aditya kumar's weblog

My article on Anil Kumble’s latest exploits, written specifically for Desicritics.org and crossposted here.

There are a couple reasons why Anil Kumble comes to my mind every time I walk around M.G.Road in Bangalore. First, there is this road intersection named after him right in the heart of the city. When I first came to know of it, I was amused to find something like it. Cricket administrations and associations have a habit of naming stands in the stadium on state cricketers who made it big but this is an altogether different way of showing gratitude.

Second, not very far away is Bangalore’s Chinnaswamy Stadium. The sixteen runs Kumble made here, in company with Javagal Srinath’s equally valiant thirty, that made India defeat Australia in the third league match of the Titan Cup back in 1996, cast a shadow on an innings that was perhaps one of the best, if not the best, of an illustrious career — Mark Taylor’s only century in One Day Cricket. I like to think that the unbeaten innings of 16 runs that Kumble made that very night was his greatest contribution with the bat to the shorter version of the game. In Delhi that night, how I wished I was at the Chinnaswamy Stadium. The four towering flood light towers of the stadium are something that I envy to this day for they have been witness to such glory.

In Delhi’s Kotla, when Kumble got his 10 wickets in an innings against Pakistan, his first reaction had been that India had won. It took a moment or two for the feeling to sink in, that he had got all 10. It must have been a typically modest Kumble, dealing with yet another achievement. But the Oval test, in many ways, has shown us a side of the man that we have never come across.

This is probably why I have a feeling that for Kumble, his only century at this level must rank higher than his 10 on 10. Think like a bowler and you would probably discard a possibility of taking 10 wickets in an innings. A feat like that, if it ever came one’s way, is served with a big slice of luck. Furthermore, one does not plan for miracles. But deep inside, you won’t discard easily the feeling of hitting the cherry all over the ground like a top order batsman and contemplate hitting a ton. And if you happen to be one of those in the pavilion who shoots the defining moments on an SLR, while the Sachins and the Dravids raise their bat, the wide open arms towards the sky and say a silent prayer — you probably have played the sequence in your head and tried to live the moment countless times.

Moments after Anil Kumble tucked the bat while coming down the track on the London Oval, it seemed like Kumble had not, for a change, come of age. Instead, the man had turned into a child, a 16 year old child who had somehow made it big finally. His helmet came off as if it were the biggest but the last obstacle to a celebration marking the realization of a personal dream that he had been secretly nurturing for years.

And that is why, after what was witnessed on 10th August 2007, “Anil Kumble Circle” — that intersection at Bangalore’s MG Road, will mean more than one thing to me. Not only will it indicate one of the busiest traffic intersections in Bangalore named after India’s greatest matchwinner, but it will also mark a life that has finally come full circle, for a man who has played the role of an unsung hero for most of his part in Indian cricket.

My earliest memory of Pune takes me back to 2001, when I had come to the city for an interview in what was to be my college where I would go on to do my post graduation from. I remember telling a friend on email that in certain aspects, Pune looked like a combination of Mumbai and Delhi. I still stand by my statement — It had some Greenery left that reminded me of Delhi. Then, being a distant cousin of Mumbai, some couture automatically rubs off to Pune.

In the hotel room, the first time I rented out a hotel room that is, while flipping channels I came across Sting’s music video of “When we dance”. I experienced bliss. I loved the song so much that the first thing I did the following morning was to buy Sting’s “Best of” album. The following evening, I kept listening to the album in my walkman while I waited for the train to take me back to Indore.

Back in Indore, I was one of the lucky few in the final semester of BCA, who knew where they’d be leaving for, after graduation was done with. My PG course, though not as good as I would have liked it to be, had given me an assurance, an easiness that spared me those sleepless nights which my other friends were going through (Of course, I have had my share of those before as I had hit a roadblock that could have turned out to be a catastrophe for my career, but that’s another story). So the career blues notwithstanding, I spent the rest of my 3 months in the city studying Numerical Analysis and Java, while, of course, listening to Sting.

Pune, at least the part I was living in, reflected a laid back lifestyle. Prabhat Road, as I later found out, had been a host to Narayana Murthy and Sudha Murthy. It was on these roads, they say, that romance blossomed. Roads, I know, are one of the best places for letting romance grow (Hopelessly romantic, you’d say). Anyway, my college was on Law College Road, the road nearest to Prabhat Road and the same road on which FTII is located. Spotting khadi kurta clad aspiring actors was not that difficult and to bump into Amol Palekar was also not a rare thing to happen.

