This is probably the most random thing you’ll read today... if not in your whole life.
My life is like a tube of toothpaste. (sitcom audience laughter plays for about 5 seconds). Yes I find it pretty stupid too. Anyway, returning to the analogy...
My life is like a tube of toothpaste. The length of the tube symbolises time while the toothpaste represents life’s endless and inevitable problems.
Take a brand new tube of paste and turn it upside down. Shake it if you want to. Not a single drop of paste oozes out. Why? Because at that point, life is stable. I have my set of problems but they have not escalated to a point where I'm losing control. The sensible thing at this stage would be to tackle each problem as they come; if not... atleast make arrangements to tackle them in the due course of time. Ofcourse, like I said.. that's the "sensible" thing to do. I'm far far far from it though.
Here's how I function. I pretend these problems don't exist. Ofcourse, pretending doesn't make them go away. It is simply procrastination. Using the analogy, all I'm doing is pushing the paste a few inches up leaving the bottom end completely flat... i.e .. virtually devoid of any problems. At that point of time, I'm content with life. No problems.. no worries.. Hakuna Matata.
Then, the 4th dimension of life comes into play - time. As I push up the tube... I reach a stage when the paste can no longer remain inside. It has to come out. (erotic pun) I have to confront my problems..... and voila... catastrophe.
At this point, I am left with 2 options... get a brush and scrub my teeth... basically grit my teeth and combat my problems head on... or.. or ... or.... let the paste fall aimlessly onto the floor, bit by bit ... throughout the length of the tube... until there is no more paste left inside and time reaches a standstill... death. Shh.. don't worry, I haven't reached that stage yet.
As I type this, somewhere at the back of my head I'm aware that I have an exam to ... nay.. I have 2 exams to write tomorrow.. courtesy a foiled attempt at passing a previous paper. I've decided to put all my eggs in 1 basket at go flat out on the paper I have to re-attempt. I'm aware that this simply means that I'll have to come back again with another empty basket and carry the next set of eggs... in other words write the other exam again next year. Using the analogy, I'm flatting the bottom end of the tube just a teeny weeny bit. Hopefully no paste oozes out.. and even if it does, pray I make good use of it by scrubbing my teeth instead of letting it crawl down the sink and getting lost in oblivion.
So why am I sharing such personal details on a public forum? Frankly I don't know. Rest assured it has nothing to do with the fact that I can appear to be a bit of an emo punk rebel at times with the whole "fuck the world" attitude. I guess it simply comes down to the fact that everybody wants to leave behind something when they're no longer here. Artists have their paintings, singers have their music, acheivers have their achievements.... I have this blog.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
An I-dea can change everything
People die everyday. Its one those inevitable phenomenons we all experience coupled with taxes. Some of those deaths happen to be high profile enough for the whole world to hear about... whether its on television, the newspaper or more significantly in this case, your portable tablet device.
I don’t usually get this emotionally distraught after hearing about some celebrity’s death. You really can’t blame me. When Micheal Jackson died I was sad because the whole world was sad. They aired this 9 hour long show as a tribute to MJ on MTV’s VH1 and my parents and I spent the whole day watching it. We saw Jackson do his famous moonwalk over and over again and groove to his biggest hits like “Beat it” and “Black or White”. It was supposed to be a day of mourning but the media made it seem like a colourful festival. There’s nothing wrong with that ofcourse. I’m sure the last thing MJ would’ve wanted was for us to shed crocodile tears while his disco jamming tracks rocked our music systems. No. MJ left this world the same way he came in.... with a bang!
Its not the same with Steve Jobs though. While many might find this overly dramatic, I swear to you, I felt a lump in my throat when I first heard about his death. As an engineer myself, I feel somewhat connected to him. No wait... that came out wrong. Let me rephrase that. As a FAILING engineer myself, I feel somewhat connected to him. Ahh yes, that’s more like it.
I first heard the name, “Steve Jobs” sometime in the year 2003. My family and I were returning from a vacation in Australia and they just happened to air the famous “Pirates of the Silicon Valley”, movie on the flight. Ofcourse, none of it made sense to a 12 year old version of yours truly. In fact, to tell you the truth, I didn’t even watch it. My dad watched it the whole way. The funny thing was, it was playing again on Star Movies the very minute we reached home. My dad insisted I watch it. That pissed me off cuz I had purchased this awesome looking boomerang and was dying to test it. But sigh... he was my dad after all.
So I watched it... and boy did I love it. Bill Gates and Steve Jobs! Oh what corporate drama. It was wonderful. Never in my wildest dreams did I think people with white collar jobs had to struggle so much. I mean come on, what could be so stressful about sitting in an air conditioned room and working on slick computerised machines? After watching the movie, I realised what a huge part the 2 of them played in ensuring that we actually had those funky machines in the 21st century.
Going back to the future, or should I say the present, here I am as a 20 year old budding/failing (your call) engineer with racing hormones and a burning desire to make a difference in the world. I heard about his death at around 10 in the morning thanks to a text message from my friend. I assume she learned about it through the internet. As US president, Barack Obama said, the irony is that a lot of people learnt of his death through a device he himself invented. While most derive inspiration from the fact that he was one of the greatest inventors of all time, mine comes from something a little different.
In a speech delivered at Stanford University sometime in 2005, Steve spoke about his life, his struggles along the way and the things that inspired him to become the person that he was until his last breath. I’ll share a few bits of his speech that really hit me hard.
He first spoke about joining the dots. According to him, we as individuals go through a whole bunch of fascinating or otherwise frightening experiences in life. Yes we’ve all heard that expression that says it is these very experiences that mould one’s personality. However, what’s most fruitful is if we can somehow connect these unrelated incidents like dots on a paper and join them to form a complete picture. Steve Jobs dropped out of college. He hated it! Academic knowledge meant nothing to the 20 year old Steve. “Screw studies. Let’s take up typography classes and make a living outta that”, is what he said to himself. And so he did... but trust me, at that point of time the last thing he ever thought about was becoming a multi-millionaire and global icon.
