I want easy points !

I have begun to think that I need free points each time I serve well and hit a great shot. I have been unwilling to respond if these expectations fail. I do not know why I have begun to take it for granted. This attitude has led to a cascade of points being lost and subsequently matches. I need to go in with a frame of mind that I will win, take each point at a time and be prepared for a long 3 hour match. While I think this way carrying out every other activity in life, I have not been able to apply it on tennis court. There are days when I have managed to do it and won. It is evidentthat the philosophy of curbing errors and persevering wins more matches than rash indulgences on the court. I need to get back to my old ways and start winning ugly. Yes, ugly. One of my friends used to play with elegance, but inconsistently and never won. He would encourage me to follow his path. I have never did, it appears based upon my recent showing on the tennis courts, the advice has entered my mind, and is overwhelming my winning it ugly thought processes. I am beginning to see my flaws more clearly. I need to put to back together to string up a few wins and make my time on the court fun-filled and worthy.

I read the ten tips of playing good tennis; it suggested that be aggressive and consistent. Do not gamble and play to your strengths. I believed in this until that decisive match against Bryce, who outplayed my serve and volleying game with his brilliant ground strokes. I chose to change my style based on that one game. It is shocking. I realize that my ego prevailed over my common sense filled mind. I have strived hard to get rid of it. I have only succeeded in few instances. I am training hard and feeling the pleasure of playing than the pain of losing. I need to be pumped up, which has always allowed me to raise the level of my game, in all the sports that I have played.

Hold the racquet with both hands until you choose to swing it. This was the wise words of Abdiel. It pointed to the major flaw that has crept into my technique when I have indulged in transforming my touch game to a power game from the baseline. I am not a power-hitter. I know that, yet I strive. I have not achieved as a serve and volleyer, but I believe that I have. The constant change that my mind seeks should occur after equilibrium is reached, not earlier. I have to be calm, aggressive, consistent, adaptive and intelligent on the court to win more matches. I am capable of all of it. I have to implement it through training my mind. Ultimately, tennis is a mental game and so is life.

Rejoicing about Church Street Delights

While picking up coffee of the vending machine at work, the trinity, the three indian's working in the department, ran up a conversation on the gourmet delights of Bangalore. To be noted is that each of us were from a different generation, yet, views converged rapidly to the conclusion that food and pub connoisseur's can find no place better than Bangalore, sheer world class. I views this is to do with the cosmopolitan nature of the city and its natives, which cries loud even in the din and commotion of its present, for those who can still hear it. In a short time, we walked through Church street, covering the delicacies served at Coconut Grove and the late night Biryani's at Empire. Not left far behind were Pico's (forget the spelling amidst the American lingual intervention of these years) and Tavern. Alas, time ran out and each of us headed back to our desks with lingering memories and with a angst on the choices that led us away from paradise.

Clinging on to these thoughts, I headed out last evening on Walnut street, the weather matching the usual degrees Celsius at Bangalore. The lighted streets and wavy crowd simmering up the break from otherwise a bleak and harsh winter. Then, in a moment of epiphany, I could see the streets cross, and why this city has been hard to leave.

The Chaperone

I was in Mumbai doing my masters at the turn of the millennium, and unexpectedly I adopted the role of a chaperone for a bunch of friends and acquaintances who chose to fly out of India via Mumbai. I have never understood whether it was coincidence or my capabilities that began to draw more people to transit via Mumbai. At the beginning, I was taking this role less seriously, but soon I realized that it was giving me the opportunity to learn about the nocturnal life of the city that never sleeps. I could not resist throwing away this chance to explore the streets of this ancient city, where everything was a fascinating tale that had connections far back in time.

I used to live at Matunga, this is near the centre of the city - Dadar. To reach the airport at Andheri, I had to catch a train from Dadar or West Matunga or Kings circle station. These stations were equi-distant from my hostel. I would take turns in giving each of these stations a visit in order to avoid the redundancy, which is a habit that I have avoided cultivating. To walk to Dadar station, I would pass through the infamous five gardens, where one can get lost amidst the amorous couples entangled in acts of passion. Reaching Matunga west involved crossing a bridge that seemed to run over the land of Mordor, all we could hear was clanking of metal and sparks from the blacksmith's foundry. The King's circle station was hidden behind a string of duplex houses, which seemed to be standing on their last legs, shuddering continuously with the fear of collapsing, everytime a train would pass by. Once I would reach Andheri, I used to hire a auto rickshaw, a ride that would last for nearly 40 minutes, through different terrains - some laid, many unlaid.

