A genius is a glorious concoction of perfection and imperfection – the imperfections, most often, the outcome of striving for perfection. It is not often, when common man gets a glimpse of a genius and it is even less frequently that common man recognizes a genius when he sees one. The genius in a painter or a poet or a writer goes unappreciated by the masses. Unfortunately for the great artist,in the eyes of the world, the proclamation of his genius happens only when the audience understands the art. It requires half-a-genius to even comprehend the work of a genius.
Sports is an exception and occasionally cinema. The closest a common man comes to understanding a genius is when he watches a Federer in action or a Sachin in motion.
Federer is a symphony on court, poetry in motion. You give a set of words to a great writer, someone like Naipaul, and he knows how best to phrase them. You throw a ball at Federer and he knows how best to place it. It is sheer exhilaration that one feels, when Federer is at his best. The best part is that he never needs to be at his best to better his closest rival. One common argument that is thrown against acknowledging the greatness of Federer is that he never had great rivals. The fact could well be that Federer never gave that opportunity to anyone, of becoming a great rival. He just steamrolled over every opponent, never permitting anyone to grow in confidence and pose a challenge to his supremacy. Except Nadal, at French Open. Had Nadal or Safin and Roddick for that matter, been playing in any other era they would not have been ordinary mortals.
My firm belief is that the day Federer decides to win the French Open, he will win. How often have we seen him drift into a period of nothingness, then suddenly decide it is time to go home and majestically wrap up the match in no time? How often have we seen Federer serve more aces than his reputedly-big-serving opponents? When Federer steps onto the court, he fights against himself. The day he decides to lose, others can win. Otherwise, ‘don’t even try, pal!’ (Federer might have been joking – but was he? Every opponent knows he meant it and sadly for them, he was stating the truth). Federer’s genius is defined by one word – invincible.
Sachin’s genius is composed of a different concoction. His flaws and vulnerabilities are there for everyone to see and exploit, whenever he permits them to. His flaws have been analysed by so many experts so many times that if you add them all and if an ounce of truth is there in them, Sachin would have been relegated to the archives of cricket statisticians’ laptops. There are very few people who have kept a billion hearts throbbing and fluttering for seventeen years. When Sachin first walked into the international arena, every heart was secretly praying for the kid to succeed. If you had thought that it was because he was a kid – pause, the hearts are still praying. Sachin doesn’t need any prayers though. There is something right about every stroke he plays and he plays every stroke. The balance, the timing, the grace all make time stand still. Even when he ducks awkwardly under a searing bouncer, his determination is stamped over it.
Sometimes Sachin is an intelligent bowler’s easy prey. If he had fallen to a particular ball playing a particular shot, he is most likely to play the same shot off the same ball and sometimes fall again. The intelligent bowler doesn’t realize that Sachin will keep playing the same shot not because he can’t play it differently but because he wants to play the same shot that failed him and succeed. He will keep failing till he succeeds. Once Sachin masters his failing, the intelligent bowler will have to start raking up his brains again to spot another flaw, not knowing that Sachin will probably be more eager than him to know the next flaw – so that he can fix it. Haven't we seen him paddle-sweeping straight to the fielder repeatedly till he gets the stroke right and beats the fielder by an inch - looking past the spectator's frustration (oh! why cant he try some other shot), it is the same obsessive urge for perfection on display.
Sachin has many detractors. But will any of them dare not to watch him when he is in action. He may not match a Lara or Steve Waugh in snatching victory from jaws of defeat. But when Sachin plays, winning or losing become secondary in its truest sense. There is nothing to exceed the sheer joy of watching the sheer genius in action. There is nothing to match the sight of imperfections being ironed out right in front of your eyes and perfection emerge ultimately, every time.
Luckily for bowlers like Warne or Murali, unlike Federer’s rivals, they could build their fames by bowling at others.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
Nandigram - The Left hand of violence
After the right wing violence in Gujarat comes the left handed punch in Bengal. Gujarat violence was easy to understand and classify - religous hatred and an orchestrated communal outburst. But Nandigram is difficult to comprehend. Partly because media coverage has been patchy. There have been allegations and equally strong counter-allegations in press coverage that has negated the impact of the gory violence in Nandigram.