Later on in life, those very typography lessons helped him invent the different fonts that we use on our computers today. For what its worth, I’m using Calibri on MS Word. Coming back to Steve, that was what kick-started his career. He then went on to found Apple Inc., an American multinational corporation... (blah blah ... basically the dudes who invented the Ipod)... then get kicked out of his own company, and re-join it years later. During that time, he nearly died from cancer – a near death experience that he claims changed his way of thinking forever.
He spoke about all of this and more in his speech. So how do I relate to this? Well nothing really... unless ofcourse ... if you count considering dropping out of college which he did but I don’t have the balls to ever do. I don’t relate to his struggles and hardship. I definitely do not suffer from cancer... well not just yet. He’s just another guy we hear about who “overcame all odds to become the person he is” – clichéd expression. My dad always tells me about having that “fire in the belly”. I used to think about that from time to time wondering how to acquire it. What Steve jobs helped me realise is this – It is easy to keep that fire burning. What’s hard is figuring out a way to light it. Steve Jobs taught me that you only need to carry one thing with you while going out to chase a dream – an idea. An idea is the key to every success, every invention, every milestone and every revolution. An idea is what ignites that fire in the belly. What we must always remember is to never give up while searching for that idea. It’s there in all of us, somewhere beneath all that petty day-to-day muck that sticks to the soles of our feet while we tread across the dreary sands of life.
We all have different things/people that inspire us, make the hair on the backs of our necks stand up and give us the strength to go that extra mile... people that give us the fuel we need to pursue the chase for that one idea that can change our lives forever. For me that man was Steve Jobs.
RIP Steve. You will always be remembered. Whether it’s in our computers, our ipods or in our hearts, a bit of you will always remain in all of us.
I don’t usually get this emotionally distraught after hearing about some celebrity’s death. You really can’t blame me. When Micheal Jackson died I was sad because the whole world was sad. They aired this 9 hour long show as a tribute to MJ on MTV’s VH1 and my parents and I spent the whole day watching it. We saw Jackson do his famous moonwalk over and over again and groove to his biggest hits like “Beat it” and “Black or White”. It was supposed to be a day of mourning but the media made it seem like a colourful festival. There’s nothing wrong with that ofcourse. I’m sure the last thing MJ would’ve wanted was for us to shed crocodile tears while his disco jamming tracks rocked our music systems. No. MJ left this world the same way he came in.... with a bang!
Its not the same with Steve Jobs though. While many might find this overly dramatic, I swear to you, I felt a lump in my throat when I first heard about his death. As an engineer myself, I feel somewhat connected to him. No wait... that came out wrong. Let me rephrase that. As a FAILING engineer myself, I feel somewhat connected to him. Ahh yes, that’s more like it.
I first heard the name, “Steve Jobs” sometime in the year 2003. My family and I were returning from a vacation in Australia and they just happened to air the famous “Pirates of the Silicon Valley”, movie on the flight. Ofcourse, none of it made sense to a 12 year old version of yours truly. In fact, to tell you the truth, I didn’t even watch it. My dad watched it the whole way. The funny thing was, it was playing again on Star Movies the very minute we reached home. My dad insisted I watch it. That pissed me off cuz I had purchased this awesome looking boomerang and was dying to test it. But sigh... he was my dad after all.
So I watched it... and boy did I love it. Bill Gates and Steve Jobs! Oh what corporate drama. It was wonderful. Never in my wildest dreams did I think people with white collar jobs had to struggle so much. I mean come on, what could be so stressful about sitting in an air conditioned room and working on slick computerised machines? After watching the movie, I realised what a huge part the 2 of them played in ensuring that we actually had those funky machines in the 21st century.
Going back to the future, or should I say the present, here I am as a 20 year old budding/failing (your call) engineer with racing hormones and a burning desire to make a difference in the world. I heard about his death at around 10 in the morning thanks to a text message from my friend. I assume she learned about it through the internet. As US president, Barack Obama said, the irony is that a lot of people learnt of his death through a device he himself invented. While most derive inspiration from the fact that he was one of the greatest inventors of all time, mine comes from something a little different.
In a speech delivered at Stanford University sometime in 2005, Steve spoke about his life, his struggles along the way and the things that inspired him to become the person that he was until his last breath. I’ll share a few bits of his speech that really hit me hard.
He first spoke about joining the dots. According to him, we as individuals go through a whole bunch of fascinating or otherwise frightening experiences in life. Yes we’ve all heard that expression that says it is these very experiences that mould one’s personality. However, what’s most fruitful is if we can somehow connect these unrelated incidents like dots on a paper and join them to form a complete picture. Steve Jobs dropped out of college. He hated it! Academic knowledge meant nothing to the 20 year old Steve. “Screw studies. Let’s take up typography classes and make a living outta that”, is what he said to himself. And so he did... but trust me, at that point of time the last thing he ever thought about was becoming a multi-millionaire and global icon.
Later on in life, those very typography lessons helped him invent the different fonts that we use on our computers today. For what its worth, I’m using Calibri on MS Word. Coming back to Steve, that was what kick-started his career. He then went on to found Apple Inc., an American multinational corporation... (blah blah ... basically the dudes who invented the Ipod)... then get kicked out of his own company, and re-join it years later. During that time, he nearly died from cancer – a near death experience that he claims changed his way of thinking forever.
