Gullu...The End of an era

For only a dog knows true unadulterated love, and shall never judge you whenever, however you return.

History will find it a tad bit difficult to remember Hector Narayanan for, if we were to pursue the matter objectively, there was little that the little spaniel did to alter the former’s course. Contrary to Homer’s illustrious character, this fellow displayed not the tiniest shred of valour. On most days, he preferred scratching his hinds over fighting wars. On all days, he was scared of balloons and crackers and all things that were not of edible format. If dogs were employed just like humans, he would most surely be a Church priest, his countenance reflecting  age, wisdom and a subtle primness in manner.

 The only rare violent streak in his otherwise benign soul was witnessed whenever Hector was finding a spot to settle down on and found a pillow in his way. In such cases, he would change in manner from a Vatican Pope to a Viking warrior, sitting atop the bemused pillow and massacring it with paws and nails for no rhyme or reason.

It is little surprise then that at this thoroughly non flattering reputation earned him the nickname Gullu. It stuck on almost immediately and henceforth in this article, that’s how he shall be referred to, much like in life.

Literature too, especially of the British kind, would shake its head ruefully at Gullu. For when you read these books with dogs as characters, these books by Blyton and Co, they always spoke of a loyal animal that was forever ready to go on long walks. It beats me why they would not talk of the same loyal animal wanting to squirt every single bush on the way, or what to do when the pooch decided to wet a car when its owner was glaring at you from his house. Instead, they spoke of an attentive, intelligent animal that would know when you were upset and comfort you by licking your face or pressing his furry self into your body. I tried that when I was a kid, pulling Gullu close after being particularly upset after a quarrel with the pater. In the kitchen, mum was cooking chicken and as it happens, the only organ that twitched in that dratted mutt’s being was his nose, not his heart, and with one leap and two bounds he had journeyed the physical distance that separated my sobbing chest and mum’s ankles. Enid Blyton, you and I need to have a separate chat.

The folks of Noida will not remember him much, for it has been six years since the Narayanans moved to Kerala, but if there are any folks in that northern city with a fantastic memory, they would laughingly say, and I quote, “Yes yes, we do remember that Honda City going round Noida every night and that spaniel looking out of the window, the wind blowing his long ears back. Gullu, you call him? Who calls their dog Gullu?”

Kerala shall remember him fondly though. The cats in his street would laugh at him, for despite all their advances, he failed miserably in catching them. The one rare occasion when he did corner a poor kitten, he remembered that the script had not informed him of this sudden change of events, of what to do when you did finally manage to corner a cat. So he stood his ground, bemused and gentle, until poor kitten decided to play Xena Warrior Princess and scratched his nose and walked off proudly.

But lets not just make fun of the boy, and instead let us tell some tales of his studness too, such as the one when he stood on a bunch of rocks and looked on as his family swam in the river beneath Athirappilly Falls. Upset and frustrated at the distance and the water that separated his family from him, he kept pacing up and down on the rocks at the banks. Never having swum before, and having an intense dislike for water, he was at a loss at what to do.

But that’s the thing about love, it does not see rationale. It makes you want to take that leap, to conquer fear and the world, and be right next to your loved ones. And so Gullu jumped, for the first time into a river, not knowing if he could swim, sure only of the fact that he could not stay away from the rest of us.

Moments later, he was paddling in the current, and the Narayanans screamed in joyous celebration, some calling him a stud, some likening him to Michael Phelps, some rushing to hug him. The fish in the water just rolled their eyes.  ‘Swimming, a big deal, really’ they asked each other in sarcastic tones, between pauses.

Gullu passed away three days back, on March 15. He had been sick for the past two years, but even in his last moments, just like his life and illness, he rode it with grace and peace. He was buried under the pomegranate tree in our garden, and it shall bear fruit in the summer. He was buried there with his chew sticks and toys and a banana bread that amma had made for him a day earlier.

 Those who know us will remember him for being all important to us, for being more important than any of us. Those who love dogs and have had dogs will know why it was so.

And we? Well, we shall miss the fellow. The baby. The idiot. We shall miss that face near the drawing room window, a face that would furiously stare back at us from amid the curtains as we came back from the market. Furious, for in fourteen years, he could never really believe or accept that we could leave him alone even for fifteen minutes or an hour. We shall miss that body that heaved with love and anger and temper and fire and that would collide against us the moment we opened that house door.

We shall miss our playful fights, about whom he loved the most. We shall miss laughing at his embarrassed face when we caught him stealing food. We shall miss that happy, now-i-am-ready-to-sleep feeling in the night when he would eventually stop moving and settle at our feet. Eventually, he would make his way into the blanket and would settle his smelly fat self right on our stomachs.  We shall miss that feeling of content when he did so. We shall miss hugging him close.

We shall miss the sound of your feet pitter pattering everywhere, Gullu.  The house smells of you, you smelly mutt, and there shall never be a corner that doesn’t breathe of you. To put it most honestly, we shall miss you.

Gullu, you taught us love. For the entire fourteen years, every day, every moment,  we remained as  fascinated by you as when you first came into the house, and we could never ever stop exclaiming, cooing, wondering, laughing about your antics, your behavior, your mere presence. Even on your last day, you were a baby to us, and you shall always remain so.