As the flights were timed to leave or reach Mumbai few hours past midnight, I would end up rushing to the Andheri station to catch the last train back home. Strangers, who lie in the shadows of our mind during the day, were basking in limelight in these wee hours of the morning. The stations would be still filled with people, I have always wondered what their destinations were. An odd silence would be on the streets during my walk from the station, I could feel the city still alive, but like a light sleeper, ready to wake up at the sound of silence. The stars that can be rarely seen in the mist of smoke, steadily glowed until they were bright and colorful, making themselves, finally at home. At the hostel gate, I used to make my final stop, to have a cup of hot chai. How did this chaiwallah decide that this is the best hour for business has been a unresolved mystery to my mind . I am still glad that I got be a part of all of this. Luck never knocks twice, they say; I have never been part of a similar adventure since I left Mumbai.

The day I scored 5 goals

It happened many years ago, on a hot summer evening, in a football field in the suburbs of Chennai. Although, cricket captures the imagination of most of India, there are few of us in those billions who thrive to match the football fanaticism more observed in other hemisphere's of earth. There were about 12 of us who shared an interest to kick the football around, and we decided to make it a daily event. The teams were decided for the season, which lasted for may be less than a month, and it was a matter of pride to be there and win the games.

I had played soccer in a much bigger environment than this, and considered myself technically superior to the rest. But, little did I foresee that the physical strength of my opponents would put rest to my skills. We were down 5 goals to nil by the end of the first hour; considering that the game used to go on until the sunset, which was more than hour away, it gave my team ample to either make a triumphant comeback or be thrashed to oblivion. A moment of provocation by a good friend, a fiery opponent at that moment, instigated me to use my head, literally, to break the shackles. A long throw in, I rushed in to the near post, and smacked a header to the top of the invisible (cause we used two stones as the goal posts) net. We celebrated as though I had scored the winner, rather it was relief that we were not going to be white-washed, and may be a hope that we might emerge out of his hole unscathed.

Realizing that the ariel route had its potency, a couple of more set pieces from corners and throw ins, resulted in a hat trick of goals for me. Then, came a couple of moments of brilliance with my foot and we were even at 5 goals each. By then game had lasted for nearly 150 minutes, nobody cared anymore if I scored 5 or one dozen, exhaustion had descended up on us with soothing stillness . Though this instance will never ever occur in my footballing career, which continues to last, the memory of it is bound to repeat itself more often. Today, when BBC wrote about Ferenc Puskas and Co. illuminating Wembley nearly sixty years ago with a 6 goal barrage, tongue in cheek, I decided to blog in my mark on history too.

Idol Worship - The Essence of India

Being from India, and born as Hindu, the concept of the Brahma-Vishnu-Shiva trinity and their influence on daily life cannot be ignored. Growing up, we were told mythical tales of good overwhelming evil forces, and its impact on the routine of life. Upanishads, Mahabharata, Ramayana and many other scriptures contain tons of these tales and describe thousands of gods, whose idols can be found in temples across the India. These temples are undoubtedly architectural marvels, which unfortunately is not going to be part of this narrate. Furthermore, colloquial versions of these mythical tales have been construed and passed on by pedants in order to capture the imagination of the millions.

Although, the modern generation, circa 1990 and beyond, who were born after India globalized, when the multinational investors brought the big bucks to commercialize our trinity, disown themselves to these ancient mythological feats. They are still addicted to the concept of idol worship. Alongside, the Indian genes for heart ailments and diabetes, a sequence for idol worship seems to have gotten a place in our genome .

However, this new-found gene seems to have mutated, the worship continues, but no more of immortals, it is of mere mortals, who are transformed to god status and ultimately manifested in the form of idols. This has gained such high popularity that the past may become convoluted soon. I should give due credit to Darwinian principles for this affect, though the influence has been negative in my view.

There has been a rapid growth in these modern idols and also their followers in various arenas such as sports, politics, religion, business and entertainment. These idols seem to have their own type of temples, which have sprouted up at a alarming rate. Soon, we might not be categorized anymore by caste or economic status, but allegiance to a idol. Now, the confusing part arises, how do we incorporate these modern day idols in to our ancient history. I believe that we need quality researchers to set a taxonomy that would enable lesser minds such as your truly to make the appropriate and most accurate choice. Many would presume that these pursuits should stall with the higher educated ones, strangely, they feel that they should join the rest of the herd and become part of this new forming society.