Communist violence is no less disgusting than communal violence. A fertile well-literate Bengal has been kept under the poverty line by the communists for decades. But nobody seems to bother. Jyoti Basu walks high among politicians even as, say, a Lalu is villified for the same crime. It is a never-ending wonder, how communists have been able to be perched on to their moral high grounds despite their dismal records in Bengal and even in Kerala.
At the end of it all, I know nothing of Nandigram violence. Was it the fault of communists or the alleged-Maoists? What is the difference between the two clans - are they not supposed to be bound by the same idealogy? But there has been something brewing in Nandigram that has made the air putrid there - the stink left by the violence can be sensed though not proven.
Misplaced faith in any idealogy - be it religious or political, be it right wing capitalism or left wing socialism, seems to yield the same result. Hatred. Violence. And finally loss of faith - in anything.
Communist violence is no less disgusting than communal violence. A fertile well-literate Bengal has been kept under the poverty line by the communists for decades. But nobody seems to bother. Jyoti Basu walks high among politicians even as, say, a Lalu is villified for the same crime. It is a never-ending wonder, how communists have been able to be perched on to their moral high grounds despite their dismal records in Bengal and even in Kerala.
At the end of it all, I know nothing of Nandigram violence. Was it the fault of communists or the alleged-Maoists? What is the difference between the two clans - are they not supposed to be bound by the same idealogy? But there has been something brewing in Nandigram that has made the air putrid there - the stink left by the violence can be sensed though not proven.
Misplaced faith in any idealogy - be it religious or political, be it right wing capitalism or left wing socialism, seems to yield the same result. Hatred. Violence. And finally loss of faith - in anything.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Where is all the green gone?
Going to my grandmother's house always used to be an interesting journey years back. It was an extension of the city, or a suburb if you wish to call it so. But for some strange reason the rural mindset and the atmosphere was intact inspite of the proximity to the city. Everybody knew everyone around them, which was a clear distinguishing factor to establish that the city had not swallowed the erstwhile village completely.
My protectionist parents never taught me (not necessarily prevented me) to mingle with all the kids there. I was choosy in selecting my acquaintances with my interactions limited to my cousins and a couple of friends (the number came down to one ultimately). I therefore never got to indulge in the rural game of goli-gundu, which must have been an ancesteral game of golf played with marble balls that needed to be dropped into holes on the ground. I still remained a city boy, playing cricket inside my grandmother's house with my solitary friend - there was enough space there for the two of us, and watching TV - it was ironical that television came to my grandmother's house before we could buy one.
Now coming away from my digressions into a distant memory to the actual story that I wanted to tell, there were trees - lots of them. There were huge neem trees in the backyard of my grandmother's and at the frontyard of my friends house. Sandwitched between these two neem trees the spacious varenda of my grandmother's was always blessed with a gentle breeze. There was a a fairly large garden at my aunt's place nearby with various varieties of trees on which we could climb and play. A sturdy but flexible guava tree was my favourite - it was apt for the ameteurish adventurer in me, who could never dare to try climbing the tall cocunut trees.
Zooming ahead to the present, the erstwhile village is now stripped naked of its green outfit. Shorn of all trees, it has gained an eery look. Small houses have mushroomed all across. There is not a single space for even a shrub to shoot up. The spacious breezy verendas are gone. The last of the neem trees had been felled during my recent trip. My bedridden grandmother who spent most of her life under the breeze of the neem tree was complaining about the malfunctioning fan. There is no trace of the garden at my aunt's house which had now shifted to a bigger version on the garden.
