“Are you ok?”

Many people have asked me that since yesterday. As I open my mouth to answer that once again, the next line slips in:
“Are you ok Annie?” and Michael Jackson croons with some great music in the background.

What happened was this: I was walking on the footpath of a road. A path that is meant for pedestrians to walk on.
However, someone had kept a long wooden platform on that footpath, merely to deter bikers from parking their bikes on that section of the footpath.

I was oblivious of this fact of course, and keeping my head high, I trotted along the footpath, looking around for some missing clue about our life and this universe.


Suddenly, I notice that my right foot was no longer keeping up with the rest of my body. My brain wakes up and gets instantly into first gear, detecting a pending calamity. Electric signals from my brain’s few million neurons fire relentlessly trying to get the word to my right leg as soon as possible.
The right leg, in the meanwhile, has shut off incoming communication. My brain is still frantically trying to establish organic contact. No luck though.

In the meanwhile, my body’s upper half has lost the plot and starts yielding to the by now strong strains of gravity.


My right leg finally realises its mistake, wedges itself out of the platform and signals back to the brain, “All is Ok. Move on now.”
“A little too late,” signals my brain back as it now gets into the tried-and-tested damage saving mode. Both my hands, which were until now waiting for orders from the higher ups, spring into action. With the palms hoping to cut off gravity’s intense strength, my hands move faster than my falling body, past my upper torso and prevent the ground from taking my full impact. A slight jerk in the shoulder and my brain disengages from “panic mode” and switches to the “realization mode”.


However, all is still not well. The right leg, in its attempt to get out from underneath the wooden plank, and under immense pressure from the brain to react, had put in a little extra effort which had to be passed on to the upper parts of the body. All this meant that my face now came crashing down on the stony pavement, my hands looking sideways at each other not quite knowing where this face landed from.


I now have a couple of bruises on the right side of my face, quite close to the eye. And my shoulder aches occasionally. Yet, here I am, writing this blog post and still keeping an eye out for that missing clue about our life and this universe.


Bouquets and get-well soon cards accepted for free. Just leave a comment here indicating so and you will get a reply with delivery instructions.

A very very well written article by Michael Atherton: England Adjust to India’s Ring of Steel.

It’s cricket yet again here on Dhi Only One.
Peter Roebuck on Dhoni – Click here to read the article.

Perhaps it is true, perhaps it is not. We will have to wait for the next generation to decide.

Link courtesy: raodyboy yet again.

Our Childhood is ending. Click here to know why.

Didn’t expect this from him, but Peter Roebuck has now started whining about India not playing to the ‘spirit of the game’. Read this article by him.

And how does he defend Australia having deployed similar tactics in the years gone by?

Supporters may argue that Australia has long followed this strategy but a new champion must adopt the strengths of the deposed not its faults.

In saying that India had stooped low to conquer the trophy, Roebuck himself is stooping low to recover some Aussie pride.

Saurav Ganguly, perhaps the most iconic personality of Indian cricket, captains India to a successful victory moments before I write this.

In a nice farewell gesture, Dhoni allowed Ganguly to take over the reins for the final few overs of the test match. Interestingly, and for trivia freaks, Ganguly had taken over captaincy for the first time on this very day 8 years ago.

Being at work, like most people on a Monday morning, I was hooked up live on cricinfo’s commentary stream. When the last wicket fell, after the description of the ball and the euphoria, the paragraph from the commentator ended with this line – “Dravid puts his hand over Ganguly’s shoulder”.

That was the last line, post which of course the celebrations began to be described. But that was the defining moment. The moment when the line was drawn and a generation was closed out. The celebrations were the main focus. Like a thin line between the, cliched, class and the masses. 

Anil Kumble has called it quits. And Peter Roebuck, whom I had written about here, gives his tribute in this article:

Yesterday, Kumble declared India’s innings so that he could say a proper goodbye to his supporters. And then he declared his own innings closed, left as always with a determined look in his eyes and head held high. As far as tributes are concerned let us leave the last word to John Wright, his friend and sometime coach.

Walking with Wright years ago, I asked him why he had brought a bowler as aged and limited as Kumble to Australia. He said: “I need him in the rooms.” Next day, Kumble took five wickets and later India won the match.

Read the article here.

Weekend had an extra noise of IPL and all that. I am a big fan of test cricket, and some months ago had ridiculed the prospect of T20. But I watched the first T20 world cup quite ardently and secretly acknowledged that I liked this format too.

However, something just seems amiss with this IPL fanfare. There are Bollywood heroes and heroines, American cheerleaders, glitzy fireworks and a lot of music all around. Great. There are television ads asking you to go mad about your team. Great. There are television channels with international commentators trying to sell you this great idea of cricket, now bottled and to be consumed within six months of manufacture.

All this makes for a great event, a great marketing plan and an even better execution plan. But what is missing is a fervor that sweeps inside me when the national team plays against Australia on a Perth pitch. Where all players, on either sides, breathe their respective national anthems and a fight is more for pride than providing a window for cheerleaders to strut their stuff. I am unable to watch IPL with this zeal of enthusiasm or passion, simply because it asks me to go mad when a Mumbai player thrashes a Bangalore bowler. It doesn’t affect me at all, I don’t care whether Mumbai wins or Kolkata or for that matter Jaipur. It’s India after all and I am unable to stir up an emotional rivalry with any of these cities.