It will be futile and never ending if I have to talk of all your stories. And it shall pull at more strings in my heart than I wish.

So let us not be sad or whine. And instead try to celebrate the life of a dog that will go down unceremoniously in history as the only mutt in the world that was scratched and embarrassed by a kitten one third his size.

Till we meet again bro, here’s a toast to you – ‘May you always chase cats and kittens and when you corner them, may you hold back, for it is better to be made fun of later than to hurt a creature’.
 

Attaboy, Gullu, you really did live upto the name we kept for you. Homer would be proud of you.

----

A short story on love

Disclaimer: Once upon a time the author wanted to be be a writer for cricinfo.com, the leading cricket website in the world. And fuelled by optimism, he sent them across his credentials. Below is the text of that orginal cover letter. Yes, just after this neat line made of a lot of neat dashes.

                                      

                                        --------------- beginning of cover letter ---------------

‘You can know more about a person in an hour’s play than a year of conversation’

Right from that handsome age of nine when he first watched Sachin and Co crumble at the World Cup ’92, Neeraj Narayanan knew that he was destined to pursue a career in cricket. His conviction received further strength when he won every single match in his home ground, rather the house car park, against his sister. Since his neighbourhood only had bullies who refused to let him bat or bowl, he would run home after school, and grumble as his mother insisted he eat lunch before donning the whites. 

 In his tiny white shorts he stood, bum jutting out like Roger Binny’s, bat in left hand. With his right hand, he would throw the ball onto the wall and before it could ricochet and reach him, he would grasp his bat swiftly with both hands, and drive the ball gracefully through covers, or two broken pots.

The intense and grueling work ethic saw him become captain of his colony and school, and when they appointed him leader of the set that represented the college team, he knew that there was a little spot in the Indian dressing room that was crying for his presence.

Our story of his heroics with bat, ball and ground fielding ends here.

Late 2005, he became a part of the Cognizant family, a clan that insisted on pleasing American clients by delivering software codes on time. But much as he tried, he never ran around the floor or screeched like a madman or pumped his fist on solving a difficult piece of code, the way he had when he was in his whites. Ecstasy no longer was part of his character. Expressiveness still held on belligerently though, and whenever India lost or Tendulkar touched a new realm of success, he wrote and sent it to all to his colleagues.
Exasperated by him, they directed him to the company blog and it was here he found respite. In 2007, they recognized his blogging efforts and transferred him to the ‘Branding and Corporate Communications’ team, just so that he stop writing eulogies on self, and do something similar for the organization.

Mica and MBA happened, and he wrote more. As member of the Sports Committee, he spent a lot of time thinking about the annual cricket tournament, campaigns for promotion, and writing articles on matches he lost, so much that when the yearbook came out, they only spoke of his deluded die hard love for sports , and a few tidbits on his writing. This, when he had expected long testimonials on his charm, dimple, brilliance and what not.

And when it all ended, he was staring at an office cabin that read ‘Communication Expert - the Government of Gujarat’. Gandhinagar, it has been rumoured is the capital of Gujarat but we don’t believe everything we hear, do we? It is in fact a country of old men and older women, a civilization that is set back in time, which has ancient written all over it. If Gandhinagar was Jambavan, the wise hundred and something year old monkey in the Mahabharat, Mohenjodaro and Harappa would be frisky two year old puppies, sprightly and full of beans.

 Since most sentences here began with ‘Under the dynamic leadership of CM Modi’, he observed that the only way that he would not forget the language was to write on other mediums. So he began writing his own book. Then when Sachin scored his fiftieth century, he mailed a piece to a friend. The clever fellow asked him to send it to Cricinfo, just so that he could avoid reading it himself. The article was then published by the website. Being of mediocre quality, he insisted on sending another article, this time on Rahul Dravid, and it was published too. Like someone said,

‘It is hard to write, but harder not to do so’.

Hi, my name is Neeraj Narayanan and I love writing almost as much as I love the wonderful sport. It would be my happy and fervent desire to be part of the Cricinfo team. I love the work that the team does, and believe that I have the potential to offer something both similar as well as distinct.  Do let me know if I could fit in somewhere.

Neeraj Narayanan

http://garam-samose.blogspot.com/

p.s Here are the links to my published articles on Cricinfo and two videos we made for the annual cricket tournament at Mica. Do remember when you are astounded by the absolute shoddiness of the video, that the vision was excellent, just that the actors (read: friends) and technology was pathetic. 

http://blogs.espncricinfo.com/inbox/archives/2010/12/what_tendulkar_denied_to_the_w.php

http://blogs.espncricinfo.com/inbox/archives/2011/01/an_unassuming_man_called_rahul.php 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9GXj8wRgek

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHgKUQ-e7Go

History will be kind to me …. because I intend to write it.

------------------------- end of cover letter ---------------------------------

Conclusion: Well, in reply they did call him for an internship, during the course of which he met Rahul Dravid, even shook a trembling hand with him. But, as things go, not all organizations accept siblings in the same setup, a sensible thought as Nishi Narayanan and I  do love lifting up computers and throwing it at each other. (I do wonder what Mark Waugh would have ended up doing if the Australian Cricket Board had thought the same way.)
Anyway, Cricinfo continues to be the wonderful website it is, with its tremendous dedication to the game. And I, well I have moved onto the travel world, a worthy second fiddle. Writing about travel is nice, reading about it even more so.

