Cricket fever

Cricket is no more the sport that I used to know and like. The IPL has changed it beyond recognition. The sport has been stripped of its staid quality and transformed into a curious concoction of 40 overs of hurriedly-played game, skimpily-clad cheerleaders and other needless distractions.

Then there is the curious thing that IPL does to your loyalty. You don't feel the same rush that you experienced while watching a face-off between India and Pakistan. Or for that matter, India against any other team. Much like the team and the spirit, the IPL has managed to divide our loyalties, too. Leave aside Telengana and Gorkhaland, regionalism has crept its way into cricket and how!

I live in Kolkata, so I am supposed to cheer for Kolkata Knight Riders. This apart, there were two other factors that won my vote for the team — Shahrukh Khan and Sourav Ganguly. But that was way back in time. KKR’s disgraceful performance and Dada’s unceremonious exit left me and many more like me flummoxed. What ensued was a love-hate relationship with the team. When the team won, we love-lorn, smitten-by-SRK fans, felt happy for the charmer, but what held us back from an unrestrained show of glee was Dada, the hometown hero’s, absence. Well, you can’t tickle all things Bengali in us and expect us to cut down on the emotional quotient at the same time. My mother, a former SRK fan, has since then shunned his movies and cricket.

Then the confusion got a little more complicated. Dada became the captain of Pune Warriors. Never thought watching cricket would be so demanding!

Friendship

My father used to say that as we grow up, our list of friends gets whittled down to a few good ones. For me, these few are the ones who mean the most. I have heard glorified definitions of friendship, but for me it's just an assurance that they are there.

They are the people who know my vulnerabilities, my penchant for embarrassing myself, my oddities, my weirdest actions that defy logic but still accept me the way I am. They make me feel important and relevant through sweet and small gestures that speak volumes. I know I have the right to be angry with them, speak my mind without weighing my words and tell them I can't take calls because of a sore throat and yet I will not be any less loved for that. They expect me to wish them at 12 on their birthdays, and then call me up themselves to remind me when I forget. There's one who suffer my persistent banters on her Bengali skills with admirable stoicism and another who fakes an error in connection whenever he is reminded of sponsoring a treat. Another thinks I am the most mature and emotionally dependent person she can turn to in distress situations, which makes me think I never knew myself.

I don't know what I have done to deserve them, but I can trade a thousand friends for these few.

Freaky fashion

Today I decided to take up a subject that has eluded me ever since I became aware of its existence and the importance appended to it —fashion. Fashion and I share a mutual awe, the kind that you develop for something remote and incognisable. I have always given fashion a wide berth because of my abysmal depth of ignorance on the subject.  Whenever I try to summon my patience and focus my mind on exploring its marvels, fashion leaves me stumped.

A case in point —  the low -waist jeans. They should come with a statutory warning simply because there is no limit to how low it can get. A rage with the fashionistas, they barely manage to reach your waist. And if you decide to give the belt a miss, then you need divine intervention to keep it from sliding down further. I'm sure even those walking with a new-found swagger after donning that perfect and priceless pair, wait with bated breath for the terrible to happen. I bet they have that fear lurking somewhere behind that oh-so-cool demeanour.

Torn clothes once used to mean you are too hard up for cash to buy a new one. But now they are a statement. The distressed look doesn't reflect your state of being, but is carefully cultivated to notch up a few extra points as a natty dresser. So if your mother makes a dash for her sewing machine to mend your ragged jeans, please show some consideration. She just doesn't get the point, much like me.

A neat no-nonsense hair cut with a side parting and a perfect bhodrolok get-up. Is that your idea of a smart looker? Come, join the club, because like me you are also likely to be written off as too old-fashioned and out of sync with time. Haven't you heard of spikes and hair gels? I have always wondered how hair sticking out of your head exactly enhance your beauty quotient. To me, it looks more like a porcupine on the run. But what do I know of fashion?