He spoke about all of this and more in his speech. So how do I relate to this? Well nothing really... unless ofcourse ... if you count considering dropping out of college which he did but I don’t have the balls to ever do. I don’t relate to his struggles and hardship. I definitely do not suffer from cancer... well not just yet. He’s just another guy we hear about who “overcame all odds to become the person he is” – clichéd expression. My dad always tells me about having that “fire in the belly”. I used to think about that from time to time wondering how to acquire it. What Steve jobs helped me realise is this – It is easy to keep that fire burning. What’s hard is figuring out a way to light it. Steve Jobs taught me that you only need to carry one thing with you while going out to chase a dream – an idea. An idea is the key to every success, every invention, every milestone and every revolution. An idea is what ignites that fire in the belly. What we must always remember is to never give up while searching for that idea. It’s there in all of us, somewhere beneath all that petty day-to-day muck that sticks to the soles of our feet while we tread across the dreary sands of life.
We all have different things/people that inspire us, make the hair on the backs of our necks stand up and give us the strength to go that extra mile... people that give us the fuel we need to pursue the chase for that one idea that can change our lives forever. For me that man was Steve Jobs.
RIP Steve. You will always be remembered. Whether it’s in our computers, our ipods or in our hearts, a bit of you will always remain in all of us.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Patriotism - The drug that cost me 30 bucks
“India versus U.A.E? Oh yeah, we just got thrashed 3-0 a week ago right? Something about 2 red cards... umm wait, I’ll just google that...”
(5 mins later)
“Ouch! Sounds like a lost cause to me. Sigh* Ok, I’ll let you know if I’m free on Thursday.”
(Next day)
“Alright, I’m done with college and have the whole day ahead of me. Let’s do this! I’ll meet you at the stadium.”
Not very patriotic is it? Well what did you expect? I’ve never seen this team play. I never followed Indian football let alone the Asia qualifiers. I barely even know any of the players’ names. Why on earth would I be so eager to attend the 2nd leg with a 0-3 handicap? Besides, India is a cricket loving nation. How could they possibly expect to fill a complete stadium with hooliganistic football fans? Bah, impossible. I’m just gonna hope I come on T.V!
So there I was at 3 p.m. Ambedkar Stadium, New Delhi. The match was scheduled to kickoff at 7.00 p.m. I was bored, so I decided to buy the tickets early and probably grab a coffee at the nearest Barista while my friends arrived. I was one of the first ones there. Looking at the huge bundle of tickets with the guy behind the dingy booth, I wondered how many he would actually sell. There was no queue. Just a few locals holding their tickets in their hands and discussing some India vs. England cricket match. There’s a hint of irony in that sentence somewhere.
30 bucks a ticket was a measly amount. I guessed that the only way to attract a big crowd was to sell them dead cheap. After handing over the tickets, the guy behind the booth told me the gates open at 4.30 p.m and that I should get in as soon as I could in order to get front row seats. I chuckled to myself. He’s kidding right? Does he really expect that many people to show up?
I was set. I had the tickets in my hand and 2 hours to kill. Ho hum. What could possibly go wrong? Sigh. It was almost spontaneous. I put the tickets in my pocket, turned around and within seconds, Mother Nature unleashed a rage of fury. It was raining cats, dogs, iguanas, mancs, spuds, you name it! I swore at the heavens. My almost brand new Arsenal jersey was now soaking wet. To make matters worse I had nowhere to go. My friends weren’t planning on showing up for the next one hour or so. All I could do was stick my butt against the wall and pray that the Gods had mercy on Indian Football. As I waited for the rain to subside, atleast 20-30 tickets were sold. Hmm. I began to wonder if I was wrong about Indian football fans. Naah, couldn’t be. These guys must be as bored as I was.
In about 45 mins, the rain had stopped and I was free to move my butt again. While I waited for my friends, I decided to walk around the perimeter of the stadium. By now, hundreds of people had started flooding the queues. The colourful array of foreign club jerseys (most fake) was pretty amusing. There was no shortage of hot women either. Who said Indian women don’t like football. I was even fortunate (if I may call it so) enough to be smiled at by a gorgeous gal wearing an Arsenal jersey! There would be no shortage of cheerleaders tonight.
At around 4.30, my friends had arrived. By now, hundreds had turned to thousands. Some even carried with them the infamous Vuvuzelas that we all loved to hate during the 2010 World Cup. About half an hour later, the Indian Team bus arrived. As expected a horde of people surrounded the bus like a bunch of bandits ready to launch an ambush. The crowd burst into a synchronised roar as soon as the players stepped down. Sunil Chettri being the only familiar face to most of us received an even louder cheer. For the first time that day, I felt my heartbeat rise with excitement. I felt a pang of patriotism that I had never felt before! Lets get this show on the road! We had another 2 hours or so before the match kicked off. I had the tickets in my pocket. What could possibly go wrong? Sigh...
One of my friends had come with a camera - Not those tiny pocket sized ones but ones of those huge mutated things with a lens the size of an elephant’s trunk. What’s the problem? Well cameras were banned. So there we were in the middle of the city with no place to go. There was no time for him to scurry back home and leave the camera. We had to figure out some other way. It was nearly 6.30 by the time we decided to give up and just try and sneak it in. Things couldn’t possibly get worse, right? Wrong! Murphy’s Law hit us like a bullet in the head. The clouds gave in and it was more thunder and lightning. The rain stung like bees. My legs began to itch with the bits of mud that splashed about. The security personnel had lifted the gates and the crowd started pouring into the stadium. We were still outside when he heard the stadium erupted with applause. We assumed that the players must have entered the pitch to do their warm ups. I had this bitter taste at the back of my mouth. Something told me we weren’t even going to make it inside. By the time we reached the security check ups our bodies were shivering with a funny concoction of cold, excitement and fear. My god-believing friends prayed to the heavens. I prayed to Arsenal. We had come so far!
Alas, we were denied entry. Crestfallen we simply walked out. The skin biting rain didn’t bother us anymore. Clinging on to every bit of hope we had (2 of us were Arsenal fans so it wasn’t difficult) we again circled the perimeter of the stadium hoping to stumble across a familiar face who might offer to keep the car in his/her car or something.
The match had already kicked off when we arrived at a petrol bunk. At first I assumed it was my dashing good looks but found out later that it was the Arsenal Jersey that I had on that made Anirruddh approach me - A complete stranger.