Sachin and Rahul, however, will always hold a special place.

Happy Days

That first night, I looked into the pit, and he stared back at me intently. In that brief interlude, as we sized up each other, I knew that he had been named rightly. ‘Hector’, I whispered. A little bigger than my palm now, he’d grow up to be as valiant and handsome as Homer’s Prince of Troy, my heart said so.

I scooped him up from the big Videocon box that was meant to be his bed, and laid him on my pillow. As he tossed and turned and succeeded in pushing his butt up my nose, I hugged him. Minutes later, we both lay with our backs on the mattress, breathing equally heavily and occasionally kicking at the air in protest as and when a scene changed in our respective dreams. Tintin and Snowy never looked so macho together.

Remember the part where I prophesized he would be an epitome of courage as he grew up? I have never been more wrong in life. The next morning amma referred to him as ‘gullu’ and the name stuck on forever.

To understand his importance in our lives, firstly one has to know love, and secondly, speculate if the Narayanan family is sound in the head. For how else do you explain a girl (Nishi Narayanan) who’s leaving her home and city for the first time in her life, in pursuit of a post graduation, suddenly turn back from the gate, and run towards a now emotional mother and brother standing with outstretched arms, but push her way past them to hug the little pooch and burst into gallons of tears? I must insist that it was with the greatest dexterity that I slammed my embarassed arms back to their rightful positions (beside my frame) as soon as the first pangs of foolishness seeped in.

It is my belief that he would have been a forceful, assertive lad if we had spent more time together, but my moving to Belgaum for my engineering, and an over exposure to mother-daughter conversations made him a complete pansy. When I did return for the holidays, I did try to convince him that punching the air and snarling was more the stuff of what real men were made of, but he preferred rolling on his back and being tickled. I suppose I could consider this very ungainly of positions with all his organs in glaring public display and lying out in the open at gravity’s mercy as a sign of cheap, undignified and therefore, manly behavior. Good boy, Gullu.

As the days passed and he entrenched himself in our hearts and souls, we realized that there was absolutely nothing he was good at except for probably being, a physical manifestation of anything that is good in this world. He was never asked to perform any duties as a watchdog because when we did try to broach the subject, he snored even louder than normal. When I was scolded by my parents, and expected him to understand intuitively and come comfort me just like all those intelligent dogs did in story books, he would saunter around the house or gnaw at his bone with even more dedication. In our WWE games, I ‘choke slammed’ him every day but instead of feeling insulted and arousing pride to beat the crap out of me, he’d lick me as soon as his ears got out of his eyes’ way. The only time he looked positively embarrassed was when Air India refused to let us carry him in the passenger space, and hours later, he was brought out in the luggage trail with the rest of the suitcases, bristling with indignation.

A few months back, the doctors said he had a tumour. It may or may not be cancerous, we do not know yet, but somewhere the thought that something like that could touch him makes me furious with whoever’s up there. I will strike my bargains.

As I look at him now, I wonder if it’s possible that the little imp takes more space on the mattress than my six-foot father lying next to him. ‘Little’ he isn’t any longer, for he is twelve years old now, an old boy, and that gives him the license to be excused for not chasing cats even if they are sitting on his head, or not being the first to reach the door when the bell rings, sometimes not hear it ring at all.

As I tickle his stomach, amma asks me to ‘let the poor baby be’. He might be twelve, but he is still a baby? Maybe nothing has changed, even if it has. We still give him new names every day, and we still play with him like we did when we were ourselves children. We are still as fascinated by him as we were when he first came in.

You were named Hector, stud boy, beat that tumour till it begs for mercy.

‘The appearance of a furry head from under a chair is often all that a man needs to realize how much that one ‘okay’ added to his family.'

An affair worth remembering

Disclaimer: After almost three months, a post that is not meant for Cricinfo, or some of the other fellas who published me, but just for myself.

‘The trouble with romantic stories is that they do not always have a happy ending. The good part about them is that they are beautiful while they last.’
- Neeraj Narayanan, the last Sunday of Feb '11

Much before this post sees the light of the day, a hundred experts would have given you every single piece of analysis on how both India and England did not manage to win the match from seemingly invincible positions. They will tell you, like they have a hundred times before, that this was the greatest match ever but what they do not know is why it became so.

It all began because of a man named Rajan. Well almost, if you are a believer in romantic tales.

After thirty five overs, England had wanted only 98 more. I exited from the stand, went down the staircase and stood outside the huge brown walls my head in my hands, unable to believe what had just happened.

Earlier, in the break after India’s batting, I had messaged the entire world, ecstatic that I had actually seen, Sachin carve a century and my team post a mammoth, unachievable target. I felt I was clever when I told people that I could now pick a favourite Tendulkar century, while they could not. But then Andrew Strauss walked into the ground and put on an exhibition that could rival the most pristine things of beauty.

