Ah! My ‘Beauty’full India

Beauty: Beauty is a characteristic of a person, animal, place, object, or idea that provides a perceptual experience of pleasure, meaning, or satisfaction, claims one many of the definitions of beauty, out there. In other words, beauty in itself is a very broad term which entails everything that gives pleasure to any one of your senses.

In contemporary society, beauty is used to term a ravishing damsel but it sure is much more than that. Talking about what beauty means to me would end up being a fanboy rant about each and every aspect of Angelina Jolie, so we shall chuck that. And as wide is beauty a term, I shall try to keep my definition if not as, at least reasonably broad. This post will try to describe beauty for an average Indian. Again the word average here is highly debatable, so I define it as you and me and everyone else who might read this blog.

I would be betraying myself if I started defining beauty any other way. Beauty to me and I assume a 100 crore other Indians is when Sachin Tendulkar stands upright, more balanced than a gymnast on a rope, his bat ramrod straight, eyes hungrier for runs than a politician’s, when they see green paper and the precision of bisecting the field matching a ramp model’s, who knows exactly how much to bare, even during supposed mess ups.

Beauty to us is when larger than life Amitabh Bachan says “Hum Jahan pe khade hote hain Line wahi se shuru ho jati hai” or “Rishte me to hum tumhare baap lagte hain , naam hai Shahenshah”, with a voice that stamps authority even with these inane pieces of speech. It indeed is beauty which could’ve only been beaten had Poonam Pandey had stood true to her word. Eh. That blabber is for another time.

Beauty to us is when a bloodsucking Rajas or Kamikozes are shoved into jail and they complain about the mosquitoes. That is beauty unparalleled, and no amount of short skirts the Badminton World Federation (BWF) has it’s girls wearing, will beat that.

We Indians are simple beings and tend to find beauty in our day to day lives too.

Beauty to us is a day when the roads are empty and we can actually drive our car. You know driving, when you press the accelerator and have the luxury of doing it for five straight seconds. You heard me right. It happens. Well, that beauty is one which is on the verge of extinction, at least where I stay. In Mumbai, I hear it’s already resting in peace.

Beauty to us is when a train which is supposed to turn up at 10 a.m turns up within an error zone of +- 10%(excuse me for using this, I am an engineer). Expecting anything more is blasphemy. Just like expecting Shahrukh Khan and Karan Johar to make a movie that doesn’t have gay undertones is.

Well, talking about Karan Johar, isn’t he a “beauty”.

Our eyes also well up when we see any Indian getting “international” recognition. Even if it be an honorary non sense degree to a film star, a degree which all of us know is as flimsy as Veena Malik’s morals.

We also find beauty in petty things, such are we. If the tap from which the water runs, keeps on for a couple of more minutes than it’s supposed to, the beauty of the tap keeps our gaze fixed, as if hypnotized.

Similarly if the bill of the food we’ve just eaten, has missed a tandoori roti, saving no less than Rs. 10/-, makes the bill special to us. So special that we just might get it laminated and hang it right up there with our scholarship certificates.

P.S: I do not laminate and hang my scholarship certificates on the wall. I have none.

We Indians like a good drink. Good and strong. Hence the sight of a chilled beer or a neat crystal glass kept at the side of a whiskey bottle, beckoning a ‘small’ drink is enchantment. We just don’t have it in us to refuse the poor glass, so beautiful does it appear at the end of a long day. So, due to our ‘large’ heartedness, we pour just a little, and then just a little more until we end up calling everyone around and telling them “ tu to mera bhai hai”.

Someone rightly said, Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I say beauty is in the eye of the beer holder. Ok this is copied.

We are easy people to please. And cheap. Hence the sight of a discount, even if the item originally is priced ten times, is beauty to us. We tend to like the “SALE 50%” Bill boards so much that if given a choice, we’ll make love to that beauty.

We are proud parents. And the pride is maximum when our offspring’s produce academic results which are unheard of in the immediate family. The report card in this case is the object of beauty; it satiates our ego. After all, why was all that bournvita, chavanprash, almonds and the most expensive ghee fed to Bittu. Precisely for this. Oh yes, and did I say beauty was relative. In this case, if the neighbour’s child fails, Bittu’s report card is now as beautiful as daddy’s wildest dreams. Ok, that might still not be true, given daddy’s recent consumption of Re-vital, but you get the drift.