“Dude, do you guys know of a place I can keep my camera”, he asked us.
“No we have the same problem!!” I replied. “Do you have a car?”
“Yup!! But we’re gonna have to run!”
And we were off. Gathering every last drop of stamina that I had left from my footballing days I ran behind him, my friends following. Half a kilometre later we dumped the camera in his car and sprinted back to the gates. I pulled out whatever was left of those slips of paper that if dry would’ve resembled tickets and thrust them into the hands of the guard. We made it. We were inside at last!!
I felt adrenalin surge through my veins the second I entered. It was like nothing I had ever seen before! Lush green turf shining like diamonds from the rain. Thousands of people on their feet, jumping, shouting, screaming, stripping! The match had already begun. 20 minutes had been played with the scores still 0-0. Ofcourse U.A.E held a 3-0 advantage from the first leg. We picked our spots right behind the Indian keeper. We had front row seats and the night was still young. I couldn’t help myself. I jumped in the air and pumped my fist with fury. Time flew in slow motion for those 3 seconds as I screamed at the top of my voice, “C’MON INDIA!!!”
The ground was slippery as hell. It was impossible to judge the trajectory of the ball once it bounced off the grass thanks to all the water that had collected. For most of the first half, India held maximum possession and kept the ball in the opposition half. Playing long seemed impossible as players struggled to latch onto passes. Even counter attacks from both ends were quelled easily as the players often lost their footing. Despite dominating for most of the half, the U.A.E team managed to score a brilliant header off a left wing cross. It was 0-1. 0-4 on aggregate. Maybe it was the lack of knowledge amongst those who didn’t know about the concept of a first leg or maybe it was the sheer spirit of Indians but the cheering only grew louder. By now I had already lost my voice. I even managed to pull off several strands of hair from my already balding head. A few of the U.A.E substitutes decided to tease the fans at my side of the pitch with some cheeky touches and a lot of crowd teasing. We were way too fired up to take it lightly. Immediately the players were hurled with abuse ranging from 26 different languages. Generally I would’ve condemned such a disrespectful attitude. Is this the way to treat guests at our country? Ofcourse at that time, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about ethics and morality. “Get the f*ck out of here you bastards”. Yup that was me!
The second half kicked off after 20 agonisingly long minutes. The Arabs were all over the field. It felt like one of those tense Arsenal fan moments when you sense the opposition closing down on you. As expected, it didn’t take long for them to find the back of the net once again. The Indian defence was completely wrong footed leaving the keeper exposed to the wrath of Wehaibi’s lethal left foot. Ofcourse, that didn’t change anything. The stadium still sounded like the Colosseum.
Then... it happened. I don’t know if it was the Indian coach’s halftime talk or the crowd going ballistic but the Indian team suddenly seemed buzzing with life. Second half substitute, Lalrindika Ralte moved the ball swiftly down the right flank and sent in a teasing cross to find the head of Jeje who merely added the finishing touches. It was the goal we were all waiting for. And then there was chaos. The crowd went absolutely berserk. I hugged the guy next to me who in turn kissed the guy next to him and the chain went on. Who cares if we were still down 4-1 on aggregate? This is what we came for!
After that it was all India. The search for the equaliser went on as the Indians pushed every man up field. In the closing seconds of the game, the efforts of the Indian team paid off. A scramble in the box gave Gouramangi the opportunity to slam in goal from close range. It took me atleast a few minutes to understand who actually scored but hell, none of us cared. The crowd erupted as though we had just won the game. Nobody gave a rat’s ass about the huge glaring scoreboard behind us that boldly read 2-2. All we wanted to do was run into the pitch and pile on top of the men in blue. The final whistle came soon after. I was actually surprised that the players managed to hear it under that entire ruckus.
No one really noticed when and where the UAE players disappeared... and quite frankly, no one really cared. The Indian players went to all 4 corners of the stadium to thank the supporters who were still screaming their lungs out. A drunk guy a few heads away from me even started singing the national anthem. It was a moment to cherish.
We walked out of the stadium atleast 20 mins after the match had ended. I was still shivering and believe you me, the rain had nothing to do with it. Never in my 19 years of existence had I been enveloped in such an intoxicating aura of patriotism. I felt proud to be an Indian. If you asked me why, I would probably not have an answer. But then again, does patriotism always demand a reason?
I came out singing and dancing. An onlooker might have mistaken me for a run-away junior artist from the Mary Poppins set. I wanted to run and strip like Archimedes did after discovering buoyancy! I didn’t care. The feeling was euphoric. Is this what it’s like week in and week out for all my Arsenal supporting friends in England? Prior to this, I had never really understood the meaning of Patriotism. Today, nothing has changed. I still can’t define it. Ask any junkie what its like to get high on LSD and he’ll simply shake his head and say you won’t understand it until you’re completely in the zone. And you know what, that’s exactly what patriotism does to you. No one really knows where it comes from or why we experience it... we just do... when the time is right. One conclusion I can definitely come to is that... it’s a drug. Once you play around with it, you only want more.
I reached home late that night, still badly hungover from possibly the best 90 minutes of my life. I went to sleep a proud Indian... after having spent the best 30 bucks of my life.
(5 mins later)
“Ouch! Sounds like a lost cause to me. Sigh* Ok, I’ll let you know if I’m free on Thursday.”
(Next day)
“Alright, I’m done with college and have the whole day ahead of me. Let’s do this! I’ll meet you at the stadium.”
Not very patriotic is it? Well what did you expect? I’ve never seen this team play. I never followed Indian football let alone the Asia qualifiers. I barely even know any of the players’ names. Why on earth would I be so eager to attend the 2nd leg with a 0-3 handicap? Besides, India is a cricket loving nation. How could they possibly expect to fill a complete stadium with hooliganistic football fans? Bah, impossible. I’m just gonna hope I come on T.V!