That day, I met a friend after eons. As we got talking I couldn't help but get distracted by the little thingy under her lower lip. When I couldn't hold in my curiosity any longer, I told her there was something on her chin. I was almost going to wipe it off myself when she enlightened me on the object. That was a piercing and I was an official ignoramus. I won't blame her if she refuses to acknowledge my presence the next time we meet.

Since that meeting I have become acquainted with other types of body art, too...tattoos to be more precise. They find pride of place almost anywhere on the body. Permanent, temporary and semi-permanent, meaning they can be reworked as and when needed, tattoos are the "in" thing. So what if it peeks out from uncomfortable places? You can't stare at them without running the risk of being branded a pervert. Who will buy your excuse that you were merely trying to admire the art... or whatever little you can see of it?

So basically, I have given up on myself. I have resigned to the fact that I will continue to gape and gasp at these funky expressions of creativity without a clue as to what it is all about.

Road racers!

I have always tried to maintain a spotless record in terms of punctuality, and in the absence of very few personal achievements worth bragging about, I have assigned this small accomplishment a very special place in my heart. So I have decided to dedicate this post to one of the most ingenious contraptions that play a crucial role in helping me maintain the sanctity of my record — the autorickshaw.

Personally, I feel it has not got its due compared with other modes of transport. I admit that it flouts norms and takes on board more passengers than it can accommodate, but can you deny its indispensability? A traffic snarl that holds you to ransom, a series of vehicles refusing to budge and the ticking watch on your wrist that threatens to mar your speckless record for life, what option do you have other than hopping on to the first auto you can lay your eyes on? When you have appointments to keep and deadlines to meet, the auto driver is your knight in shining armour. And he knows this as well.

He can ram his way into the most inaccessible places and negotiate hurdles like a small gap between two buses that will compel even a bicycle rider to think twice before making his way through it. You may dismiss these as sheer disrespect for traffic laws, but I can't help but appreciate the talent.

So what if you have to make do with the cramped space at the back seat and almost no space in the front? That can't take away from the service they render in distress situations. If you want to save yourself the trouble of partially hanging out from the auto with your hands clutching on to the iron road as your only safety belt, you are stamped too snobbish for a ride. But I am even prepared to shrug off this supercilious treatment as a one-off case. Beggars can't be choosers.

Then there are other considerations before the driver allows you to take your seat. You have to be thin or of medium weight to sit at the sides. The healthier lot are not granted a seat at the front (good for them) for fear that the teeny-weeny vehicle might topple. Even at the back, they are made to sit in the middle to balance it out. And to top it all, you should consider yourself lucky if you produce a 10 rupee note and the driver doesn't snub you before deducting the fare. Tender the exact amount and spare the gentleman the trouble. It will not be fair on someone who takes all the trouble to help you cut your travel time by half. Come on, you can't reserve the credit due to them. They rule the road!

Out of sync

Psychedelic lights, a throbbing dance floor, a bar overflowing with drinks and a girl almost reduced to tears at one corner of the room.

I won't shame your intelligence by asking you to pick the odd one out. Yes, the girl almost on the verge of a panic attack would be me at my first tryst with my office party.

It was the first time I was seeing so many tipsy people at one place. There are no bounds to what a slight overdose of alcohol can do to people at these parties. The perfectly normal people, whom you meet everyday, take on a new avatar after treating themselves to generous quantities of liquor. Slightly tipsy, overtly tipsy, some trying hard not to be tipsy and some zonked out — there is hardly a type that you will find missing.

And there would be people like me — a perfect study in contrast — feeling like an extra-terrestrial being plunged right in the middle of absolute anarchy. Music at full blast, which sets your heart thumping so hard, you almost wish it would stop, and wild dance moves that could make you run for the sorcerer, these parties have a unique way of making the uninitiated feel like a square peg in a round hole. It's that awkward moment when you realise that what's supposed to be a fun way of winding down, can actually make you break out into a cold sweat.

Half of the evening was spent in playing "catch me if you can" with friends and acquaintances threatening to drag me on to the already crowded dance floor the moment they spotted me in the half-lit room. The latter half was devoted to searching someone equally or more old-fashioned, or if I'm allowed to dilute the sugar content of the expression, someone sticking out like a sore thumb in that ambience, to accompany me back to office.