With this my commentary concludes; I have provided the state of the art on the progress of idol worship in India. As a scientist, I am curious to see whether these newer directions will continue to evolve or devolve and can I contribute somhow. If the field progresses much faster than expected, a review will be provided again.

Is S bigger than R?

A few from my kindred believe that Sehwag is better than I.V.A Richards. Such petulance would have created a mental havoc in me, as it did a few months ago, when the world-wide Indian samaj poured eulogies to mark twenty years of Sachin's arrival. But, now I have passed the stage realizing, humans are always out-numbered in the planet of apes.

I am a sports and history buff. These are a deadly duo and few realize this. Isaac Vivian Alexandar Richards invoked a fear in the greatest of bowlers and fielders. Clearly visible; when he would lumber to the batting crease with a cap or a hat, yawn, look non-chalantly - making the men around him feel like lilliputs, make an eye contact with the bowler - letting a shiver run through his spine, then decimate the ball to every part of the cricket ground with a power unseen. This would happen to every team and everywhere, no prejudice, no sympathy and galores of laughter typifying a West Indian spirit. Men and women admired him for his larger than life presence. It became unanimous that Richards was born in another planet, transponded to earth and wielded the bat like a Jedi master.

Virender Sehwag on the other hand, is brutal, destroys bowling attacks and even manages a smile. Unfortunately, all this ends, when the pitch comes to life, the ball is aimed at his jugular and the bowlers strike his ever worn helmet so often that claustrophobia descends on his run-making abilities. His exploits for an Indian fan - with limited cricketing adherence - may seem exceptional, but for the rest, it is merely average.

There have been many of Sehwag's kind - who have treaded the cricketing grounds and exploited favorable conditions to produce a few brilliant moments. But, when it comes to ruling the sport of cricket - there can be only king - and he is from the carribean island - Antigua.

Five Point Someone vs. Three Idiots

Let me disclaim this to be any tale of dunces or any equivalent form. All views have been written by a rational human being.

As I departed the Bangalore airport in March, 2007, my sister, unwillingly parted with the book by Chetan Bhagat - Five Point Someone. It had been creating raves among Indians and few Asians. Since the moment, I finished the book, there has not been a day when I have not wondered whether this book was the worst one that I had got to read. The writing and narration was irreparably mediocre. Yet, the book was a success. It was because -we have a large percentage of young populace, many aspiring to become an IITians, and also the story had romance coupled with a happy ending - recipe for immediate success on home turf. Only by a cats whister, Chetan missed out being called a Devta (God) of Indian literature.

Now, the Devta is upset that his unique story has been plagiarized by group of moviemakers - who called his tale - The three idiots. Chetan shows his benevolence, and accepts the movie, eventhough, a penny of the box-office profits wasn't shared with him. We have a martyr. Maybe build a memorial for him. Acknowledge his petty achievements as national. I am curious to know what the Sahitya academy, Man Booker and Pullitzer committee are thinking on this issue.

I have been amused at all the hoopla that the farce of a book and the movie has created. The three idiots, showcases, 40 year olds as 20 year olds - no genetic disorders of any type, and still managed to win an unaminous vote of approval. Somewhere, I believe that this generation of our society has deprecated such, that a two piece worth of art is viewed as a Rembrandt. Where has the intellect, a capacity to distinguish genuine and unworthy, disappeared. There seems to be an apalling void that has blurred the vision of the modern day, Indian populace - who seem to be retarding fast in the evolutionary cycle. This element of biology is still not understood, well enough, to provide a hypothesis. So, I call it foolhardiness and rest my case.

Another one down

The world is rapidly changing - yes, it is a cliche - yet, we become more aware, when those who we grew up listening, seeing and idolizing begin their journey to netherworld. Recently, I suffered a personal loss, which had left my mind bare for few days; last evening, a celebrity, who personified a generation of people, passed away. Vishnuvardhan - the few who have followed south Indian cinema, will instantly recognize, was lost. Nothing to ponder about the circumstances, the usual suspects that insinuates the genes of hundreds of millions of Indians, got him.

His mark on movie-land can be accounted with path-breaking list of movies. I remember him for many, which left a lasting impact on his ability as an actor and human-being on me. With due credits to Freddie Mercury - another one down and another one down, another one bites the dust.