It was not brutal, not carnage. No Jack the Ripper, no Achilles. Neither was it artistic, Rembrandt-like. Instead, so perplexing was his brilliance, and there was so much ease and disdain written all over it, that you would think it was almost inhuman, magical. I would pick Houdini, for I am a traditionalist, you are free to tag him as Dumbeldore, or even Voldermort if you are so partisan and Indian.

With England coasting to victory, a lot of people were leaving the stadium and I watched them, distraught that my script had gone so awry. But unfortunately, those who are fighters are also often ungracious and unwilling to let go, so I stood at my spot outside the walls, hoping for the crowd inside to erupt, just once, to let me know that Strauss was out and we still had a chance. Five minutes later, I returned to my stand, the curiosity trouncing the sadness. But England kept plundering runs.

At the end of the 38th over, Rajan, a stranger who I had befriended at the queue in the morning, shook my head and laughed at me. “It is okay if we lose, dude” he told me , “they are playing better.” I looked at him, in angst, and launched into a tirade on how no team was supposed to lose after scoring 340. Instead, he asked me to not give up and cheer our team. Maybe it was his cheery disposition, or just the fact that I was ashamed to know that there was someone more sportsman-like, but something just popped then. We agreed that we had not lost yet, and there wasn’t any reason to lose hope. For the entirety of the next over, he cheered madly, followed by Gaurav Sinha, yours truly and Mohit-someone while the entire stand looked at us bemused. Chawla gave two in that over, and buoyed by the results, a bunch of twenty or so joined the band and gave voice to the stadium. The next over Zaheer spewed venom in the park and the scenes in stand A were incredible. While when India had batted, we had shouted with joy at every shot of Sachin and Co, here every dot ball was accompanied by a roar that had nothing friendly about it. We stood on our chairs and screamed so loud and so much that we killed our throats completely. So aggressive was it that it buoyed almost everyone in the stand and the stadium, and we all stood there screaming and making the greatest racket we ever had, with our drums, our placards, our whistles, and with our hearts. It might have lacked virtuosity, as its definition demands ‘morality in excellence’ but it had a rawness in its fervor, a madness in its celebration, that dignity can never offer.

Wikipedia registers ‘battle cry’ as a war chant, a universal form of display behavior, aimed at competitive advantage, ideally by overstating one's own aggressive potential to a point where the enemy prefers to avoid confrontation altogether and opts to flee. In order to overstate one's potential for aggression, battle cries need to be as loud as possible, and have historically often been amplified by acoustic devices such as horns, drums, conches, bugles etc. In those telling moments, the Chinnaswamy had its own battle cry and it was bloody magnificent.

Do not accept it, but Zaheer’s inspiring spell was not just his doing but also because of what a thousand in Stand A did to his adrenaline. And when he captured his wickets, there were many who went ballistic, there were men past fifty who were dancing, bear-hugging and ‘high fiving’ all and sundry, and there were others like me who used the chairs as steps to travel from one level to another, and went and submerged into the arms and bodies of random strangers only because their eyes were as fiery and full of rage as I thought mine were.

And that is why the match was so great. Not for its scores or its stroke play, but because a crowd had found voice like no other, even if the cynics insist that is a regular trait of the Indian cricket lover. A world cup that had so far been pimped only by the media, and cared for only by the Bangladeshis, had finally found a match that could propel the interest of thousands in India, and make them queue up in front of ticket counters with renewed vigour.

Please do not think watching a world cup match on television is a better experience than watching it in a stadium. It is only when you are standing there, watching those young boys bringing the flags out, and then singing the national anthem with fifty thousand other people, that you realize that there are very few moments that could make your heart fill up with so much pride on being part of the nation that you are. I have always liked our national anthem but today I was happiest while singing it. I also had goosebumps for the longest period of time. We have all seen the orange, the white and the green in our flags but they look so much more prettier when we wear them as hand bands, head bands or as paint on our cheeks. Go to a stadium, because as much as you love Sachin, hearing fifty thousand others yell, nay, sing his name louder than you is a joyful experience. Go to a stadium because sitting at home you might be able to watch your replays but you will never be able to befriend so many people you will never see in your life again.

p.s At the end of the 46th over, with India now in the driver’s seat, I noticed Rajan holding his head and sitting on his chair. He was not alright he said, and was suffering greatly. I hugged him, and egged him on to cheer the team one last time, but he smiled back and said that he was happy enough now that the crowd was on its feet and doing its job. He left the stadium at the end of the 48th, and that was the last I saw of him. I do not know how he would have felt when he would hear that India had not won, had actually conceded 28 in two overs to a bunch of tail-enders. But I have a feeling that he would be okay about it.

p.s 2) It is 330 in the morning now, and I have finally written what I wanted to. The ‘India’ headband and the flag painted on my cheek haven’t yet been removed/washed off. It will take a while, for the aforementioned, and the emotions to fade into oblivion.

An unassuming man called Rahul Dravid

Disclaimer: This article was published by Cricinfo on a winter day early 2011.

Preface: Once upon a time, much before Cricinfo became essential to our lives, there was a delightful magazine for all us cricket lovers known as the ‘Sportstar’.