All in all, beauty can be found anywhere. Even in your underwear, when you decide it’s just about clean enough to be worn again. So where did you find your “beauty” today?
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This post has been written for the Yahoo Dove Real Beauty Contest on Indiblogger. It is a salute to the triumphant spirit of the Indian woman by Dove. To know more about Real Beauty you can visit the wonderful page hosted by Yahoo http://realbeauty.yahoo.com/ .
Vote for it :)

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The conundrum of the supremely talented

It beats me!!It does..How god sent talent is wasted,wasted in the intoxication of the inebriating
spirits. Have a look at the likes of jesse ryder, Yuvraj Singh,hershelle
gibbs,the master shane warne,they exude talent.Gibbs is a
national level soccer player and symonds aspired to play rugby for australia and the word is he is pretty good at it too.
Not so much of a natural athlete when it comes to warnie,but boy when u can do wat he does by hopping three steps,i swear by almighty,i want to be that way.
Then you have the diligent,who take years honing their game but still, may be,will never match that flowing drive,that ripping leg break.They have to work with whatever little they have.Have a look at anil kumble[with all due respect i can muster in this lifetime],aptly named jumbo,he cannot turn the ball ,so be it,but his untiring,in your face attitude has made him what he is today.A legend , but not the one who will conjure up magic to make me to see the same delivery over and over again with the same unfazed dumbfounded gaze every single time, which i till date do when i have a look at the warnie to gatting delivery.
Juxtapose him with poor ole roy,if talent were the sole criterion he would make the list to the top five without batting an eyelid.Throws a caution to the winds  when bats,can give the cherry a rip,can bowl medium pace and few are better when it comes to both fielding inside the 30 yards or at the boundary throwing rockets at the wicketkeeper.
But as they say men were not made equal.If talent oozes out,the discipline might wobble.I can never , nor do i think anyone else can explicate this theory.But ryder will keep chugging his fizzed barley syrup , symonds will keep showing the finger to the axioms that define cricket mannersims, Yuvraj will never care two hoots about his bulging tummy  and warnie will keep scandalizing us with his sexcapades.These are some things which come in packages.Take it or leave it.Well i take it,with both hands open.After all its the bad boys who make the good boys look good ;)

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The cricket Pundits...Really?

The cricket pundits..Really

Last time I blogged i eneded up ranting about the quality of commentators these days.More so the Indian lot,barring the god of commentators , the revred Mr Bhogle.That leaves us with the two most prominent Jackasses on the screen today, Mr shastri and Mr gavaskar.Well being biased is one thing and trying to do a phd in ass licking completely another. For years altogether now , they have been going on and on and on, all gung ho about the asesome foursome sourav,sachin,dravid and the very very special laxman [reallly???]. I mean enough is enough!! We know you like them, but expressing your homosexual feelings for them on national television is clearly not on!!There is another team playing too,wonder you have a word of praise for them too??

Evolve,reinvent,think and speak are some things which seem completelety alien to these genlemen.With he deep sighs Mr Shastri takes on screen, it seems he is panting for breath after a session of self mollification.See the IPL,him raising his voice at the toss to supposedly make the

atmosphere 'electrifying' leaves him with no clue how lame he sounds.

        The other day I was privilidged to get to see the highlights of one of Sachin's innings back in 1996 in Sharjah (etched in our memories isnt it:D), when he single handedly obliterated the aussies,making two consecutive mammoth hundreds, a collosal effort by a tiny genius .Well guess what??Who was there to poop the party ?The pooper himself,Mr Shastri.Mumbling the same rants he chants today,the same,indistinguishable pieces of unintelligible speeches which can fit into any setting.

A few Quotes:

This period of play is very important.....Is it??

The key to the game is to string a patnership here...Well when wasnt it??

[49th over]..One gets the feeling hes gonna cut loose here...Oh i thought otherwise..

A single after a six/four...Intelligent cricket,verrrrry intelligent,following a six with a single......Screw you Mr,the ball wasnt there to be hit else he would have hit it again

    These inane remarks get on to my nerves.Facts which even a fith grader would assimilate.Havnt once these two morons given us any analysis or for that matter an expert opinion for which they are warming their arses there.

     

Enough said , but i feel its time for our sorry asss commentators to rethink what they speak,even if they want to keep holloring the same cliches over and over again, at least revamp them.So , Most honoured sirs , if you cannot even do that i solemnly put forward my words in the most

suave manner possible:'Please' FUCK OFF!!

