Of Langurs, within and without

On a relatively lean news day in the buildup to the Commonwealth Games in Delhi, the big story was Langurs. Ok so I exaggerate a little. It wasn’t the big story, but it was an interesting side order. The background is that most ‘normal’ monkeys don’t like langurs. It seems the latter are the bad boys of the simian world, at least in Delhi.

From time to time all the major government offices in the capital pay the handlers of these ‘fearsome beasts’ decent amounts of money to save their files (and their food) from their less alpha dog counterparts. If South Block can do it, surely the Games would need the same services.

So it came about that the organizing committee called on a bunch of these hired goons, to drive away monkeys from various Games locations. I’m not about to makes jokes at the expense of the men and women behind our glorious games, so please read on, it won’t be much longer.

As had become routine, I was hanging around outside the big building that houses Mr Kalmadi and the organizing team, when I saw a large crowd of reporters and camerafolk surrounding something near the parking lot. Hungry for a story, or at least not keen to miss out on something that the rest of the world had caught onto, I naturally made my way there.

Of course I found a bunch of about eight of our ancestors, along with their handlers, were the centre of attention. It was disappointing, for about 30 seconds. That’s when I saw a young girl, intent on playing the intrepid reporter, microphone in hand, make her way as close to one of the langurs as she could. I thought, maybe she wants to cop a feel. But the confident young lady proceeded to shove her mic, hopefully I might add, into the monkey’s face. And thus she stood, for about a minute, until a kind soul from the crowd mentioned, “Madam, I think the langur is saying no comment.”

I didn’t get a story, but I wish I’d have gotten a picture.

Willie Wood, Man of Steel

In the midst of all the abuse that the Organising Committee of the Delhi Games are taking (or at least were till a couple of days ago), one man is telling the real story about the spirit of the Games. The abuse comes largely from people gifted with skin of which the hue is several shades lighter than the locals, and those of us who tell stories on newsprint or espouse wisdom on TV.
The Commonwealth Games are perhaps the only big-ass, multi-event games that afford people as young as 12 and as old as 72, the chance to compete. And while world champions and olympic gold medallists, prime physical specimen, men and women who we would all want to have as the fathers or mothers of our children, are dropping like flies, Willie Wood will battle Delhi's mosquitos, humidity, searing heat, and represent Scotland for the eighth time in the Games that celebrate the British Empire, as part of their lawn bowls team.
It should have been 10, but Willie missed out on the Games at home in Edinburgh, in 1986, when he was fighting with the Scottish Bowls people, because they wanted him to put all his money in a Trust. Wood made his debut for Scotland in 1966, when my father was just a couple of years younger than I am now. In 2007, he was inducted into the Scottish sporting Hall of Fame. Normally, that means one of three things; that the player is retired, has one foot in the grave, or also has the other foot, head, arms, shoulders, and everything else, in the grave with the first foot.
If you suggest that to Willie, he would probably just laugh. He says he still plays for 10 hours at a stretch on some days; and golf when he isn't practising or competing. He feels 30 years younger than his years, making him, with a due respect, a good contender for some serious wood, on a regular basis. But then i would never ask him that. Turns out i cant ask him very much at all, because after two full days of interviews, the Scots have decided that he needs time to focus on practise. Perhaps they will let him loose if he wins a medal, though, the team's media manager in Delhi told me. If he does win a medal, he will add it to the two commonwealth golds he already has, including one in singles competition.
For those who say bowls is not a sport, I have very little time. It may not be as intensely physical as rugby or wrestling, and it may not require the stamina needed to run the marathon, but Willie will spend long hours getting baked under the Delhi sun (which incidentally decided to reappear after weeks of beautiful weather that brought the city, parts of the country, and very nearly the Games, to their knees), both when he is training, as well as when he competes. And the sport requires intense concentration.
In January, the legend was battling for his spot on the team in extreme conditions of the opposite sort. Britain was freezing, and the Norfolk coast, where he was competing, was as cold as an eskimo's arse (and to preempt questions, no I haven't visited one of those, I've only heard they're pretty cold).
That was indoors; here there will be no respite. Despite the sheer physical violence, never mind the threat of violence of the terrorist kind, that Delhi unleashes on those kind enough to visit, Willie told the Telegraph months ago, "I would have no hesitation going to Delhi. You can find yourself in bother anywhere in the world these days, why single Delhi out? You wouldn't say London is the safest of places either, would you? Whatever will be, will be."
Many of those who are pulling out are injured. Many others have more important events to go to, but then there are those who just can't be bothered to make the trip because of the sheer physical discomfort of competing here. To those in the last lot I say, and I hope Willie won't mind my saying that so does he, a very polite up-yours.