It was the year of ’94 or ’95, two years since the game had surged through my veins and made me its seduced captive. Since my colony only had older bullies who never let me bat or bowl, so right after I’d reach home from school, I would run to the porch as soon as I was done with the pesky business of lunch. Holding my bat with the right hand, I’d throw a ball onto the wall with the left, and before it ricocheted off the wall and reached me, I would swiftly grasp the bat with both hands and launch into a drive through covers, rather two broken cactus pots. That day, the first time I missed a shot, I declared Manoj Prabhakar clean bowled by Craig Mcdermott. But instead of letting in Manjrekar to bat next at three, I carefully scribbled a relatively obscure name, ‘Rahul Dravid’, in my notebook scorecard.

That week’s Sportstar edition had a picture of the same man as one of the top run getters in the Ranji circuit. An eleven year old’s intuition told me that he would play for India one day, but mostly I put him at three because he looked handsome in the photograph. He was frowning because the sun hit his face, but he still looked handsome.

Sixteen years later, the same man stood at the Centurion, with twelve thousand international test runs to his name. The next day, however, every single newspaper in India only chose to speak about Sachin’s fiftieth ton, how he missed his father still, how he went for coaching to Shivaji Park, and a hundred other anecdotes that every Sachin lover knows by heart. The third highest run scorer in tests, the man who would arguably have been India’s greatest bat if not for the boy the whole country was busy lauding, did not even have a mention.

Dravid’s greatness however is not limited to his runs. It is a potpourri of character, hard work and a genuinely good heart.

A month earlier, the same two men stood at either ends of a pitch, two runs away from sealing a 2-0 score line against the visiting Aussies. For years, the single largest complaint against Sachin, unfair as it is, has been his seeming inability to be there at the end and take India to victory. An over before, we were all glued to our sets and wondered whether Sachin would finish it off with a six to silence his detractors, if he would uproot a stump and run with it like a child when we won, and a million other things. But now Rahul was on strike and would of course finish it off himself. Just like he did seven years back, hitting that trademark square cut boundary to give India her first victory in Australia in 22 years. But we all want Sachin to do everything, don’t we? As we sat there watching Mitchell Johnson bowl to Rahul, we prayed he leave every ball alone and strangely he did. The next over Sachin won the match for India, took off his helmet, raised both his hands to exult with uncharacteristic emotion, and smiled.

We will never know if Rahul Dravid did so intentionally, letting his more celebrated team mate have his moment, but it is a tribute to his character and image that we are inclined to believe so. If intentional, it was a selfless act, by a man who has been renowned for the same (remember donning the keeper’s gloves so that India could play both Yuvi and Kaif?), and it shamed us for wanting Sachin to score those runs.

One day Rahul Dravid will retire, but he will take away with him a bit of what is left of the gentlemanliness that the game tries to still portray as its unique element.

One day Dravid will retire but he will take away with him that beautiful square cut - wrists as supple and turning like Zorro’s, toes rising sweetly in sync with the pace of the approaching ball, standing perfectly tall, majestic and most importantly in control, before whacking the cherry disdainfully through backward point.

When Rahul retires, the nation will lose the greatest number three to have ever graced it, and writers will mourn saying that the media never gave him his full due. But don’t blame the media, for grace will never overcome the charms of boyish appeal or even spitting fire, traits his best mates Sachin and Saurav so regularly exhibited in that enviable Indian middle order. But when Rahul retires, that middle order and also the Indian eleven will lose its most handsome face, something that we all wrongly assumed was handed over by God, but in truth, which came about by the virtues he imbibed in his soul as he grew up.

You can also read this article on Cricinfo

The history of Gulmohar-Amaltas

“I'll give you my opinion of the human race in a nutshell. Their heart's in the right place, but their head is a thoroughly inefficient organ”
- Somerset Maugham

Disclaimer: Sports journalism in Mica has recently seen some aggressive columns and some incredible responses. We should all remember that gallantry can go a long way in the way in determining how people look at us.

A major share of the credit for the infamous Amaltas-Gulmohar rivalry of 2009-10 goes to Rohit Taneja. If it had not been for his constant raucous sledging prior and during the first two matches, the series might have even proceeded peacefully for its entirety, a controversial and arguable assumption though it is.

The usage of ‘credit’ in the opening line of the previous para is not frivolous; it is a conscientious effort with considerable thought being dedicated to it. For if Rohit Taneja had not dared to stir the beast out of the Amaltas lair, the latter’s notoriety would not have been as widespread as it eventually became. And Gulmohar would never have found a reason to become united and fight not only a bully, but also their own internal ghosts and come out triumphant.

There was another man who deserves as much accolade as does Taneja. In the Orientation of May 2008, he introduced himself to his class as ‘Chuna’. Later, the girls at Mica often sighed that he was the only hot man around (though his room-mate of first year had his own share of admirers). The cricket fraternity regularly saw him mysteriously bound out of Silver Oak in the wee hours of the morning, always being the last to enter the field.