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The art of swearing

Sports incorporate one of the most amusing arts apart from the sport itself.That art has come to be known as sledging.When it comes to cricket, most of us think that sledging has come to the scene onlyrecently.But since time immemorial these skills have been practiced,honed and then pratised some more.Obviously sledging inthe good ole days was light hearted banter which bordered more on the lines of 'oi..look a truck can get through that (the defence)'or 'hey theres a bit of crap on your bat today'...which evolved to become very vicious expressions like questioning the illicit relationships the other persons mother might have had with other men.Some could retort back , some couldnt and some just lettheir cricket do all the talking.Well , here i have compiled some of the best sledges and in some cases very fitting replieswhich are now etched permanently in the memory of cricket fans all around the world.
o Rod Marsh & Ian Botham - When Botham took guard in an Ashes match, Marsh welcomed him to the wicket with the immortal words: "So how's your wife & my kids?" . Botham replied wifes fine but the kids are retarted
o Daryll Cullinan & Shane Warne - As Cullinan was on his way to the wicket, Warne told him he had Been waiting 2 years for another chance to humiliate him. "Looks like you spent it eating," Cullinan retorted.
o Robin Smith & Merv Hughes - During 1989 Lords Test Hughes said to Smith after he played & missed: "You can't fucking bat". Smith to Hughes after he smacked him to the boundary - "Hey Merv, we make a fine pair. I can’t fucking bat & you can't fucking bowl."

o Merv Hughes & Javed Miandad - During 1991 Adelaide Test, Javed called Merv a fat bus conductor. A few balls later Merv dismissed Javed: "Tickets please," Merv called out as he ran past the departing batsman.
o Merv Hughes & Viv Richards - During a test match in the West Indies, Hughes didn't say a word to Viv, but continued to stare at him after deliveries. "This is my island, my culture. Don’t you be staring at me. In my culture we just bowl." Merv didn't reply, but after he dismissed him he announced to the batsman: "In my culture we just say fuck off."
o Glenn McGrath to Ramnaresh Sarwan - "So what does Brian Lara's d*ck taste like?"Sarwan: "I don't know. Ask your wife." McGrath lost it: "If you ever mention my wife again, I'll F***ing rip your F***ing throat out." A supreme example of cricketers not being able to take what they dish out.But mc Grath can be cut sum slack as his wife was suffering from cancer that time.

o Malcolm Marshall was bowling to David Boon who had played and missed a couple of times. Marshall: "Now David, Are you going to get out now or am I going to have to bowl around the wicket and kill you?"
o Ricky Ponting & Shaun Pollock - After going past the outside edge with a couple of deliveries, Pollock told Ponting: "It's red, round & weighs about 5 ounces." Unfortunately for Pollock, the next ball was hammered out of the ground. Ponting to Pollock: "You know what it looks like, now go find it."
o Fred Trueman - While bowling the batsman edges and the ball goes to first slip,and right between Raman Subba Row's legs. Fred doesn't say a word. At the end of the over, Row ambles past Trueman and apologises sheepishly. "I should've kept my legs together, Fred". "So should your mother," he replied.
o And of course you can't forget Ian Healy's legendary comment that was picked up by the Channel 9 microphones when Arjuna Ranatunga called for a runner on a particularly hot night during a one dayer in Sydney... "You don’t get a runner for being an overweight, unfit, fat cunt!!!"
Now this one is my personal favourite :D
o Glenn McGrath asked Eddo Brandes how come he was so fat. Brandes replied "because every time I fuck your wife she gives me a biscuit".
o The batsman on guard had a short temper and the slips were giving him the needle.After he had played and missed for the third time in the over one of the slips said just loudly enogh..."Yeah his wife was telling me in the shower this morning that he has been off his stroke in the bedroom too"The Batsman erupted and rushed the slip waving his bat and turning the air blue. It took a few miniutes for order to be restored!
o Mark Waugh to Jimmy Ormond coming out to bat in an Ashes match: “Mate, what are you doing out here, there’s no way you’re good enough to play for England.” Ormond: “Maybe not, but at least I'm the best player in my family.”

o In one of the tour matches in South Africa, Australia played HansieCronje's province. Cronje was at the non-strikers end. There was a chubby batsman on strike. Ian Healy yelled to the bowler "Bowl a Mars Bar half waydown.We'll get him stumped." The Aussies and Cronje were all in hysterics. The batsman retorted: "Nah, Boonie fielding at short leg will be on to itbefore I can move."
Talk about a sledge coming back and biting you on the ass.Heres one
o Mark Waugh standing at second slip, the new player (Adam Parore) comesto the crease playing & missing the first ball. Mark - "Ohh, I remember youfrom a couple years ago in Australia. You were then, you're fu*kinguseless now".Parore- (Turning around) "Yeah, that's me & when I was there you were goingout with that old, ugly slut & now I hear you've married her. You dumb cunt".