So there I was at 3 p.m. Ambedkar Stadium, New Delhi. The match was scheduled to kickoff at 7.00 p.m. I was bored, so I decided to buy the tickets early and probably grab a coffee at the nearest Barista while my friends arrived. I was one of the first ones there. Looking at the huge bundle of tickets with the guy behind the dingy booth, I wondered how many he would actually sell. There was no queue. Just a few locals holding their tickets in their hands and discussing some India vs. England cricket match. There’s a hint of irony in that sentence somewhere.
30 bucks a ticket was a measly amount. I guessed that the only way to attract a big crowd was to sell them dead cheap. After handing over the tickets, the guy behind the booth told me the gates open at 4.30 p.m and that I should get in as soon as I could in order to get front row seats. I chuckled to myself. He’s kidding right? Does he really expect that many people to show up?
I was set. I had the tickets in my hand and 2 hours to kill. Ho hum. What could possibly go wrong? Sigh. It was almost spontaneous. I put the tickets in my pocket, turned around and within seconds, Mother Nature unleashed a rage of fury. It was raining cats, dogs, iguanas, mancs, spuds, you name it! I swore at the heavens. My almost brand new Arsenal jersey was now soaking wet. To make matters worse I had nowhere to go. My friends weren’t planning on showing up for the next one hour or so. All I could do was stick my butt against the wall and pray that the Gods had mercy on Indian Football. As I waited for the rain to subside, atleast 20-30 tickets were sold. Hmm. I began to wonder if I was wrong about Indian football fans. Naah, couldn’t be. These guys must be as bored as I was.
In about 45 mins, the rain had stopped and I was free to move my butt again. While I waited for my friends, I decided to walk around the perimeter of the stadium. By now, hundreds of people had started flooding the queues. The colourful array of foreign club jerseys (most fake) was pretty amusing. There was no shortage of hot women either. Who said Indian women don’t like football. I was even fortunate (if I may call it so) enough to be smiled at by a gorgeous gal wearing an Arsenal jersey! There would be no shortage of cheerleaders tonight.
At around 4.30, my friends had arrived. By now, hundreds had turned to thousands. Some even carried with them the infamous Vuvuzelas that we all loved to hate during the 2010 World Cup. About half an hour later, the Indian Team bus arrived. As expected a horde of people surrounded the bus like a bunch of bandits ready to launch an ambush. The crowd burst into a synchronised roar as soon as the players stepped down. Sunil Chettri being the only familiar face to most of us received an even louder cheer. For the first time that day, I felt my heartbeat rise with excitement. I felt a pang of patriotism that I had never felt before! Lets get this show on the road! We had another 2 hours or so before the match kicked off. I had the tickets in my pocket. What could possibly go wrong? Sigh...
One of my friends had come with a camera - Not those tiny pocket sized ones but ones of those huge mutated things with a lens the size of an elephant’s trunk. What’s the problem? Well cameras were banned. So there we were in the middle of the city with no place to go. There was no time for him to scurry back home and leave the camera. We had to figure out some other way. It was nearly 6.30 by the time we decided to give up and just try and sneak it in. Things couldn’t possibly get worse, right? Wrong! Murphy’s Law hit us like a bullet in the head. The clouds gave in and it was more thunder and lightning. The rain stung like bees. My legs began to itch with the bits of mud that splashed about. The security personnel had lifted the gates and the crowd started pouring into the stadium. We were still outside when he heard the stadium erupted with applause. We assumed that the players must have entered the pitch to do their warm ups. I had this bitter taste at the back of my mouth. Something told me we weren’t even going to make it inside. By the time we reached the security check ups our bodies were shivering with a funny concoction of cold, excitement and fear. My god-believing friends prayed to the heavens. I prayed to Arsenal. We had come so far!
Alas, we were denied entry. Crestfallen we simply walked out. The skin biting rain didn’t bother us anymore. Clinging on to every bit of hope we had (2 of us were Arsenal fans so it wasn’t difficult) we again circled the perimeter of the stadium hoping to stumble across a familiar face who might offer to keep the car in his/her car or something.
The match had already kicked off when we arrived at a petrol bunk. At first I assumed it was my dashing good looks but found out later that it was the Arsenal Jersey that I had on that made Anirruddh approach me - A complete stranger.
“Dude, do you guys know of a place I can keep my camera”, he asked us.
“No we have the same problem!!” I replied. “Do you have a car?”
“Yup!! But we’re gonna have to run!”
And we were off. Gathering every last drop of stamina that I had left from my footballing days I ran behind him, my friends following. Half a kilometre later we dumped the camera in his car and sprinted back to the gates. I pulled out whatever was left of those slips of paper that if dry would’ve resembled tickets and thrust them into the hands of the guard. We made it. We were inside at last!!
I felt adrenalin surge through my veins the second I entered. It was like nothing I had ever seen before! Lush green turf shining like diamonds from the rain. Thousands of people on their feet, jumping, shouting, screaming, stripping! The match had already begun. 20 minutes had been played with the scores still 0-0. Ofcourse U.A.E held a 3-0 advantage from the first leg. We picked our spots right behind the Indian keeper. We had front row seats and the night was still young. I couldn’t help myself. I jumped in the air and pumped my fist with fury. Time flew in slow motion for those 3 seconds as I screamed at the top of my voice, “C’MON INDIA!!!”
