International Outsourcing......is BCCI listening ?

Justice Hansen of New Zealand, himself, also the president of a Cricket Club, has said his piece.

A somewhat predictable end to a cricket field fight (having nothing directly to do with cricket, but everything to do with bad behaviour); a fight between players from India and Australia, respectively incensed and thrilled by the abominable umpiring by chaps from West Indies and England; a kachra level performance by a chap from South Africa, myopically functioning as a match referee. Finally a judge flies over from New Zealand to rap everyone on their gloved knuckles. Who have we left out ? Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh ....?

The game which started out as that played by the gentry in the Queen's land, folks in the pavilion gracefully applauding between bites of cucumber sandwiches and tea, (with a trip to the pub later), is now played in a modified cultural milieu, replete with spicy and alcoholic repasts..

Far removed from the time when Aussies and English verbally duelled on the pitch , in what my school teacher would have classified as gutter language, today, selective deafness, and advanced family and anatomical abuse seems to be a required qualification, in a game where , clean strokes, magical wristy flicks, spinning cherries, mighty sweeps, and asymptotic dives to block the ball, should have been the norm.

The advent of non-English speaking countries, the popularity of the game in these countries, and the rise of great players from these countries, has now introduced a factor, that the ICC with its stiff-upper-lip, loftily-perched -Anglo-based policy, needs to take a fast look at.

Once sledging is officially allowed under the guise of "playing hard and fair", you need umpires who understand what is tolerable and what is not. It will not suffice to have neutral umpires. Besides the rules of cricket, they will have to be well versed in choice abuse from all the countries.

A single match referee will not be enough. You will need a panel of chaps acting as match referees, so that there is one person from every country. Along with umpiring qualifications, folks will have to undergo multicultural sociological training. A comprehensive look at whats OK and what's not OK, depending on where the game is being played, between whom, during what part of the year.

This is where we folks from India are uniquely qualified .

With our amazing, unparalleled diversity of religions, languages, political parties, cross cultural understanding, and sometimes, purposeful non-understanding, as well as our capacity to live in a state of dynamic ,religious, economic, and cultural balance, we are uniquely set up to offer training to all the cricketing folks "who decide"..

The ICC should outsource this to India.

The BCCI can set up an International Institute at the Wankhede stadium, for the fine training of umpires and match referees. Now that doing things through video links has been successfully tried out during the monkey episodes, BCCI can even offer distance refresher courses, to those who forget all the bad words.

The trainees can then be taken on surprise tours of various vidhan sabhas where the speaker "umpire" has to often deal with non verbal communication in the form of flying microphones, chairs etc.

Situations that require facing dicey and unrelated reasoning can be handled by some folks from BCCI who specialise in confusing questions with answers .

One more source of income for BCCI. One more reason for some folks to gnash their teeth and crib about India's money power". One more somersault for people like Peter Roebuck.

And one more reason for someone like me,to hark back nostalgically, to her schooldays in a co-ed school, where school bullies always existed, rules were flouted, tearful and brave complaints were made, and the entire problem was successfully dealt with by the teachers, who used tough discipline, great understanding , and the active co-operation of other students to handle it, without making a song , dance and court case about it.

The Ratnas, Padmas and Sirs.....

Its that time of the year again.

Its time for the "granting of the favours" . Earlier it was more like "granting of the honours".

My childhood years were TV-less, Internet-less, but studded with the haunting sounds of the AIR (All India Radio, NOT All India Rank) signature tune playing in the early rays of the sun as we got ready or school /college and assorted games practice classes.

Vividh Bharati and Radio Ceylon did the film songs, and for a long time I used to think that Mohammed Rafi actually went to Ceylon to sing Actually , it didn't really matter, as that wasn't something that was on the parents approved-list of things to do, and so was enjoyed surreptitiously.

Newspapers were full of news, rarely sensations. There was a sanctity about high places and with those that occupied them. Republic Day honours often delighted everyone, and one's parents were often observed nodding their approval. If there was a desperate behind-the-scenes plotting or skirmish, one never heard or saw it. Consequently , we grew up with a healthy respect for those in high places.

My children today cannot say the same. Government has become an ocean of opportunities, all to be grabbed with hands, feet ,relatives, and anything else you can think off, and if you stop to think about rights,wrongs and rules, you would probably qualify for the Padma Murkha Award for that year.....

Republic Day has become a day on which one peruses the Padma Award lists to see how many and which people have succeeded , sometimes, not in their fields of work , but in the back-scratching-favour-returning sweepstakes.

This year takes the cake. The "Competition" for Bharat Ratna has hotted up. And to think that I always thought it was an inspired decision at the topmost echelons of government, seemingly removed from the brat-race.

Never have political parties , so blatantly put up their candidates to compete for the country's highest Award.

So far there was a massive lack of finesse in deciding the Padma Awards. That the Ratna Award should be haggled about , has severely demeaned its value, and if that's the way things proceed, then the award should be scrapped.

