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.

Nero takes on bollywood!

The Mudra Institute of Communications, Ahmedabad is famous for two things. Roxy, the royal german shepherd and Mr A F Mathew (Author pauses, for everyone to say, “Nero, we are sure you are as famous as they are”). Mathew is a professor of ‘World Culture and Communications’ and is one of the funniest, most sarcastic, and most knowledgable professors India has perhaps known. Of course he’s a mallu.

At the end of his course last term , he asked us to submit an assigment on his subject ‘Media stereotypes’. We were allowed to choose, for ourselves, the stereotype topic and below, is my assignment, word by word.

The ‘Sensitive’ portrayal of love and rape scenes in bollywood:
Disclaimer: The following presentation is a sarcastic dig at the Indian media (Bollywood, to be more specific) for its stereotypical treatment of portraying love, lust and basically just about everything. The images attached might just want to make the audience give up on watching hindi commercial cinema forever.

Causes that make the innocent, puppy love between hero and heroine change into them wanting to mate at that very instant:

1) The hero and heroine are laughing and playfully chasing one another all over a room, and then ‘accidentally’ fall on the bed. Their faces touch as they get up and they realize a never before love/lust for each other. Hero kisses heroine’s neck, heroine goes mad with frenzy.

2) There’s a wild, wild, wild thunderstorm and ‘frightening’ lightning. Heroine is scared out of her wits and runs towards the hero and hugs him. During this tender embrace, they realize the need to rub each other’s back with a vigour that can, in polite terms can only be described, as extremely aggressive.

The portrayal of love scenes:
1) It’s always a hug. According to Bollywood, all good Indian men and women make love to each other by hugging. Gentle affection is depicted by filming the female protagonist resting her head on her lover’s shoulder whereas scenes which have to convey a deeper physical bonding are shown by aggressive rubbing of counterpart’s backs by the couple and disgusting facial expressions (to show they are losing control) in synchronization. But either way, it has to be shown thru a hug. How, for crying out aloud, can we produce babies by hugging, I wonder.

The copulation scene (or, what actually immediately follows the hugging scene):

Pollinating flowers :
For some funny reason, flowers decide to show affection to one another , i.e they start pollinating, when lovers hug . Soft lilting music in the background, and roses vibrating on their axes is the most common Bollywood portrayal for indicating that ‘love is in the air’. The two lovers would have just started hugging and getting intimate, and suddenly the scene would change over to two flowers swaying left, right, helter skelter, nodding their little heads as if to mark approval of this ‘sacrosanct’ act. Sometimes, when flowers are not available, a vigorously shaking bush would suit just as fine to portray physical affection between the protagonists.

Roaring fire or stereotype number ‘do’:
The hero and heroine were travelling in a car which has now broken down in the middle of nowhere. It’s raining cats, dogs and hippopotamuses. They spot a dark bungalow and decide to take refuge for the night. Once inside, the heroine (as usual) is feeling scared and cold, so macho man lights up a fire in the fireplace provided (how convenient!). Love sprouts all of a sudden and the protagonists move to hug each other. As soon as they start hugging, the camera moves to the roaring fire blazing ‘happily’.

Fact : Intensity of roaring fire is directly proportional to lust between the protagonists.

Baby’s photo: Bollywood cinema at its ‘bollywoodish’ best.
The hero is in a playful mood. He teases the heroine and ‘mischievously’ kisses her. The heroine (as usual) is scared out of her wits, this time because, “Rahul, what are you doing? Everyone’s here. Someone might see us”. But then, swayed by emotions, she lets the buffoon hug her. Camera shot moves from the protagonists to a wall, where a baby’s photo is staring back at the audience. The baby usually has a finger on his mouth, asking the audience to keep shhh about the deed.
Author’s observation: I have a strong suspicion that it’s the same baby that’s being used for all these films right from the 1920’s. The fellow must be at least eighty by now, and quite frankly speaking, pretty irritated for having to shhh the audience for ‘centuries.

Boiling milk: Note, this is the author’s personal favourite.

Scene: The hero is (as usual) in a playful mood. He comes up from the behind the heroine, who is industriously working in the kitchen. Hero grabs heroine around the waist, and the entire setting – the heroine, her waist, the colour of the wall, the cauliflower in the basket, the dirty utensils in the sink – all drive the hero’s sexual urges, and they start kissing. For some reason, the camera is now more focused on telling us the status of the boiling milk on the stove rather than the love making scene.

The poor milk steadily reaches its maximum boiling point and starts spilling over the utensil, which, please note, is the ONE AND ONLY WAY that signifies that yes, the hero and heroine have gone beyond kissing to the next stage of physical love.

The bedside lamp and the fan:
The hero and heroine are in their bedroom. They feel the urge to touch each other and lie down on the bed. For some reason, they never lie with their heads on the same side as the night lamp placed next to the bed. All the male lead stars in Bollywood must have been skilled footballers in their heyday, as none of them, not even one, ever use their hands to switch off the night lamp. What? Of course the two can touch each other only when the lights are off!!!! Hero skillfully, without once removing his gaze from the heroine’s face, uses his toe to switch off the lamp, and buries his stupid head in her neck. The camera moves to the ceiling fan in the room, which wants to make out too, so it shows off in front of the tube light by rotating at top speed.

The depiction of Rape (raping the audience’s mind?) scenes:

The act though thoroughly heinous in nature, is mostly shown in strange and often bemusing ways. The ‘bad’ guy is always fixated with the sleeves of the heroine’s dress. The author would like to keep his hand on the Gita (the book, you perverts!) and swear that bollywood villains get turned on only when they tear off the victim’s sleeves. Also, till this stage, the heroine is not too scared. I mean, she is not exactly humming happy tunes to herself but she’s still composed. But as soon as the bad guy reaches upto her and rips those sleeves, she finally concludes that uh oh, this must mean he’s gonna rape me, and starts crying hysterically. With all her might. (Or maybe the dress was expensive and she is terribly angry that he tore it!!)

An essential ‘prop’ for a rape scene is heavy lightning. The scene alternates between the villain savagely ttacking the heroine’s neck and lightning in the heavenly skies. For some reason, it never rains.

There are probably hundreds of other ways in which our filmy couples mate, and our friendly neighbourhood villain’s rape, but this post is already getting too long, so adios people and have an awesome day.

p.s 1) Mathew Sir is yet to check my assignment. Think he’ll gimme a good grade?
p.s 2) Someone shoot the guy who is charge of the “lightning” prop. Those “lightnings” are as artificial as artificial could be.