The ground was slippery as hell. It was impossible to judge the trajectory of the ball once it bounced off the grass thanks to all the water that had collected. For most of the first half, India held maximum possession and kept the ball in the opposition half. Playing long seemed impossible as players struggled to latch onto passes. Even counter attacks from both ends were quelled easily as the players often lost their footing. Despite dominating for most of the half, the U.A.E team managed to score a brilliant header off a left wing cross. It was 0-1. 0-4 on aggregate. Maybe it was the lack of knowledge amongst those who didn’t know about the concept of a first leg or maybe it was the sheer spirit of Indians but the cheering only grew louder. By now I had already lost my voice. I even managed to pull off several strands of hair from my already balding head. A few of the U.A.E substitutes decided to tease the fans at my side of the pitch with some cheeky touches and a lot of crowd teasing. We were way too fired up to take it lightly. Immediately the players were hurled with abuse ranging from 26 different languages. Generally I would’ve condemned such a disrespectful attitude. Is this the way to treat guests at our country? Ofcourse at that time, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about ethics and morality. “Get the f*ck out of here you bastards”. Yup that was me!
The second half kicked off after 20 agonisingly long minutes. The Arabs were all over the field. It felt like one of those tense Arsenal fan moments when you sense the opposition closing down on you. As expected, it didn’t take long for them to find the back of the net once again. The Indian defence was completely wrong footed leaving the keeper exposed to the wrath of Wehaibi’s lethal left foot. Ofcourse, that didn’t change anything. The stadium still sounded like the Colosseum.
Then... it happened. I don’t know if it was the Indian coach’s halftime talk or the crowd going ballistic but the Indian team suddenly seemed buzzing with life. Second half substitute, Lalrindika Ralte moved the ball swiftly down the right flank and sent in a teasing cross to find the head of Jeje who merely added the finishing touches. It was the goal we were all waiting for. And then there was chaos. The crowd went absolutely berserk. I hugged the guy next to me who in turn kissed the guy next to him and the chain went on. Who cares if we were still down 4-1 on aggregate? This is what we came for!
After that it was all India. The search for the equaliser went on as the Indians pushed every man up field. In the closing seconds of the game, the efforts of the Indian team paid off. A scramble in the box gave Gouramangi the opportunity to slam in goal from close range. It took me atleast a few minutes to understand who actually scored but hell, none of us cared. The crowd erupted as though we had just won the game. Nobody gave a rat’s ass about the huge glaring scoreboard behind us that boldly read 2-2. All we wanted to do was run into the pitch and pile on top of the men in blue. The final whistle came soon after. I was actually surprised that the players managed to hear it under that entire ruckus.
No one really noticed when and where the UAE players disappeared... and quite frankly, no one really cared. The Indian players went to all 4 corners of the stadium to thank the supporters who were still screaming their lungs out. A drunk guy a few heads away from me even started singing the national anthem. It was a moment to cherish.
We walked out of the stadium atleast 20 mins after the match had ended. I was still shivering and believe you me, the rain had nothing to do with it. Never in my 19 years of existence had I been enveloped in such an intoxicating aura of patriotism. I felt proud to be an Indian. If you asked me why, I would probably not have an answer. But then again, does patriotism always demand a reason?
I came out singing and dancing. An onlooker might have mistaken me for a run-away junior artist from the Mary Poppins set. I wanted to run and strip like Archimedes did after discovering buoyancy! I didn’t care. The feeling was euphoric. Is this what it’s like week in and week out for all my Arsenal supporting friends in England? Prior to this, I had never really understood the meaning of Patriotism. Today, nothing has changed. I still can’t define it. Ask any junkie what its like to get high on LSD and he’ll simply shake his head and say you won’t understand it until you’re completely in the zone. And you know what, that’s exactly what patriotism does to you. No one really knows where it comes from or why we experience it... we just do... when the time is right. One conclusion I can definitely come to is that... it’s a drug. Once you play around with it, you only want more.
I reached home late that night, still badly hungover from possibly the best 90 minutes of my life. I went to sleep a proud Indian... after having spent the best 30 bucks of my life.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
One of those days
It was one of those days. College had ended a few hours early. For a dedicated engineer like myself living the great Indian dream, that’s about as common as the sighting of Haley’s comet. Most of my friends had already made plans to catch the lunchtime movie at the mall. I decided to back out though; one of my sporadic mood swings. A couple of days earlier I had decided to cut down on my expenses. It was one of my peculiar and yet signature moments of retrospection when I looked back at the last 20 years and analysed where I had gone wrong. Fewer expenses meant I would have to cut down on my alcohol and fast food consumption and also drop all ideas of buying myself a new pair of football cleats. Painful ... isn’t it?
So there I was, walking down the highway in the scorching Delhi heat. For some reason I wasn’t able to find a single Rickshaw-wala anywhere. Sweat was pouring down the back of my neck and soaking my brand new Reebok T-shirt. I was pissed off. I didn’t like coming home from college reeking of stale mushrooms. Fortunately enough, I stumbled across a rickshaw-wala riding the opposite way. He stopped right next to me.
“Haan bhaiya, kahan jaoge?” (Yes brother, where do you want to go?)
For a second I was blank. The kid looked like he was 12 years old. I didn’t know whether to call him Bhaiya (brother) or beta (son). I settled upon the former and using whatever little hindi I knew, asked him to take me to sector 41.
“Theek hai, Bhaiya”. (Ok, brother)
“Kitne loge?” (How much will you take?)
“Pachhis” (25 rupees)
Most rickshaw-walas would take atleast 30-40 bucks. However, since I was trying to save every paisa possible, I decided to go with it. It was a 25 minute ride full of annoying speed breakers that popped up when you least expected them and the constant blaring of horns from the frustrated bus driver who has been behind the wheel from atleast an hour before I woke up. The smell of hot pakodas soaked in oil lingered in the air. I wondered why anyone would want to eat boiling hot pakodas at 2.30 in the afternoon. It struck me much later that the production cost of Pakodas was bare minimum. So the man behind the pan with the torn vest and tanned skin could nearly make a 100% profit. It was good marketing.
Eventually, we left the noisy and dusty highway and entered the colony. It would still take another 15 mins before I finally reached my house. I was bored; so I decided to engage in some light conversation with the kid.
“Aaj bahut garmi hai na?” (It’s very hot today, isn’t it?)