After the college hours, I used to wander around Deccan and often found myself going to Alka talkies. One of the few halls in the city that, at that time (and for a long time before that too) encouraged Hollywood by showcasing only Hollywood movies, was almost the same distance from my house as was the college. Not only did I love to watch the pretty Nicole Kidman in the musical “Moulin Rouge” — I was equally horrified as Anthony Hopkins revealed cannibalism to me with “Hannibal”. But the freedom that Alka talkies gave me, and I hope still is giving to many like me, was invaluable –The freedom to watch a flick when you want to, to watch it for Rs.30 and to watch it without advance booking. The freedom to watch a movie at just the moment you feel like, without having to think twice about anything.

Today I am out of college, on my own but can I afford that same freedom?

Oh and by the way, I still listen to Sting.

Now that I have travelled to all the four metros of the country (and lived for 10 years in two of them), I hereby proclaim that Kolkata is the most metropolitan city of all.

You could be surprised but that is what I feel. Of course, like always, you may or may not agree with me.

Let’s go at the beginning. Let’s just ask ourselves, and this is a tricky one, what exactly is a metropolitan city? Is it high rise buildings? Is it the big roads and the transportation that makes a city a metro? Is it the food? Is it the dressing style of the people? Is it People?

I think in the acceptability of various cultures lies the real essence of any metropolitan city. High rise buildings are only a few decades old.

When I went to Kolkata, I had to look at it as a metro. I had expectations but looking at this city, I wanted to go back and check out the meaning of the word “Metropolitan”. I needed to evaluate the city but I was forced to re-evaluate the benchmarks first. Because I feel, over the years, the definition of a Metropolitan city has been messed up with.

In Kolkata, there is a certain openness to everything. Because when a guy from Bangalore walks on chowringhee road, they don’t call him a madrasi like they do in Delhi. Because there they start off their first sentence in Bengali and by noticing your bewildered look, they smile and say it again in Hindi. Because there the UP wallahs and the Biharis are considered partners at work, rather than being treated as outsiders as they put up with the cheap rhetoric of Shiv Sena in Mumbai. In Kolkata, you can have tea for Re.1.50 and then you can have it for Rs.10 as well.

At the same time, I know, Mumbai has a big heart. But Kolkata isn’t that bad too.

Coming to another aspect, and an important one, you can almost feel the pain of Ganguly’s 10 month exile in every man’s heart. I was made to feel a sinner when I confessed that I had almost forgotten Chappell’s obscene gesture to the crowd at the Eden Gardens. It’s fresh in the minds here as if it was yesterday. They have not forgiven the coach over that. They never will, I can tell you that.

The cook who prepared the fine meals for me in the mess I stayed in, never looked much of a talkative guy. Until, while he served me a bowl of rosogollas, I asked if he had ever been to the Eden Gardens. He gave me a look, as if I had asked him one of the stupidiest questions. Well, maybe I just had. Kolkata resident not been to Eden! And then a sudden smile, a glitter in the eyes and the tone of his voice revealed that I had set him off. Eden Gardens, many times! How can you come up with that? Right, stupid me. A gentle loosener to start up with, so to say. Hit for a six alright.

Then on to Saurav Ganguly. Has he ever seen him play? Oh yes sir, sure, he has played near our guest house. A day before the news was confirmed, about Ganguly’s inclusion in the test team. So what did he had to say about the Maharaja being out of the team for such a long time?


“No, the cry is not because a Bengali player was axed from the team. The problem is with the way it happened. Bengali or not, he deserved better”.

No doubt, he did deserve better and maybe he will get to that. I often heard Pradeep Vijaykar on radio. He always said that the people of Kolkata have an immense knowledge of the game. That is just so true — You can almost feel it here. They live for it. They think about it when they walk. They have cups of tea, discussing what went wrong the other day as if they could have changed the way it all went. An average Kolkata resident will be able to match his wits against the best of commentators on ESPN, that is the level of their matured opinions. To call Cricket “just a game” will be dishonoring their respect, knowledge and above all the love for the game.

I have heard they are more passionate about Football. I didn’t get to that. And trust me, I can’t imagine that.

…But romantic neverthless. Found this poem somewhere on the internet and thought of sharing with you all here. Here goes:

What Matters to Me

Time is the only healer, but I guess,

I am still to walk that road.

I still feel warm and loved I confess,

When I think about those words I wrote to you.

Yes, I do wonder what you must’ve thought,

Wonder, if you saw things from my point of view.

And I can’t just keep that heart back at its place,

Or pack my bags and just walk away.

But it doesn’t matter now, I am sure.

You are living your life, so lovely, so happy,

And that’s all that matters to me.

This was written a couple of weeks ago, posted now

The family of four with whom I share my bay with, in the train, are strange, irritating people.

The two boys are noisy. They could be aged 3 and 5 years. I mean you expect kids to be noisy, it’s understandable for kids to be noisy but this noisy?