Some of the commentators, on looking at Ponting sharing moments of celebration with an Indian player, have stated that the IPL is going to increase camaraderie between rival players. That future test matches are going to be played with a different spirit, with more respect to each other and to the game. I think there is another side to it as well. Imagine Dravid crying hoarse over a bad decision given to him when Sachin seemingly traps him in front of the wicket. Would this create intra-team rivalry? Would Dravid nurture a bad feeling and let it manifest when these two greats of Indian cricket share the dressing room during a Test match? Of course, these two people mentioned are just examples, and I have no doubt that they are mature beyond all this. But what about the younger team members? Would they see beyond their rift of a T20 and team up to kill the opposite country? I am not too sure.

For now, continue to enjoy the mayhem on the stadium. Hopefully when the real cricket gets played, I will switch on the television once again to watch Brett Lee swearing in at Sachin and neither shall let out a smile to diffuse the tension.

Peter Roebuck is one of my favourite cricket journalists. Considering that I read only cricket when it comes to reading about sports, I can safely state that Roebuck is my favourite sports journalist.

Now, the reason I like Roebuck is not because he is one of the better thinkers of the game. Nor is it because he has played county cricket and captained stars like Viv Richards and Gavaskar. I like him for his writing. Simple as that. I like him for bringing literary prose to the game of cricket.

One of the best articles I have ever read (across all genres of column writings) is his piece on VVS Laxman when he scored a 281 at Kolkata. I tried locating it online but wasn’t able to find it and hence you shall be deprived.

You can imagine my joy at meeting Roebuck in person a couple of years ago when India was playing a test match here in Bangalore. A friend and I were sitting in the wet stands and waiting for play to start (and the rain to stop). Just a few rows ahead of us was Mr. Roebuck with a straw hat on, taking down notes. A quick hi and an acknowledgment from our side about the fact that we knew who he was – that is all that transpired. And that is how I met Peter Roebuck.

Coming to matters of national importance, the Indian tour of Australia seems to have gone horribly sour. Yes, umpires do make mistakes and it did appear that we were singled out. But I think the two sides should sit down, talk things out in a professional manner, shake hands and get on with it. Burning of Bucknor’s photographs and raising nation wide protests is not really good for the game.

Roebuck, in his inimitable style, says Ponting should be sacked.
On the tour:

Beyond comparison it was the ugliest performance put up by an Australian side for 20 years. The only surprising part of it is that the Indians have not packed their bags and gone home. There is no justice for them in this country, nor any manners.

On Harbhajan:

Harbhajan Singh can be an irritating young man but he is head of a family and responsible for raising nine people. And all the Australian elders want to do is to hunt him from the game. Australian fieldsmen fire insults from the corners of their mouths, an intemperate Sikh warrior overreacts and his rudeness is seized upon. It might impress barrack room lawyers.

On the Aussie team’s behavior after the match:

Probably the worst aspect of the Australians’ performance was their conduct at the end. When the last catch was taken they formed into a huddle and started jumping up and down like teenagers at a rave. It was not euphoria. It was ecstasy. They had swallowed a dangerous pill called vengeance. Not one player so much as thought about shaking hands with the defeated and departing. So much for Andrew Flintoff consoling a stricken opponent in his hour of defeat.

The final statement (these kind of lines make Roebuck a favourite):

It is possible to love a country and not its cricket team.

Read the complete article here.
And oh yes, just in case the point was lost, I have met Roebuck.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is God at the SCG.

When I switched on the television set yesterday morning, Jaffer had just been dismissed by a Brett Lee torpedo that had smashed through the off-stump at the speed of light.

Even if it weren’t a no-ball, Jaffer would have been able to do nothing about it. I suppose that is why the umpire did not deem it necessary to call the foul and let Jaffer return back to the pavilion to the already warm seat.

Enter VVS. A couple of Azharuddin-like strokes are played and you are instantly reminded of that epic masterpiece that was painted at the Eden Garden some years ago. Almost divine, the association of that innings with the word Eden Garden didn’t seem all that incidental.

Yesterday at the SCG was another special day.
Mitchell Johnson got knocked around for 18 runs in just 5 balls. Hitting boundaries through a packed off-side field is Ganguly’s forte and that seems humanly possible. But what Laxman did is not just sublime, it is probably un-achievable by any other batsman in world cricket as of now.

Sure, the Pontings, Laras and Sachins of the world can smash the ball around all over the park. They can beat the leather out of shape in no time. But there is no one who can gently caress the ball, without as much as a thud sound, and let the ball freely run towards the boundaries, where it rightly seems wanting to be. No other batsman gives you the warm feeling that the ball wasn’t hit with disdain, but was rather warmly guided to its rightful place beyond the ropes.

Laxman’s 109 yesterday did get India back on the match. But it did a lot more than just that. It showed world cricket the art of batting, not the work of batting. Today, as I write this, Sachin has scored his century and as he completed the final run, both his hands went up to the sky in jubilation. SCG stood up once again to give another Indian an ovation he much deserved. It was special yes, but it definitely wasn’t very very special.

That space is owned by VVS. The master of the bat who decides to show his brilliance only when he wants. Only when he faces the toughest team in the world. And, mostly, at that difficult moment when his country is deep enough in trouble that only a prayer to God can bring it back. That is when VVS steps in, as he did yesterday and shone under the Sydney sun. The audience had got their money’s worth, said some commentators. But watching this innings had nothing to do with the money you had paid.
It was priceless. An act of God, to put it in human terms.

Picture courtesy: www.cricinfo.com ((c) Getty Images)