Without looking behind he replied, “Haan bhaiya” (Yes, brother)
“Tumhare umra kya hai?” (How old are you?)
Again, without a stutter, “Terah” (13)
“Tum school kyoon nahin jaate ho”? (Why don’t you go to school?)
For the first time, he stopped peddling for a few seconds and let the momentum of the Rickshaw pull us along for the next few metres. His reply was a relatively long one and my paltry hindi skills only served to get the gist of what he said.
He told me that his father had died a year ago in a car accident. He had a mother, a younger brother and an older sister to feed. There was simply no time for him to attend school. He added that his father used to drive “tum jaise badhe log” (big people like yourself) to work every day. For over a year now, he has had to bear the weight of his entire family on his tender 13 year old shoulders.
I looked back at when I was 13 years old. I had recently joined a boarding school in Ooty while my parents still lived in Singapore. This meant that, during the holidays I had to first catch a train to Chennai and then a flight to Singapore. I was too scared to fly on my own so my father would spend thousands of rupees only to fly down to Chennai and pick me up. Ofcourse back then, I didn’t care. This meant that I could have Pizza for lunch and a relaxing nap before catching an air-conditioned cab to the airport in the evening. Life was sweet.
I then asked the kid how much he made in a day. Without thinking for a second, he replied, “teen sow” (300).
We finally reached my house. The sight of big 2-3 storied bungalows didn’t seem to bother him. I assumed he was accustomed to riding big spoilt kids like myself around. My wallet contained exactly 300 rupees. I gave him a hundred rupee note. He immediately dug into his torn shirt pocket in search of change. I told him I was in a hurry and that he could keep the change. Without another word, he spun his rickshaw around and rode away.
What exactly did I hope to achieve by giving him hundred rupees? Will it bring his entire family 3 square meals? Will it bring his father back? Nope, it would at most serve to buy his sick mother a day’s worth of medication and probably a bottle of water. His old bottle looked yellow with age. If you ask me what the moral of the story is, I would say there is none. Telling myself that I’ve done my good deed of the day might seem comforting for the next few hours but it does not change the harsh reality.
I am currently in my third year of engineering. Well not exactly. I still have a few papers pending from my previous semesters. My college charges 2.2 lakhs (220’000 rupees) a year for tuition alone. My living expenses go up to more than a lakh (100’000). That kid earns 9000 rupees in a month. Just a few days back I withdrew precisely that amount in order to pay my rent and electricity bill.
Everyday, I come back home from college, turn on the air-conditioner and sulk about the problems I have in my life. I complain about my college and swear at myself for choosing to pursue engineering. Yes, I find it too “stressful” to study about micro processors in a centrally air-conditioned building with high speed wireless internet, reclining soft chairs and sturdy wooden desks. I listen to songs on my ipod that speak of teenage angst, failed relationships and so on. I try and relate to these lyrics to make myself feel that “I’m not alone.”
For that kid however, time is money. He doesn’t have the luxury of staring into space and thinking of ways to make his life better. He most certainly can’t afford an ipod even if he and his entire family decided to fast for a week.
Now, I’m not saying that we must all stop complaining about our lives only because there are some who are less fortunate. We all have problems of varying degrees that seem significant to us. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. I am not saying that we must each pay 100 rupees to every food vendor/rickshaw-wala/sweeper we come across. Some of us are fortunate to be born to wealthy families. These people have every right to flaunt their wealth the way they like. They have no moral obligation to give back to the needy. They are wealthy because their ancestors were not. Their parents/grandparents toiled under the hot sun so that their sons and daughters need not do the same.
However, it is a fact that there are people in this world who would like to make a difference. The only problem is that personal interests often stand in their way; and quite rightly so. In today’s world, it is nearly impossible to be successful and happy without being a tad selfish somewhere along the line. We must put our interests ahead of others at some stages. It is impractical to say that one must devote his/her entire life to enriching those of others. We all have one shot at life. It is only natural to want to spend every second of it on oneself.
That said, there are some people who derive immense satisfaction at being able to have an impact on someone else’s life. They want to make a difference. The problem is, there is very little that they can individually do. We all hear people telling us that it doesn’t matter how small our contribution is but at the end of the day it is significant. We can only ‘give back’ if we have something to give. For that we must work. We must slog it out for the next couple of years and attain a status of wealth and power.
If you ask me if I’m going to change myself completely after the day’s incident, I would say no. In a couple of days I might probably forget this incident completely and go back to my teenage angst and “my life sucks” attitude. Not all of us have what it takes to make a big difference. As for the ones who do, I most sincerely hope that you realise it soon enough.
Howard Pyle portrays Robin Hood as an archer who robs from the rich and gives to the poor. My interpretation of the tale is slightly different. I believe that Robin Hood represents every wealthy man’s conscience and his desire to make a difference. It is this desire that enables him to part with his hard earned wealth and give it to the needy.
There is a Robin Hood in most of us. But finding him is not easy. How many of us have the strength and determination to ignite that fire in the belly and venture into the forests of Nottingham in a quest to find Robin and his band of merry men?
So there I was, walking down the highway in the scorching Delhi heat. For some reason I wasn’t able to find a single Rickshaw-wala anywhere. Sweat was pouring down the back of my neck and soaking my brand new Reebok T-shirt. I was pissed off. I didn’t like coming home from college reeking of stale mushrooms. Fortunately enough, I stumbled across a rickshaw-wala riding the opposite way. He stopped right next to me.
“Haan bhaiya, kahan jaoge?” (Yes brother, where do you want to go?)
For a second I was blank. The kid looked like he was 12 years old. I didn’t know whether to call him Bhaiya (brother) or beta (son). I settled upon the former and using whatever little hindi I knew, asked him to take me to sector 41.
“Theek hai, Bhaiya”. (Ok, brother)
“Kitne loge?” (How much will you take?)
