengers. In love.
P.S : I have never believed and will never believe in quantitative estimation of a movie. However, this time I will make an exception.
Rating – 6/5.
There are some movies that numb you, some leave you awestruck by its novelty, some inspire you, some make you laugh your gut out, some make you cry. But, I had never fallen in love with a movie. Not until I saw Chungking Express. This is not a critique of the movie in any way. This is my love letter to Chungking Express. Very few things, let alone movies have given me the pure inherent joy, as much as this movie did. So much beauty is packed into even the minutest of frame that you want to choke yourself with happiness. It is very difficult to describe what it feels like. It is an awful personal experience. Quentin Tarantino, once said in his own inimitable style with respect to this movie, “This movie made me cry. Not because the movie was sad, but, because I was amazed how much I could love any movie.”
The movie begins rather gloomily to a lovelorn cop, and takes us through protagonist’s same predicament in the second story too, but there is an unmistakable strong thread of hope that runs through both the stories. Hope is really an amazing thing. It is free and comes in many forms. For Cop 223 it came in the forms of Pineapple cans. He broke up with his girlfriend on the 1st April and gave 30 days to the relationship by purchasing a pineapple can that expires on the 1st May, each day of the month. If she doesn’t come by the 1st of May,the relationship would expire as would the pineapple cans, he believes. Through his soliloquy, he questions whether every tangible or intangible thing in this world comes with an expiry date? That is one question, that raises some circuituitous answers.
She doesn’t come to him and thus, on the 1st May, he eats all the pineapple cans and consequently becomes sick. Relationships, if turned to stomach disorder, should be flushed down the toilet. He finally decides to fall out of love by falling in love (A debatable concept, but, won’t go into that for now!).
Even the protagonist of the second story(cop 663) keeps hoping and waiting for his love to turn up. Foolishly wishing she would leap out of the closet and surprise him. If only wishes structured the outcome of things in life. Meanwhile he keeps meeting the shy May at the Express restaurant, his past doesn’t let go of him to even think about the present. May harbors feeling for him, but their story doesn’t venture via the normal boy-meet-girl caper. Infact, almost bowing to an idealistic definition of love, she just keeps him happy without even being with him. That is where Chungking Express packs a punch, it goes to the idealistic realms of love without being corny. She tidies his apartment, as if the soaps, towels and goldfish are the only way of stepping into the inaccessible 663’s life, and she is happy doing that. She represents the change in his life. In truly one of the movie’s most ironic and poignant scenes, the cop 663 stands in front of the closet hoping to be surprised by his girlfriend. But, nothing of the sort happens. Instead, we see May hiding in the closet. Dejected on not getting any reply, the cop turns back. How often have we been near to love only to turn our back against it?
The movie scoops out dollops of realism moments before its ending. When the cop 663 expresses his desire of dating her, May agrees. She reaches the place of the date and is about to meet the cop 663. About to have an interesting conversation with the man, whose inanimated life she has changed. From a distance. Would the conversation be interesting? She is shy, what would she speak? Does she have butterflies in stomach? Does she see herself or 663? Or, herself and 663? Together? What does she see and think. None of the above. She sees the name of the restaurant she is headed towards, and possibly a beginning of a new life for her. She sees the name of the restaurant emblazoned in golden colours – California. It is raining. She sees the water droplets caressing her most beautiful dream, as if they were her messengers. Now, she sees herself and decides. Obviously, Wong Kar Wai doesn’t sketch the details for us, but the close up of the the california for few seconds is enough to get what is being said. She decides amidst all this, she has been missing herself. She wants to love 663, but, not by compromising herself. She decides its not time. Not yet. She leaves something for the cop 663.
True to her promise, May returns to cop 663. In a fitting display of roles reversal, he is working in the Express restaurant in the same fashion May used to (the loud california dreamin’ song blaring on). May walks in carrying with herself not only a calm satisfaction of having giving this relationship the requisite time, but also living her the life way she always wanted to, so as to carry no regretfull What-ifs of the past. The destination of the economic class boarding pass is unknown. But, it has two passengers. In love.
P.S : I have never believed and will never believe in quantitative estimation of a movie. However, this time I will make an exception.
Rating – 6/5.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Kya Karein, Kya Na Karein...[Fiction]
Disclaimer : A tribute to the first cheesy feeling of love/infatuation/^%#$!
Today was no different. Aayush, as usual, was sitting in the fourth bench. She was sitting in the second bench. The English teacher was telling something about the Rime of Ancient Mariner. It didn’t matter to Aayush. He was busy looking at her. In fact, gaping. It used to amaze and amuse him, how could she look more enchanting than the previous day. More beautiful. Spellbinding, in fact. She looked back, Aayush quickly snapped away to his textbook. Shit. Did she see me? Aayush saw from one corner of his eye, she smiled. Yes, today was in no way different. It had been four years of this futile exercise. Admiring, gaping her from a distance. Feeling hopeless whenever there was an eye-contact or even a feeble chance of it. Nothing had changed. Four years had passed just like that. And he hadn’t even talked with her. Not even made an effort to. Why? Aayush was afraid. Afraid of rejection. Afraid of being meted to indifference. What if she doesn’t even know me? What if I come across as a fool? What he would go and tell her? That she is cute, and he likes her. Won’t she laugh at me? Won’t the whole class laugh at me? It is almost equivalent to blasphemy talking to a girl in our class, he thought. And why would she even talk to me? What is so unique about me? What is so great about me? OK, I’m pretty decent in academics. But, is that something to boot about? Am I smart? Not enough. Not confident enough to start a conversation with her. Why would she even bother, she has the company of all the handsome boys in class. And she enjoys it, it seems. Forget it. Aayush resolved the mental conundrum. Ok. Just forget her. Concentrate on the Rime of Ancient Mariner.