Then of course, there are the parents. Every now and then their mother, shouts at them to be quiet. In hindi, sometimes in English. Be quiet, be still, she insists albeit with little effect. Little effect for the kids that is, but her command carries a lot of effect since while shouting, she is louder than the kids. Its 10:30 in the night and if the kids fail to wake up the few sleeping passengers, she, with her “be quiet” and “chup raho” guarantees to leave a mark.

I get a feeling, these people always need to be in the midst of their comfort zone, no matter where they are. There are special clothes to be put on for sleeping, special sandals to be used while in the train. Special food, home made, of course. All this for a 12 hour journey. Dinner is served at 9:30 and it cannot be shifted an hour plus minus, so what if the train starts at 9pm.

The husband of the lady (alarmingly, it seems he is the head of the family), is another character. He needs to get into his “comfy” night clothes (bottoms, actually). What else could be ideal, than to wrap a bathing towel around oneself and change it right there, in the middle of half a dozen strangers? Why go all the way to the bathroom for that? He insists that the kid do the same. The kid, ashamed, resists but papa is always right says mom and bingo.

Morning time, the gentleman in his 60s, sleeping above me turns out to be an early riser. At 7am, he slams down and wakes me up. Sooraj aa gaya hai bhai, kab tak sona hai? One of those guys who are the preachy kinds and get some kind of pleasure in commanding others while being rude, especially to the younger lot. Something in me wants me to get up and bash this man up. Similar emotions were not evoked when last night he insisted to sleep at 10-30 while I was not ready for bed and yet I had obliged. This time too, I wake up and close the middle berth so that he can sit at the cost of my sleep. I need to show some resistance from now on.

The kids wake up too, much to the dismay of their mother who’s still snoring. The elder kid has an obsession for counting parallel rail tracks seen out of the window. The numbers increase and then decrease as tracks merge with each other, as if automatically and in motion, as seen from the window of a fast moving train. Hunger strikes and subsequently the kids are fed with potato chips and all the junk food that their parents, now awake, carry with them. Coffee cups, water bottles, empty snack packets – the place is littered in no time. I am trying to read my book but I really want to put it down, slam it on the small table and tell their father, that this is the time. That this is the age when you teach your children some manners because if you don’t, they will grow up to be bad citizens of this country, with no civic sense — just like their parents.

But I stare out of the window and I see two boys playing a game with ping pong bats and a badminton shuttle. Almost like badminton with ping-pong bats…It could be called Pong-inton…

Then the kid throws a bottle of water on the table, there is noise and then an even louder “STOP IT” scream and I am back at where I was…

The Indian coffee house at MG Road offers a glimpse of the mixture of cultures that Bangalore is.

The place has its own little world and it starts opening up as I find myself a vacant table. A college couple, oblivious to the crowd around them and maybe also to the fact that their coffees are done with, continue to chat. Another guy, in his late twenties maybe, having his french fries along with the coffee. The table, full of his treasures. A latest cellphone, an Mp3 player to mention a few. He chooses to keep his sunglasses on though. One can safely claim — in the coffee house, he has travelled back in time.

Then of course, there are the people I usually manage to strike up conversations with. The middle aged men who are absorbed in their newspapers and while not at it, quietly observing around them. Quite often, their solitude is short lived for they usually find someone of their kind soon enough. Friendships are renewed, greetings exchanged. Discussions take place, politics, cricket, trigonometry and even aviation. These relationships are formed here, in the coffee house and mostly end up within these walls.

Two Tibetan monks walk in and order coffee. With them they carry an air of peculiarity. They share the table with the sunglasses guy, the gadget-man. There is a contrast of sorts. The monks, in their red robes while the gadget-man, as if almost adamant on showing off his prized but earthly possessions, still decorating the old, odd wooden table. As evident, the common thing between these two cultures, the coffee, sharing the space of whatever is left.

The big glass paned window, the biggest witness of all to the change of times, gives a view of the multicultural sea of people on the outside. Like waves, groups of people pass by.

Look at it one way and it is just a place serving coffee. Look at it another way, in fact, any other way, and there is so much going on that I start to wonder, is this really just about the coffee?

This place is stuck in another time and it wants you to oblige as well. For some, it could even get addictive. Trust me, there are people like that.

Enough for the day, I say to myself and leave.

I feel for Bombay. No, let me call it Bombay, for once. It is this same city that I have felt for, in the prose of Rushdie, Mistry and Suketu Mehta. It is this city, Pankaj kapoor called his mehbooba, so aptly, in the movie Maqbool.

I have sailed the rough waters of Bombay, I have travelled in the trains, those which were ripped apart yesterday.

And they have done this to it.

Via Uma’s blog, I came across a very simple but moving poem this morning. I wish to post it here. Along with that, my own poem, titled “Red”, I had written back in 2001 on one lonely night in Pune, after the 9/11 attacks.