The plight of these semi-rural semi-urban areas is getting aggravated un-noticed. Even the cities have some of the greenery left. The ultra-rich apartments have to boast of in-house parks and gardens besides the swimming pools and gyms. The ministers have to plant trees now and then at strategic locations. The NGOs and 'responsible' corporates adopt roadside parks. But who cares about these sub-urbs which are aping the cities with more vigour than the cities themselves? Trying to get rid of the rural identity, they are gaining a city-slum-sort of makeover. Depleted of all the trees that adorned every rural house and devoid of any kind of urban planning, the garbage and stink are pervading throughout the streets.
To silence my awakened conscience, I bought a Philips CFL lamp (my first) for my grandmother's house, thereby making my contribution to control the global warming! And of course, the screeching fan also needs some attention.
My protectionist parents never taught me (not necessarily prevented me) to mingle with all the kids there. I was choosy in selecting my acquaintances with my interactions limited to my cousins and a couple of friends (the number came down to one ultimately). I therefore never got to indulge in the rural game of goli-gundu, which must have been an ancesteral game of golf played with marble balls that needed to be dropped into holes on the ground. I still remained a city boy, playing cricket inside my grandmother's house with my solitary friend - there was enough space there for the two of us, and watching TV - it was ironical that television came to my grandmother's house before we could buy one.
Now coming away from my digressions into a distant memory to the actual story that I wanted to tell, there were trees - lots of them. There were huge neem trees in the backyard of my grandmother's and at the frontyard of my friends house. Sandwitched between these two neem trees the spacious varenda of my grandmother's was always blessed with a gentle breeze. There was a a fairly large garden at my aunt's place nearby with various varieties of trees on which we could climb and play. A sturdy but flexible guava tree was my favourite - it was apt for the ameteurish adventurer in me, who could never dare to try climbing the tall cocunut trees.
Zooming ahead to the present, the erstwhile village is now stripped naked of its green outfit. Shorn of all trees, it has gained an eery look. Small houses have mushroomed all across. There is not a single space for even a shrub to shoot up. The spacious breezy verendas are gone. The last of the neem trees had been felled during my recent trip. My bedridden grandmother who spent most of her life under the breeze of the neem tree was complaining about the malfunctioning fan. There is no trace of the garden at my aunt's house which had now shifted to a bigger version on the garden.
The plight of these semi-rural semi-urban areas is getting aggravated un-noticed. Even the cities have some of the greenery left. The ultra-rich apartments have to boast of in-house parks and gardens besides the swimming pools and gyms. The ministers have to plant trees now and then at strategic locations. The NGOs and 'responsible' corporates adopt roadside parks. But who cares about these sub-urbs which are aping the cities with more vigour than the cities themselves? Trying to get rid of the rural identity, they are gaining a city-slum-sort of makeover. Depleted of all the trees that adorned every rural house and devoid of any kind of urban planning, the garbage and stink are pervading throughout the streets.
To silence my awakened conscience, I bought a Philips CFL lamp (my first) for my grandmother's house, thereby making my contribution to control the global warming! And of course, the screeching fan also needs some attention.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Confessions of an atheist
An atheist confessed to me, whenever he was in a depressing situation, he wished he was not an atheist. How easy is life for the spiritually inclined...all you need to do is to leave everything to God and trust he will take care of them. But having admitted the truth to oneself - that there cant be any God, it is difficult to disbelieve that truth and leave it all to God. The atheist has to arduosly harbour the burden of his own difficulties. He knows he has to sort it out himself. There will be no divine intervention.
Oh - if only God exists! You can always believe that you will get what you deserve. You just have to be good. As if being good at heart is the end-state (why not). And trust me, it is not difficult to be good. It is much easier than what an atheist believes he needs to be to succeed (in material terms) - hard working, smart, intelligent,...,there is an endless list.
In good times, the atheist doesnt know how long it will last and he knows he has to be constantly striving hard to make it last longer. In bad times, the atheist doesnt know where to turn to. He has to continue to trust himself and his abilities to wriggle out of the bad times. The joy of good times is lost in the effort to sustain it and prolong it. The agony of bad times is compounded by the inability to turn away from it. Paradise lost can be regained. But belief lost is lost forever.