“Pachhis” (25 rupees)
Most rickshaw-walas would take atleast 30-40 bucks. However, since I was trying to save every paisa possible, I decided to go with it. It was a 25 minute ride full of annoying speed breakers that popped up when you least expected them and the constant blaring of horns from the frustrated bus driver who has been behind the wheel from atleast an hour before I woke up. The smell of hot pakodas soaked in oil lingered in the air. I wondered why anyone would want to eat boiling hot pakodas at 2.30 in the afternoon. It struck me much later that the production cost of Pakodas was bare minimum. So the man behind the pan with the torn vest and tanned skin could nearly make a 100% profit. It was good marketing.
Eventually, we left the noisy and dusty highway and entered the colony. It would still take another 15 mins before I finally reached my house. I was bored; so I decided to engage in some light conversation with the kid.
“Aaj bahut garmi hai na?” (It’s very hot today, isn’t it?)
Without looking behind he replied, “Haan bhaiya” (Yes, brother)
“Tumhare umra kya hai?” (How old are you?)
Again, without a stutter, “Terah” (13)
“Tum school kyoon nahin jaate ho”? (Why don’t you go to school?)
For the first time, he stopped peddling for a few seconds and let the momentum of the Rickshaw pull us along for the next few metres. His reply was a relatively long one and my paltry hindi skills only served to get the gist of what he said.
He told me that his father had died a year ago in a car accident. He had a mother, a younger brother and an older sister to feed. There was simply no time for him to attend school. He added that his father used to drive “tum jaise badhe log” (big people like yourself) to work every day. For over a year now, he has had to bear the weight of his entire family on his tender 13 year old shoulders.
I looked back at when I was 13 years old. I had recently joined a boarding school in Ooty while my parents still lived in Singapore. This meant that, during the holidays I had to first catch a train to Chennai and then a flight to Singapore. I was too scared to fly on my own so my father would spend thousands of rupees only to fly down to Chennai and pick me up. Ofcourse back then, I didn’t care. This meant that I could have Pizza for lunch and a relaxing nap before catching an air-conditioned cab to the airport in the evening. Life was sweet.
I then asked the kid how much he made in a day. Without thinking for a second, he replied, “teen sow” (300).
We finally reached my house. The sight of big 2-3 storied bungalows didn’t seem to bother him. I assumed he was accustomed to riding big spoilt kids like myself around. My wallet contained exactly 300 rupees. I gave him a hundred rupee note. He immediately dug into his torn shirt pocket in search of change. I told him I was in a hurry and that he could keep the change. Without another word, he spun his rickshaw around and rode away.
What exactly did I hope to achieve by giving him hundred rupees? Will it bring his entire family 3 square meals? Will it bring his father back? Nope, it would at most serve to buy his sick mother a day’s worth of medication and probably a bottle of water. His old bottle looked yellow with age. If you ask me what the moral of the story is, I would say there is none. Telling myself that I’ve done my good deed of the day might seem comforting for the next few hours but it does not change the harsh reality.
I am currently in my third year of engineering. Well not exactly. I still have a few papers pending from my previous semesters. My college charges 2.2 lakhs (220’000 rupees) a year for tuition alone. My living expenses go up to more than a lakh (100’000). That kid earns 9000 rupees in a month. Just a few days back I withdrew precisely that amount in order to pay my rent and electricity bill.
Everyday, I come back home from college, turn on the air-conditioner and sulk about the problems I have in my life. I complain about my college and swear at myself for choosing to pursue engineering. Yes, I find it too “stressful” to study about micro processors in a centrally air-conditioned building with high speed wireless internet, reclining soft chairs and sturdy wooden desks. I listen to songs on my ipod that speak of teenage angst, failed relationships and so on. I try and relate to these lyrics to make myself feel that “I’m not alone.”
For that kid however, time is money. He doesn’t have the luxury of staring into space and thinking of ways to make his life better. He most certainly can’t afford an ipod even if he and his entire family decided to fast for a week.
Now, I’m not saying that we must all stop complaining about our lives only because there are some who are less fortunate. We all have problems of varying degrees that seem significant to us. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. I am not saying that we must each pay 100 rupees to every food vendor/rickshaw-wala/sweeper we come across. Some of us are fortunate to be born to wealthy families. These people have every right to flaunt their wealth the way they like. They have no moral obligation to give back to the needy. They are wealthy because their ancestors were not. Their parents/grandparents toiled under the hot sun so that their sons and daughters need not do the same.
However, it is a fact that there are people in this world who would like to make a difference. The only problem is that personal interests often stand in their way; and quite rightly so. In today’s world, it is nearly impossible to be successful and happy without being a tad selfish somewhere along the line. We must put our interests ahead of others at some stages. It is impractical to say that one must devote his/her entire life to enriching those of others. We all have one shot at life. It is only natural to want to spend every second of it on oneself.
That said, there are some people who derive immense satisfaction at being able to have an impact on someone else’s life. They want to make a difference. The problem is, there is very little that they can individually do. We all hear people telling us that it doesn’t matter how small our contribution is but at the end of the day it is significant. We can only ‘give back’ if we have something to give. For that we must work. We must slog it out for the next couple of years and attain a status of wealth and power.
If you ask me if I’m going to change myself completely after the day’s incident, I would say no. In a couple of days I might probably forget this incident completely and go back to my teenage angst and “my life sucks” attitude. Not all of us have what it takes to make a big difference. As for the ones who do, I most sincerely hope that you realise it soon enough.
Howard Pyle portrays Robin Hood as an archer who robs from the rich and gives to the poor. My interpretation of the tale is slightly different. I believe that Robin Hood represents every wealthy man’s conscience and his desire to make a difference. It is this desire that enables him to part with his hard earned wealth and give it to the needy.
There is a Robin Hood in most of us. But finding him is not easy. How many of us have the strength and determination to ignite that fire in the belly and venture into the forests of Nottingham in a quest to find Robin and his band of merry men?
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