The testimonial is dedicated in memory of the glorious fourth match of the series, which at its outset stood 2-1 in Amaltas’ favour. The tournament was already a cracker. After a convincing win in the first game, Amaltas had been pushed into a corner in the second by a tight bowling display by their opponents and Rohit’s shenanigans. However when all seemed lost, numbers nine ten and eleven (Shakey, Vipul and Sachin) rose superbly and found it in their hearts to snatch a miraculous a victory out of nowhere.

Sweet is the joy of victory and bitter the sorrow of defeat. After two consecutive losses, Gulmohar wanted to change everything from their batting order to their captain, while Amaltas declared to all and sundry that they were a team of eleven batsmen and an equal number of bowlers. They did not care who led their team because the respect for all eleven was universal (Vipul captained Amaltas in one of the games). A few misplaced souls (example: me) found new reason to stake loyalties to their abodes.

Then a few days later, when all seemed lost for Gulmohar, their strongest lad - Rohan Pujari - put the author’s first half century on a Mica ground completely into the background by an even better effort, bludgeoning everything that came his way into Silver Oak, even orbit, and gifted Gulmohar their maiden victory. It was truly a magnificent effort, eclipsed only by a fierce tiff between Nakul and Dilip that is now remembered for reasons I best not highlight. At the end of it after Pujari had guided his bat to Planet Special, Amaltas could not stomach defeat and erupted angrily when Gumohar’s ecstatic boys threw stumps all around to announce their feelings. All memorable moments now - the useless fight, the threats, the passion, the rivalry of it all. But what I remember most fondly is Mihir (someone who had never stepped on the Mica cricket field before) waking up from a deep slumber and running groggy eyed to the field, uncomplainingly half way through the match, and faithfully support his mates by fielding because Amaltas was suddenly left with ten men. We lost the match, but it was the first official statement of the hostel’s bonds.

There was a palpable buzz around the fourth match. Gulmohar wondered if they could win again, Amaltas asked if Pujari could be stopped but what no one doubted was the possibility of a fight between the two giants. Amaltas put up a good score yet again and put Gulmohar on the back foot by taking quick wickets. And then strode in Nakul Sud.

He prodded, he defended. He glided, he stole. He complained of the light and of unseen forces. And then with two overs left in the game, and when even his staunchest fans would not dare hope, he rose and changed the equations and the complexion of the series forever. In front of fading grey light, and a decently sized crowd, he dug his back foot deep into the soil and hoicked and hoicked and gave Gulmohar the most incredible victory ever seen in the grounds of Chhota. And when he won, the boy whose voice could melt honey roared like a lion and shut every single mouth that belonged to Amaltas that day when dusk fell. He just stood there mid pitch screaming and pumping blood, while all others went beserk. The image stands frozen in time, and for me the memory is an ominously silent black and white image with every expression on screaming a thousand words.

In the future, Gulmohar would fittingly go on to win the series. Amaltas would however command respect for never refusing a challenge come hail, storm, half fit team or full strength. Bhati and Pubby would threaten to kill each other while a visiting faculty from ESPN would look on bemused. But life would again also become normal. Rahul Gadi would sincerely try to improve the mess every day, Amaltas would proudly hoist a flag made of rags and Gulmohar would go on to claim a hundred academic prizes. Abhay Mehta, of course kept winning hearts with his adorable yet weird ways. MCL however knew that its thunder had been stolen and sadly reconciled itself to the fact that hard as it might try, it would not be able to match to the levels of play and passion seen in the described series. Mica had not seen such scenes before.

It might not happen ever again. Time and again, twenty two boys (and no, we can’t call them men on account of how they behaved) who had lived happily together for a year in Palash, drew daggers at each other during the series. Some took it personally, some enjoyed the absurdity of it all, some bystanders came to counsel while some others judged. But the fact is that it was the greatest rivalry ever.

The time has come again. I, room number eleven Amaltas, class of 2010, ask Gulmohar to play for pride, spirit and old times sake. This alumni. We are back.

To be or not to be!

Sometimes when you have just turned seven and are roaming about your home in little shorts that at best can be described as hideously tight or plain hideous, the visitors at your place pull you close by your waist and ask you “Dude, what do you want to be in life?” The question travels into your being and then follows you everywhere just like Mary’s little lamb.

They couldn’t just let you roam about in your shorts, could they?

The first time I was asked this question, I stroked my chin thoughtfully and replied ‘elephant’. To my seven year old mind, picking up water in one’s trunk and then spraying it on everyone around seemed to be the coolest thing possible. Also, I wanted to be real tall.

As luck would have it, neither happened.

By the time I had turned nine, I had devoured almost all the Enid Blyton books and was now of the firm belief that I was born to be a detective. I would look at the milkman and paper guy with suspicious nine year old eyes, but sadly, they never stole anything for me to report, and become famous. In ’92, a curly haired marathi boy swung his bat on a large Australian field and I fell in love with him and the game. They called him Sachin. In my dreams everyday, I was on a pitch with him hitting boundaries and winning matches for India. It is the greatest testament of devotion for Sachin, that even in those dreams, I let him always score more runs than me. Maybe just two or three more, but I did. Of course, I refuse to tell you that I still have those dreams.

Like most other boys, at some stage I wanted to be a pilot. At the tender age of twelve, I sat in an airplane for the first time, was airsick and vomited so much that the adjacent passenger sarcastically asked the airhostess to pass me a bucket since a packet did not seem enough. In retaliation, I promptly vomited some more, and all ambitions of flying a plane were hastily rejected.