football it is

at the end of the day that is what this is all about. existential angst. strippers who want too much money. days spent dreaming and talking and bitching and arguing about a sport that is never played often enough in this country. football. yet every once in a while football comes home. and home is not old trafford; it is not the emirates stadium, hell its not even yuba bharati krirangan.
football is not the teeming hundreds of thousands that can pack into the sat lake stadium an any give day, because that is not Sir Bob's home ground. his home is none other than the humble Ambedkar Stadium, the tiny football ground that lies in the shadows of the imposing new feroz shah kotla, home of test cricket, centre for excellence, host of the world cup.
when india play here, we are unbeatable. for tonight we dont fear the Thais. if it were the Japanese, we wouldnt fear them either. because in this little compound, on this little patch of grass, where i once chested a ball off the flank, controlled it and slotted it past the keeper, in a game we went on to lose 7-1, INDIA is beyond real.
tomorrow, we will beat Thailand; if not on the field, then in  spirit. because at The Ambedkar, India is one. The Bengalis, The Goans, The Mallus, The other ones of us who live and breathe the sport, at Ambedkar, we come together. The Boka Chodas mix with the behen chods, and all that is is left is a 20,000 capacity stadium, full with 30,000 Indians, praying, hoping, bleeding, sweating for a win for the real boys in blue. This is football. this is where India lives. This is where india plays.and this is where bryan robson nd his boys are going to get a very, very special welcome tomorrow evening.
 

and Loathing

Borrowed titles, but somehow fitting. faith is always one of those things that's either unshakable, or stands on very thin ice. or in this case, cheap stilettos. if you do fall into bracket two, the snapping of a heel, can signal the end. if a pilgrimage ends in disappointment, far less abject failure, the questions are a lot more profound. 
it's not like i travelled the 8000 miles or so between Delhi and San Francisco just to take a look at the hallowed portals of the O'Farrell Theatre; its just that i'd heard, from a source no less credible than Hunter Thompson, that it was the 'Carnegie Hall of public sex in America'.
Opened by the Mitchell brothers in 1969, the O'Farrell does have a formidable reputation. And since it was barely a ten-minute, downhill walk from where we were staying, my brown brother and i decided, whether we saw the golden gate or not, o'farrell, anthony bourdain's recommended torta cubanas, and the search for at least a couple of good drunks, was the plan of action. 
as it turned out, carnegie hall was having a slow saturday night. so we got in for a lot less than the normal 40 dollars a pop, but thats when the shit hit the fan. well, not really, but i just wanted to say that. 
so apart from the brown brothers (respectably turned out in shoes, jackets, etc, nervously placing folded hands over crotches to conceal potential, and potentially desirable hard-ons), there was one other group of gentlemen in the esteemed establishment, fellow travellers, only from farther east. at a ratio of about 1:6 (one guy to six girls, that is), things were not only looking up, they were also looking to get expensive. that was when bully, big titted brunette number one, disappointed, that neither the brother nor i wanted a little sucky-wucky (no, there was no offer of a lap dance, i suppose when the going gets tough, these ladies get down to business), asked us, "what are you going to do, go home and jack each other off?" Stunned silence followed that remark, as each of us tried in vain to come up with a suitably witty comeback that would have everyone in the place in splits, and the ladies so floored that they might even proffer their services for free. needless to say, that didn't happen.
the state of california of course, doesnt help. apparently you can't have nudity and alcohol in the same place. if the world followed those rules, some of us would never get laid. 
another brown brother often travels to phoenix for work, and i have been given to understand that life in that particular city, outside of another reputed establishment (this one by the name of centrefold), pretty much blows. "go to phoenix anytime, bro. ask for candy (name changed on request). tell her you are my friend. shell show you a good time." the strip joint has always seemed a great place to get a feel of the place, the times, the people, to fall in love even.
but then he always has been more endearing than me, so i didnt find a candy who fell in love with me. 
cut back to san francisco, and it was hard to imagine that this sober house of sin had once played host to binges, hunter and his friends, police raids, drugs, subversive cartoonists, fratricide even. perhaps our 21st century morals will actually put an end to all joys one day.