For a split second, Aayush raised his head and saw her. She was looking back. Aayush looked at her, grabbing an inch of confidence somewhere, locked his eyes into her and didn’t flinch away for that magical second. She smiled. Yes, she smiled. The cutest lip in the world has curled to give way to the most beatific sight ever. Aayush didn’t know how to react. Aayush thought it might have been, somebody sitting at the back. So, he thought it would be sheer foolishness to smile back. Won’t she perceive me as desperate? Aayush didn’t smile back. So, even she turned back to look at the teacher. Aayush looked back to see who was sitting behind him. He saw all the benches of the backseat were empty.
Some weeks later…
The news had spread like wild fire in the class. Everybody was saying the same thing. She was leaving the school. The enormity of the news struck to Aayush without losing an instant. How could she do it? He asked himself. He got no answer.
It was raining outside. Aayush could see her hair was wet. Excess water dripping from it. A drop fell and smudged her beautiful writing. She became a tad irritated. Aayush loved it even more. Aayush never thought she was even capable of tearing a page from her copy. She didn’t. She began writing from a fresh page. Aayush smiled at his foolishness of knowing her so much.
That news had almost paralyzed his senses. When she would be going back? He quickly calculated the possibilities. The first term is still two weeks, she is not going any time before that. She would probably give her exams and go, Aayush thought. But, why? Aayush’s inner voice tried reasoning him. I don’t know. Just shut up. I know it is true. She is not leaving any time soon. But, whatever I will have to talk to her before she goes out. But, what can I possibly tell her? Think hard, think hard, think hard. May be I can ask her phone number of the new place? If she asks why, then what would I say? Well, its pretty easy. I would say I want it because…because..because…shit. shit. Shit. I don’t know. What will I say? Damn.
4 classes later…
Aayush had gone to meet his history teacher about a school project he was leading. It was their games period, but even then he had to go. He somehow wrapped the meeting quickly with the teacher and ran to his class to get his badminton racket. He didn’t want to be late for his match. He entered the class and was taken aback by her sitting alone in the class. What is she doing in the class now? Alone? I know she doesn’t play much, but why is she sitting alone now? Aayush’s hand were fidgety with the chain of his bag. Probably for the first time in his life, he was sitting alone in the class. He was nervous. He wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as he could. He desperately wanted to glance at her. But, wait. This was the best way of talking with her. Come on, Aayush. Go talk to her. Meanwhile, she was sitting quietly in her place. Aayush finally took the badminton racket out of his bag. Why can’t she talk with me? I want to talk. Come on. Talk. Talk. Talk.
Next Day…
Aayush entered the class after the morning assembly and took his place. First period. History. He looked at the adjacent row. The second seat. The one beside the window. She wasn’t there. Absent. But, why? The class was humdrum to the bone. Aayush didn’t have to be a smartass today. Didn’t have to crack any funny jokes and check whether she smiled or not. I could have talked yesterday, he thought. Damn. She wouldn’t have eaten me. One of these days, I will. For sure. I don’t have much time.
Two Weeks later…
Aayush never knew when the realization dawned on him. When did he finally accept it? He didn’t know. He never thought much about it. This was the ‘What If’ chapter of his life. He failed an exam, not because he didn’t know the answer. He failed it, because he hadn’t asked the question. He laughed silly on his analogy. The teacher was teaching the ‘Solitary Reaper’, Aayush glanced at the second bench again. The seat close to the wall was empty. It was raining again. Aayush could almost smell her wet hair. Almost. He could almost see her drawing something foolishly on the back side of a note book, mostly the caricature of the teacher which wasn’t funny by any standard, but only looked funny, because even the remotest prospect of her thinking anything mischievious made him smile. Aayush took out the English textbook from his bag, weary with irritation, out of reluctant resignation to fate. He saw the badminton racket in his bag. Aayush just wanted to exist for her. As someone. Somewhere. It was Aayush's turn to read the last two paragraphs of the poem. He stood and read the poem aloud :
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending ;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending ; –
I listened, motionless and still ;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more
Today was no different. Aayush, as usual, was sitting in the fourth bench. She was sitting in the second bench. The English teacher was telling something about the Rime of Ancient Mariner. It didn’t matter to Aayush. He was busy looking at her. In fact, gaping. It used to amaze and amuse him, how could she look more enchanting than the previous day. More beautiful. Spellbinding, in fact. She looked back, Aayush quickly snapped away to his textbook. Shit. Did she see me? Aayush saw from one corner of his eye, she smiled. Yes, today was in no way different. It had been four years of this futile exercise. Admiring, gaping her from a distance. Feeling hopeless whenever there was an eye-contact or even a feeble chance of it. Nothing had changed. Four years had passed just like that. And he hadn’t even talked with her. Not even made an effort to. Why? Aayush was afraid. Afraid of rejection. Afraid of being meted to indifference. What if she doesn’t even know me? What if I come across as a fool? What he would go and tell her? That she is cute, and he likes her. Won’t she laugh at me? Won’t the whole class laugh at me? It is almost equivalent to blasphemy talking to a girl in our class, he thought. And why would she even talk to me? What is so unique about me? What is so great about me? OK, I’m pretty decent in academics. But, is that something to boot about? Am I smart? Not enough. Not confident enough to start a conversation with her. Why would she even bother, she has the company of all the handsome boys in class. And she enjoys it, it seems. Forget it. Aayush resolved the mental conundrum. Ok. Just forget her. Concentrate on the Rime of Ancient Mariner.