Thankfully enough, there were some who had their cognitive powers intact to realise that it was getting late. They were not in a position to give attention to details or else they would not have missed the intense expression of gratitude in my eyes.

Past perfect

Childhood memories have a curious way of staying on with you even when you have past your prime. In those days, all you had to do was go to school, come back and devise strategies to bypass maths homework to prolong the time spent with friends playing outside. An unsullied mind, carefree disposition and bucketloads of energy…we didn’t know what wanting for more was like.

I have heard many say that when they were young, they wished they could grow up fast. I, on the contrary, always knew that I would be terribly missing these days. True, I hated maths and wanted to wish it away, but the evenings spent at the playground and the gully cricket tournaments more than compensated for it.

I was the only female member in my all-boys para gang and the only discrimination I faced was in the football field where I was always made the goalkeeper, while the boys dribbled away the ball to glory.  But I more than made up for my lost chance at exhibiting my talent at the cricket matches. With a cricket bat almost my size, I would whack the ball over the terrace wall everytime a full toss was delivered to me. No doubt I was much in demand during team selections.

We would squabble over inanities one day and blissfully forget about it the next; raise a ruckus during quiet afternoons in the pretext of a game and still get away with it.

There was a certain innocence about that gender-neutral friendship, which somehow got lost along the way. Some of my friends drifted apart, some got busy with their lives and some simply grew up too fast.

Today, the rules of the game have undergone a sea change. Kids play football, but at cyber cafes; they flaunt their tricks with the ball and dodge the opponent seated at the computer next to him. They cheer a goal and throw up their hands in despair when the ball misses the net, oblivious of the fact that they are mistaking the virtual reality for the real and losing out on so much more in the process.

Today, childhood, it seems, is in a hurry to graduate to the next level. Playgrounds are a rarity and kids romping around in them even more so. The click of the mouse in the sheltered cocoon more familiar than the dust and grime accompanied by innumerable cuts and bruises.

The oozing blood from my knees, that followed my first cycle ride, and the Dettol-soaked cotton was no doubt painful, but it also taught me that wounds heal over time and pave the way for a more thrilling ride the next time — making both the fall and the rise equally significant and worthwhile.

To grandparents, with love

I have observed that I have a special liking for old people. Thinning grey hair, a disarming toothless grin and a truckload of stories to tell - grannys and grampas have a way of sneaking into a cozy corner of your heart in no time. Each wrinkle on their forehead has a different story to tell. Be it their allusion to the times when 10 paise would fetch them a canful of candies to how the world was much simpler back then.

On a more personal note, my grandparents have a very special place in my heart. For me, they belong to that age that I wish I could be born in. I have vicariously tried to live their lives when they ruminated about the years gone by. They have an adorability quotient, which is comparable to a toddler. Perhaps this explains the special bond my sister and I shared with them in our formative years.

My mother alleges that my Dadu had a huge influence in spoiling my sister beyond rectifiction. Not that she has turned out to be a bratty girl, but the fact is my mom didn't get a free hand in scolding or beating her up as a disciplinary measure. Dadu would invariably intervene and rescue my sis — who would often use her vocal chords to maximum capacity even before my mom had landed a blow on her — from my mother's tyranny.

I have also seen Dadu concocting amusing stories for my sis, who was nothing short of a tyrant in her insistence that she wouldn't hear any stories that had already been told, nothing from the newspapers and nothing that remotely sounded like an excerpt from a real life incident. That would leave the poor man with little option but to stretch his imagination and fabricate stories that sounded hilarious to maturer ears.

One night, he was really exhausted and dozing off to sleep, but my sister, the hard taskmaster that she is, was still not satisfied with my Dadu's ingenuity. Dadu, who had already exhausted his repertoire, came out with a gem. "Once upon a time, there was a king. He married the queen and then... the tiger ate them up."  You can't imagine the punishment meted out to him for this utter disrespect for a plot. Now he had to tell her a story even during the afternoon.