this is not out of any disrespect to the girls, who, almost to a fault, were beautiful. i dont think i have ever seen as much flawless skin in as many different shades under one roof before. but one hour and one (what i like to think was manly) hug to the last two showgirls of the evening, the ones who wanted us to come and play, left us with a feeling of emptiness. 
the pilgrimage over, the walk back to the apartment was more fulfilling. we had a bottle, and there were ridiculously naked hookers on the street, hanging around in the shadow between shops with neon signs. that was the america i was looking for. 
but like the brother said, the significance of the piligrimage lies in that it will never be forgotten, its impact, felt one day when you least expect it, its residue (pardon the pun), may reside in the turnups of your trousers, or the cupholder of your seat, forever, marking a time in history, a frame of mind, a shared experience, and showing the light for generations of pilgrims to follow. the brother has taken to ketamine of late.
i feel another trip coming up. the loathing may have past. maybe i was to immature to undertake the pilgrimage and realise its importance at the same time.    

Such was the fear that the previous post remained a draft through the IPL controversy, and has only come to light in the era of the Commonwealth Games. From one scam to the next?

Fear

to blog or not to blog. that has been the question, for a considerable period, i might add. or at least it was till now. after years of staying away from these murky waters, i have fnally decided to take the plunge. now i do realise that this fact, while hugely important to me, probably doesnt mean a damn thing to anyone else on the planet. the reasons i stayed away though, might just be slightly more.

In one word, fear. Of course the public self-analysis isn’t that simple. The fears were so many, and over time became so deep-rooted, that id find any excuse to avoid being judged by a potentially infinite number of people. Which leads me to the next fear; that there would be no judgement at all; that the damn thing would be so bloody boring that id get fewer hits than Gary Neville would get hit-on at a party full of nubile convent schooled young ladies. That’s what I mean by deep-rooted. And it doesn’t even end there. The meadium is such that criticism may be anonymous, but it is also instantaneous. And one you put yourself out there, you ar always open for a bashing.

Having admired and enjoyed many bloggers, questions kept presenting themselves, and sometimes at the most inopportune moments. What are you going to write about? What will you call it? Do you have a style? What if no one gets the jokes? Sometimes this happened while in the middle of writing something else, something work related, leading to complete shutdown. While writing a terse email to the missus leading to a breakdown in already broken-down lines of communication. Or when id done the hard work of plying the new girl at the bar with drinks, attention and the right amount of humour to take care of events post last-order, resulting in a failure of the essential machinery. I could go on.

So I suppose it would be safe to say that as of right now I am the most frightened man in this realm. Or at least I was, till I was inspired. And the credit for my new found bravery, just like the credit for the success of the IPL, goes to none other than Mr Lalit Modi. I wrote just yesterday in the paper that I was surprised by how quickly Twitter has become a source of stories for journalists, and information for many others. What I didn’t realise was the effect it would have on me. If Modi could risk his cricket empire at the alter of the tweeting gods, my empire-less existence means much less is at stake.

So Mr Modi, with your name on my lips, I take the plunge.