For a split second, Aayush raised his head and saw her. She was looking back. Aayush looked at her, grabbing an inch of confidence somewhere, locked his eyes into her and didn’t flinch away for that magical second. She smiled. Yes, she smiled. The cutest lip in the world has curled to give way to the most beatific sight ever. Aayush didn’t know how to react. Aayush thought it might have been, somebody sitting at the back. So, he thought it would be sheer foolishness to smile back. Won’t she perceive me as desperate? Aayush didn’t smile back. So, even she turned back to look at the teacher. Aayush looked back to see who was sitting behind him. He saw all the benches of the backseat were empty.
Some weeks later…
The news had spread like wild fire in the class. Everybody was saying the same thing. She was leaving the school. The enormity of the news struck to Aayush without losing an instant. How could she do it? He asked himself. He got no answer.
It was raining outside. Aayush could see her hair was wet. Excess water dripping from it. A drop fell and smudged her beautiful writing. She became a tad irritated. Aayush loved it even more. Aayush never thought she was even capable of tearing a page from her copy. She didn’t. She began writing from a fresh page. Aayush smiled at his foolishness of knowing her so much.
That news had almost paralyzed his senses. When she would be going back? He quickly calculated the possibilities. The first term is still two weeks, she is not going any time before that. She would probably give her exams and go, Aayush thought. But, why? Aayush’s inner voice tried reasoning him. I don’t know. Just shut up. I know it is true. She is not leaving any time soon. But, whatever I will have to talk to her before she goes out. But, what can I possibly tell her? Think hard, think hard, think hard. May be I can ask her phone number of the new place? If she asks why, then what would I say? Well, its pretty easy. I would say I want it because…because..because…shit. shit. Shit. I don’t know. What will I say? Damn.
4 classes later…
Aayush had gone to meet his history teacher about a school project he was leading. It was their games period, but even then he had to go. He somehow wrapped the meeting quickly with the teacher and ran to his class to get his badminton racket. He didn’t want to be late for his match. He entered the class and was taken aback by her sitting alone in the class. What is she doing in the class now? Alone? I know she doesn’t play much, but why is she sitting alone now? Aayush’s hand were fidgety with the chain of his bag. Probably for the first time in his life, he was sitting alone in the class. He was nervous. He wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as he could. He desperately wanted to glance at her. But, wait. This was the best way of talking with her. Come on, Aayush. Go talk to her. Meanwhile, she was sitting quietly in her place. Aayush finally took the badminton racket out of his bag. Why can’t she talk with me? I want to talk. Come on. Talk. Talk. Talk.
Next Day…
Aayush entered the class after the morning assembly and took his place. First period. History. He looked at the adjacent row. The second seat. The one beside the window. She wasn’t there. Absent. But, why? The class was humdrum to the bone. Aayush didn’t have to be a smartass today. Didn’t have to crack any funny jokes and check whether she smiled or not. I could have talked yesterday, he thought. Damn. She wouldn’t have eaten me. One of these days, I will. For sure. I don’t have much time.
Two Weeks later…
Aayush never knew when the realization dawned on him. When did he finally accept it? He didn’t know. He never thought much about it. This was the ‘What If’ chapter of his life. He failed an exam, not because he didn’t know the answer. He failed it, because he hadn’t asked the question. He laughed silly on his analogy. The teacher was teaching the ‘Solitary Reaper’, Aayush glanced at the second bench again. The seat close to the wall was empty. It was raining again. Aayush could almost smell her wet hair. Almost. He could almost see her drawing something foolishly on the back side of a note book, mostly the caricature of the teacher which wasn’t funny by any standard, but only looked funny, because even the remotest prospect of her thinking anything mischievious made him smile. Aayush took out the English textbook from his bag, weary with irritation, out of reluctant resignation to fate. He saw the badminton racket in his bag. Aayush just wanted to exist for her. As someone. Somewhere. It was Aayush's turn to read the last two paragraphs of the poem. He stood and read the poem aloud :
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending ;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending ; –
I listened, motionless and still ;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more
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