Sadly sledging can also sometimes cross the line:Aparently after Chris Cairns' sister was killed in a train crash in New Zealand, the next time AUS v NZL, when Cairns came out to bat the Australian slip cordon, lead by Mark Waugh made train noises to Cairns.
[The authenticity of this one is disputed as some say a journalist made it up and was denied by cairns himself...but some claim it was the australian crowd]
watever it was, was pretty low.
Anyways thats all i've got guys.Hope you had fun.

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Cricket till I die- Excerpt - III

The Dream Takes Flight

“Life is like a library owned by the author.
In it are a few books which he wrote himself,
but most of them were written for him.”
– Harry Emerson Fosdick

What on earth was I thinking?? My head was killing me.                                                                                There I was, sitting in an exam
hall, going to be the alma mater of one of the most prestigious
B schools in India for which all I had to do was merely smudge
the paper for two hours.
My heart, on the other side, was pounding from inside, almost
ready to spring out of any orifice it could have managed to
find. This is it, I knew. If I have to follow my dream, this is
pretty much it. There will be no second chances.
The words of Sharma had stood correct. The Royal Delhi
Club, undeniably, had made the path an easy one. Each
performance got eyed by people who mattered and once I
was in my element there was no looking back. I had been
selected amongst so many prodigies to be a part of the
trials for the ‘Delhi Daredevils’. These old legs had been
preferred over young stallions, something for which the only
explanation was that there was something they had seen in
me. Something special, I furthered myself.
The trials for the Delhi team started that day, the day my
third semester examinations commenced. In an hour I
was expected at the trials. On one side lay a cushiony life,
guaranteeing the comforts of life, an abode in a posh colony
in Delhi, a swanky ride and a life filled with air conditioned
offices and innumerable client visits which would include
infinite soporific team meetings where I would want to do
just one thing, i.e., bang my head on the table. I had derived
my answer; I wanted the other side of life. That of labour,
sweat, toil and of uncertainty as to whether all this would
materialise even into a fraction of what I’d always dreamt of.

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Excerpts from the book- II

Around fifteen people had turned up; ready to be stuffed with

beer, whiskey, rum and cheese burst pizzas. Anticipating the

amount of semi-processed cheese bursts induced puke my

house would be guest to that night, I had instructed people

in prior that when feeling giddy, either run straight to the

balcony and puke on the road or make a dash to my toilet.

The latter being the safer option though, I had made it clear

that my living and drawing room were not options, and this

rule, if tested, would lead to their ass being kicked straight

out of my house.

I had also asked my neighbours in prior, that if the decibel

levels cross their patience levels, they can excuse me this one

time, as pretty soon I’d be leaving to be a part of one of the

most prestigious B schools of India. This piece of information

was met with arched eyebrows, oblivion and at some places

indifference. I had very smartly bribed them for excusing

the noise. Mr. Ghutmales’ children had been presented with

Cadbury chocolates and Mr. Kadam’s wife a fake compliment

and a kaju barfi hamper. Mr. Bhansode, the asshole of the

lot, was out somewhere for the week and that saved me a lot

of tension.

The party was a wild one, and my friends were shamelessly

hitting on my girlfriend, alcohol I tell you. I redirected them

to other females in the party and tried to be the perfect host

offering them chips, peanuts and the occasional slap on the

back of the head for dirtying my house. It did not take long

for the first of many vomits that were lined up, to happen.

Three hours had passed and my restroom had now started

to look like a public toilet. Guys had peed everywhere except

where it was meant to be, and I didn’t even want to wonder

where the girls were peeing. Those who had come claiming

that they’d have to leave early had now made it a point that

they cannot even be shifted to a different corner let alone a

different house. No one was planning on leaving soon and

that I had established from the “what a party man... so much

booze... haha this will take some time to finish… but what are

friends for”.

I had planned on finishing the party by midnight and then

spending the night with Sonali, which was a distant dream

now. She understood that this wasn’t possible as she kissed

me goodnight and left. I thought I’d seek Hardik’s help to get

this mess cleared with.

“Oi… help me get these assholes out now… else they’ll all

sleep here and there today”, I said.

“Fuck off… I don’t care who’s sleeping where but this chick

is sleeping with me today, so go away, let me continue”, he

frowned as he spoke in a muffled voice while he supposedly

chatted with a girl, wasted enough to not understand a word

even if he had shouted all of this.

Slowly, though tipsy beyond limits, I encouraged the less

drunk ones to take along a passed out one home with them

as I claimed I do not have any mattresses for them to spend

the night on. No one seemed to bother as after so much

booze even if I’d thrown them on the road, they wouldn’t

have cared.