There is a certain serenity in believing in serendipidity and the atheist is forever deprived of it. No wonder man made Gods. And religions to keep the myth alive.
Oh - if only God exists! You can always believe that you will get what you deserve. You just have to be good. As if being good at heart is the end-state (why not). And trust me, it is not difficult to be good. It is much easier than what an atheist believes he needs to be to succeed (in material terms) - hard working, smart, intelligent,...,there is an endless list.
In good times, the atheist doesnt know how long it will last and he knows he has to be constantly striving hard to make it last longer. In bad times, the atheist doesnt know where to turn to. He has to continue to trust himself and his abilities to wriggle out of the bad times. The joy of good times is lost in the effort to sustain it and prolong it. The agony of bad times is compounded by the inability to turn away from it. Paradise lost can be regained. But belief lost is lost forever.
There is a certain serenity in believing in serendipidity and the atheist is forever deprived of it. No wonder man made Gods. And religions to keep the myth alive.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Hierarchy of terror
After watching the non-stop telecast of the Tehelka sting till midnight on day one (interspersed with numerous ads inbetween), I was certain that satellite space is going to be filled with nothing but this for the next countless days. After stripping the videos of all the hype, the empty Rana-Pratap-boasting and words intelligently inserted into the oppressor-victims' mouths by the reporter, the incident still had the necessary impact. This is the blackest story of our times in India.
To my surprise though, the 'most important story of our times' had been relegated to the pages of not-so-widely circulated Tehalha magazine and the scrolling newsbars of television. Is it the fear that the sting could be fake or is it the genuine fear that the story is actually bound to backfire and benefit those it is trying to expose?
The buried questions that are brought out by the sting scream asking for answers. The victims of Hindu riots may have been fewer than the victims of Islamist terror over a period of time (if riots and terror maybe painted with religious colours). But what makes organized riots more repulsive and frightening than organized terror? The motive and results are the same. But a Narendra Modi is going to be condemned by the intellectual more than even Osama. There is something indigestible about mass leaders inciting common man to kill and then walk free in the society. The life in hiding and fleeing itself is a punishment in a way for the terrorist. But the mass leaders are rewarded with votes and power. For a neutral observer, this is disgusting.
And somehow, one enraged person or team, planting a bomb to trigger off the deaths of people doesnt evoke the same horrid feeling as seeing a large group of incensed (idealogically or otherwise) people targetting specific individuals and raping, burning, slicing, hacking them to death. Somehow murder by hand is more harrowing than killing by a bomb of a terrorist or a soldier. Is it for the same reason why Hitler is more hated by History than Truman though Truman's atom bombs probably claimed more lifes than Hitler's gas chambers could in over a decade?
To my surprise though, the 'most important story of our times' had been relegated to the pages of not-so-widely circulated Tehalha magazine and the scrolling newsbars of television. Is it the fear that the sting could be fake or is it the genuine fear that the story is actually bound to backfire and benefit those it is trying to expose?
The buried questions that are brought out by the sting scream asking for answers. The victims of Hindu riots may have been fewer than the victims of Islamist terror over a period of time (if riots and terror maybe painted with religious colours). But what makes organized riots more repulsive and frightening than organized terror? The motive and results are the same. But a Narendra Modi is going to be condemned by the intellectual more than even Osama. There is something indigestible about mass leaders inciting common man to kill and then walk free in the society. The life in hiding and fleeing itself is a punishment in a way for the terrorist. But the mass leaders are rewarded with votes and power. For a neutral observer, this is disgusting.
And somehow, one enraged person or team, planting a bomb to trigger off the deaths of people doesnt evoke the same horrid feeling as seeing a large group of incensed (idealogically or otherwise) people targetting specific individuals and raping, burning, slicing, hacking them to death. Somehow murder by hand is more harrowing than killing by a bomb of a terrorist or a soldier. Is it for the same reason why Hitler is more hated by History than Truman though Truman's atom bombs probably claimed more lifes than Hitler's gas chambers could in over a decade?
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