As the teenage years floated in the kaleidoscope called life, each twist showed a new shape, a new dream. One day I wanted to be like Maneka Gandhi ,err not biologically, I mean I wanted to join the SPCA. Another day inspired by Nana Patekar’s ‘Prahaar’, I wanted to join the army and that evening I did a full four pushups. Don’t laugh, now I can complete sixty in one go without breaking a sweat. The fact, that after the sixtieth, I would be wheezing like an old cow and lying flat on my back for the remainder of the day with a glucose drip in my mouth, is to be ignored or to be treated as delightful honesty on the part of the adorable author.

Over the years I became a software engineer, wrote some code that shocked the bejesus out of most teammates and clients, and moved on to pursue knowledge, as in, MBA. I set my focus towards MICA, the premier Media and Communications Institute in the country, sure that it would provide me the chance to flirt with creativity and maybe even marry it. What Mica did, eventually, was make me aware of a new love – conceptualizing videos and ads, although laziness seldom allowed me to execute the same. Mica was like this big river, where we were all hippopotamuses. We lay in it, lazing, doing nothing but still overly satisfied. In that cauldron, I discovered that my existence was governed largely by sports, and a love for writing. College finished too soon and I felt the familiar disappointment of returning to a desk job that served no purpose other than letting American clients improve their business.

Now, as joining date approaches, the urge to follow either of two callings, a travel writer or a career in sports management, intensifies. Happiness, I am sure, would enclose its chubby fingers around the rough callused hands of a man known as ‘Travel Writer Jobs’ or ‘Team Manager Jobs’ (No relation of Steve Jobs).

In enthusiastic haste, I scampered all over the worldwide web in search of sports management jobs. Besides scores of other options, Google also let me know that I could apply for ‘High Performance Manager – Vanuatu Islands cricket team’ The vivid images of motivating, pushing and driving a weaker team to victory over a dozen mightier teams rushed me towards the ICC official website. Now, the Vanuatu islands are a group of islands in the South Pacific Ocean, famous for volcanic eruptions. Their cricket coach, Mr Pierre Chilia, though, is considerably less likely to erupt, he is actually a sweet tempered, sensible man. In his reply to my enthusiastic mail, he informed me that the selection process had already commenced, so I could go back to square one and draw doodles there. Lol, a managers job for a national sports team sounds way far fetched, but hey in the author’s defense, ask the women in his life and they’d tell you that romance, even with an impossible dream, had always been his forte. Amen.

A couple of weeks and I’ll be sitting in an office in Gurgaon analyzing data. Mails have been sent to a dozen sports marketing companies but they do not like recruiting humans anymore, it seems. And companies that employ travel writers do not have computers. Why else would they not reply to me? ;)

History will, still be kind to me, coz I, intend to write it.

The light of my life

Have u ever, on returning home after months of absence, been greeted by a dog who on sight of you loses complete control of his tail, whose eyes twinkle with oh such selfless love that makes you wonder whether your own feelings for anyone could be so unselfish, whose body rocks with a fervor and gay abandon that put your own dull enthusiasms to shame….. that my friend, is love.
This one’s straight frm the heart (as if the rest were from the intestines!) , and I have been wanting to write abt it for long, about my dog, coz there’s noone who makes our family happier than dear old Hector .

For all those who have figured out that his name’s Hector, my my , arent we all Einsteins! Lol, naah, as far as i can remember we almost never refer to him by his “legal” name; the names change faster than the clothes of a heroine in a bollywood number. Last time I went home, mum was calling him Shamsher Singh (most common name given to hindi movie villains), and just for variety, we'd interperse that with 'Durjan Singh'. Why anyone would name a cute looking spaniel (He's probably a foot in height and sneezing is the most violent activity in his regular day, especially when i tickle his nose) as 'Durjan' is beyond logic, but noone ever credited the Narayanan family with much logic anyway ;) At other times, we have also called him 'gullu singh' , 'sunday singh', 'Bow Bow Singh' (the most innovative and un-doggy name ever!)And yes, he's always a Singh. Oh the worst’s yet to come. Its when when my dad suddenly remembers that he’s mallu (I mean dad, not the originally british and now a remixed pseudo Punjabi cocker spaniel) and during those rare, profound moment, you can hear a deep voice from the bedroom calling for “Ramakutty” to come have a biscuit!!!

Ramakutty has no pride in his roots, and will scoot full speed to his daddy dear for biscuit, crumbs, even a whiff of food.

As i type these words, I go back into time when lil Bow Bow Singh first came to our house. It was a cold February morning, and most people were snuggling under their warm blankets. A car screeched to a halt, in a cosy little Noida street, and I scampered out to greet the arrivals. A cute little furball was nestled in amma's arms. I bent forward and kissed what i thought was the furball's forhead. I still do. Everyday.

One day prior to that event, Dad had insisted, that it shouldnt enter the house n should only sleep in the verandah. That night, Hecky slept in my room, and next day onwards, on dad’s pillow. He still sleeps there every night.