‘Each one takes one’ was the slogan of the night. Finally

eight people slept at my place, a garbage dump by then, and

littered all over except at places where a human body lay.

Hardik did not manage to bed the girl as her boyfriend came

to pick her up, which left him very sad, and I had a nice time

reminding him what a fool he had been the whole time.

Feeling delighted as to what a manager I’d make at FMS

as not one person had vomited inside the house after my

instructions; I saw the most disgusting scene when I entered

the kitchen. Who on earth vomited in the kitchen, I wanted to

find out and rub his face in it. Anyhow, I spread newspapers

over that crap and slept.

At around seven, people began getting up and started

doddering their way back home leaving me with this mess,

for which I knew I’d have hell to pay to my maid. She took

200 Rupees only for cleaning for this one day, apart from the

700 I gave her for a month. I must confess those 200 Rupees

were very well worth it and I am sure she must have made

another 50 from the uncountable beer bottles and cans she

collected from the place. The rest of the day was spent in

nursing the hangover, with lime juice, orange juice and other

fluids. Finally, I ate at night when I was sure that my stomach

was finally ready to ingest solid food.

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Excerpts from the book- Cricket till I die

The Inception Of The Dream-

“Happy are those who dream dreams and are ready

to pay the price to make them come true.”

– Leon Joseph Cardinal Suenens

A sudden impulse enveloped me as I saw myself taking a

U turn, driving on the wrong side of the lane and entering

the confines of a massive gate. The top of the entrance

supported a semicircular board which read ‘Mohan Meakins

Cricket Club’ in a worn out shade of black, from which layers

of chipped paint hung loosely; ready to drop any moment

and the board at its creakiest best just waiting to give way to

a strong gush of a Delhi thunderstorm.

As I parked my bike on one corner, an old man exemplifying

the age old Indian phrase of ‘one foot in the grave’ confronted

me. He was the guard, as his attire suggested, a timeworn man

in his late sixties it seemed, who could ward off, let alone a

crook or a thief, not even a small puppy dog. In a season that

would fall definitely under the type ‘summers’, he somehow

still managed to sport a flimsy sweater, bespeaking once

again of his age.

“Can’t you read ‘No Parking’,” he grumbled as I saw the

back of his throat through the massive cavities in his mouth

attributed to the last few teeth left dangling by his gums,

which were as fragile as the board at the gate.

I looked around as I saw a parking sign, hung upside down,

lifelessly on a single hinge and I parked my bike in that area.

The quietness of the ground felt really comforting when

57

contrasted with the hustle filled traffic I was a part of just

moments back.

A small concrete, two room excuse for an office blocked the

parking locale from the main ground. I entered the ground,

crossing the corridor which had a stench as if it hadn’t had

the opportunity to be cleaned for months now. The lush

green ground wasn’t as lush green now as I observed a group

of young boys practicing in the nets as a man, considerably

older than the lot, seemed to be shouting after every small

period of play, seemingly with a lot of suggestions mixed

generously with profanities.

After observing for some good fifteen minutes from a distance

close enough to get a good hang of all the abuses the old

man used, the man, whom I figured would be the coach,

sighted me.

“What are you looking at?? Why are you late?” He asked

shouting at the top of his voice.

Taken aback, after a moment of being at a complete loss as

to what to do, I walked towards him to help him clarify any

misgivings he might have fostered as he squinted hard to

identify any recognisable features on my face.

“Oh!! My damned eyes!! I am sorry”, he said once I was

close enough to him, as he seemed to suffer from some long

distance face recognition issues.

“But anyways, who the hell are you?” He asked.

“Nothing, Sir!! I mean no one! I was just watching,” I said.

“You don’t frikking play??” He asked

“I do sir.” I found myself saying.

“Oye Rakesh asshole. Give him the pads and the helmet, you

dumbfuck, let’s see if he has the balls; you seem to have left

back home today”, he said as he looked seemingly frustrated

by something Rakesh had done.

There are times when you just can’t say no and then there

are times when you don’t want to. This, I do not know, fell

in which category but dressed in a jeans and a shirt I found

myself padding up. With a major disconnect between my

mind and my actions, things seemed to be taking on their

own course, rather than waiting for my mind to give out any

signals for the same.

As I faced the bowler, who was a mild medium pacer, I

defended, drove, pulled and cut with equal poise as the cries

and yells from the coach subsided with each shot I played.

The bowler who had, till now, been tormenting the previous

batsman, now was subjected to the choicest of abuses

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