Have you all seen Shrek? In part 2, there's this cat, Puss, who makes these adorably innocent expressions, blinking with an intensity that would make the coldest hearts melt in a jiffy. I think it would do the makers good if they used Shamsher as a model for portraying innocence. He, like all other doggies, would look at you with his incredibly big brown eyes, whenever you have something nice to eat, and as hard as you may try, you'd relent and share the food with him. (Yep, its Hecs who taught me the art of blinking, though i dont use it for food.. err i use it when i talk to girls abt …mmm “intellectual global issues”)

For all the men out there, who are as shy to approach women as I am (Heh heh, yeah right!), lemme tell you that the surest way to let the girl whom you have been dying to speak to for the whole of the last decade, open a conversation, is to walk non chalantly towards her direction, golden white spaniel in tow. You can also whistle a little tune to yourelf and look in random directions admiring everything except for her under the sun( My My, what a beautiful dumpster!)Statistics prove that I own fifty percent of my 'active' social life to my lil mutt. Every evening, in Noida, I would enthusiastically announce to amma that me and Hecky were going for a walk and master and mutt would shake their little posteriors and step into the world. Of adventure. Of excitement. Of girls my age and pooches his age. Of innocence. As we combed the colony that sheltered us, nine out of ten times as a girl passed us by, she'd stop in her tracks, look at Dumdum Singh, squeal "chooooo cuuuuute" and then ask me if he was friendly. Right on cue, Hecky would raise his paw and the girl would react as if he had just invented a nuclear reactor or a new sunscreen lotion! I would then proceed to tell her, in my deepest voice, about Hecs, about myself and by the end of the conversation i’d know her house address, her number, blood group blah. Afterwards when she’d leave, master & mutt would congratulate each other on their success. lol! Yep, we are like this only. :P

Not that Hecs didnt have his “fans”. Whenever his Majesty deigned to step out of the house, all the females of his species would start trotting behind him. And Mr Smarty pants would roll his eyes, turn up his nose, pout, n would walk away chin up (but obviously feeling all happy happy inside). Oh he was the stud of Sector 55 NOIDA, no doubt.

If anyone’s wondering, about Hecky's skills as a guard dog, on that topic, i have only one word for him -HOPELESS! Some years back, while i was away from home in college, some thieves broke into our house. They cut their way in through the window bars, went into all the rooms, and basically ransacked the house. The only room they din enter was my parent’s, who were fast asleep in their a.c room (obviously Hector was fast asleep too. Remember, dad’s pillow?). Anyway, the next day when the cops came, a lot of people were at our place, and dad had taken leave from office. Everyone wanted to know how the dog had reacted, and how come he didnt hear the thieves and bark.. guess what was Hector’s reaction.. That dunderhead wasnt in the least bit ashamed as you all probably think he would be. Instead he was really happy to see so many people, and delighted that dad hadnt gone to office, and while everyone was scolding him, he’d run upto them with his ball in his mouth asking them to play. Even otherwise, noone’s ever scared of him. He barks at the gardener, the milkman or any new person who’d come to our place, but as soon as they’d call him ‘Gullu” or pat him, he’d follow them as if he was their’s only. My mum insists that all the males in our family are a bit soft in the head. Hmm ..

I smile whenever i think of the fifty thousand cute, stupid things he’s probably done, feel a lot of pride whenever i get reminded of the incident when my cousin’s dog was licking my hand, and Hecs out of sheer jealousy jumped at that dog, though he’s probably one eight of that alsation’s size ; feel emotional when i think of all the happiness that he’s brought into our lives.

My dad’s not a very emotional person. Though he loves us a lot, like many other men, he doesnt show affection physically. I dont think i ever remember him hugging me or my sister, since we grew up, and I really dont seem to mind that coz I'm a bit like that myself. He’s a very serious,reserved, knowledgeable person (yeah like me! ;) )and not one who gives way to emotions. But you have to see him with Hector to know what i mean when i say that Hecs has brought so much happiness into our lives. As soon as my dad would return from office, and remove his shoes, Hector would run away with his socks and dad would chase him all over the house. The two of them would be scooting around the dining table, jumping on the sofas , running out into the garden, and finally their little game would finish when dad would get completely exhausted. During this entire act, me, mum and my sis would be just standing there, smiling, looking at the two of them and wondering how that mutt brings out the child in my dad. They play this game everyday after which dad gives him a piece of Brittania cake and claims that he’s the “best doggy” in the world. And if me or my sis dare to eat a slice of Brittania cake, dad would scold us and tell us that its for Hector!!!! Ye gads, someone take him to a doc! Even otherwise, when dad’s had a particularly tense day in office, or is terribly worried, he’d just go sit alone in his room and this fellow would go sit next to him. Dad would proceed to pat him, rub his ears, and magically, all the tension, worries, anxiety would just get absorbed by Hector. You may think im crazy, but try trusting me when i say that it really happens.

Well that’s all for now. I could go on n on, but then you all will start yawning. So for all the doggy lovers out there, a big thumbs up from my side, and for the rest , you just have to own a dog to understand what im talking about.

I'll leave you with this thought: "Every boy should have two things. A dog, and a mother, who will let him have one"