Witness how Advani proposes Vajpayeeji's name. You serious ? The combative left responds with Jyoti Basu's, only to have some theoretical communist types harrumph loudly and say they don't accept "State Awards"..... Madam Mayawati emerges from her state sponsored diamond encrusted birthday celebrations to demand that the founder of her party , Kanshi Ramji is really the only choice; get ready for a whole bunch of National Parks, maidans, colleges, universities, airports etc to be named after him. I only hope they leave the Arabian Sea, and Bay of Bengal alone.

With Madam in the race, can Mulayamji be left behind ? No siree. Bharat Ratna for him too. And never mind those court cases. They are almost like a qualification today. Accused but not convicted. And so , in a shameless manifestation of the "me too" syndrome, Laloo Prasad Yadav in a display of Bihari inspiration, nominates two leaders of his state posthimously in an alarmingly sudden manner; Jagjeevan Ram and Karpoori Thakurji ki Jai. Who are they ? Does it matter ?

Naveen Patnaik of Orissa, suddenly feels that it's high time his father Biju Patnaik is awarded the Bharat Ratna. That Tamil Nadu will surge forward with a nomination request for Karunanidhi is one of my few correct predictions. And I hear, that NT Rama Rao's daughter, who is, what else, a MP or a minister in Delhi, feels that her father is actually a "gem" of a choice for the Ratna Award.

What candidates ! What amazing choices ! And none of the above, can claim to be universally , nay, nationally , without reservation (was that a pun?) , admired .

Quiz the citizenry, and you get the real answers.

Why not Kumble, who came through in flying colours, when he handled the monkey business in Sydney. Dignified, serious, to the point, and very firm, he united the team as never before. His interviews and declarations would put a diplomat to shame. He allowed every Indian to hold the head high, and never mind who won the match. Applause came from across a cross section of cricketing and non cricketing folks. The spinner excelled as a statesman, and never mind those 600 wickets. Everyone admires him, with or without the cricket.

Why not Baba Amte, who singlemindedly brought dignity, self respect and success to those affected with leprosy, and created a haven, nay heaven for them at Anandvan, toiling away through an entire life, lately almost bedridden, without expecting any fruits of his labour, in the highest spiritual tradition ?

Why not Ratan Tata, the doyen of industrial India, who used available excellent Indian technical expertise to come up with a one lakh car, so that those forced to travel "quadruple seat", with children hanging on for dear life between parents on a single motorcycle, could have a safer option? (When his uncle the great JRD was nominated for the award, he(JRD) is reported to have wondered how he fitted in, as he was neither a politician , nor yet dead. .....)

Maybe the biggest hint has come from the Rt Hon. Gordon Brown Esq., Prime Minsiter of Great Britain.

Speaking at a function during his recently concluded official visit, he mentioned Sachin Tendulkar as a likely candiddate for a British Knighthood.

I suppose, while Mumbaicha Mulga, Master Blaster, Little Master, Khel Ratna, are all names dear to Sachin's heart, one more Ratna Award would be greatly appreciated, an accepted with great humility, maybe with a longish look at someone Up There , in the sky, who he always look up to.

About the Brtish Knighthood, all we can say, is , "Agobai, ata Sir Sachin ka ? Hmm."

A non-cricketing sociological take on the monkey business in Sydney

Two grown men calling each other names. What is worse, instead of slugging it out right there, mentally or physically, they run to the umpires. Whats still worse, the umpires, instead of decreeing a punishment to both, right there, simply run up to their own umpire, whose behaviour often reminds me, of that of the Lok Sabha speaker (when members physically intimidate each other with chairs, microphones etc) , which one inadvertently sees on TV while surfing. He is seen to be doing something, but in reality nothing constructive happens.

There is something to be said in favour of making people hold their ears and do sit ups, make folks stand in a corner for hours, be denied lunch, and write 10,000 lines saying "I will not abuse " etc.

Someone needs to do a sociology study related to cricket.

Why do Australians sledge so much ?

Is it a defense mechanism for something, despite their acknowledged superiority in various facets of the game ?

Why does Symmonds, the only non-white member of the team smear his face day in and day out with a white sunscreen, despite having, genetically, more melanin in his skin giving him better protection, than , say, Ponting ,Gichrist, Clark et al, who don't use so much, but can still give Kareena Kapoor stiff competition in the Safedi Complexion Sweepstakes ? They say the sunscreen company sponsors him, and money is the consideration.

Does it have to do with a self perception of being "different" , caused maybe, by some childhood experience , of being different in a white world ? Does this also explain the use of bullying tactics in the field, where actually the bat and ball should suffice ? Does it explain why a friendly pat of the bat of Brett Lee's back by Harbhajan, caused ONLY Symmonds to "dutifully" rush in to interfere, despite the fact that Lee wasn't complaining ? Does Symmonds have to try to be more equal than others ?

Harbhajan may have called him a monkey or even something worse. Actually, any word would have been OK with the Australians. The purpose was to create a situation where he wouldn't play further.

They say power corrupts. Yes, it first corrupts the mind.

In any society, when someone has been at the top for a long time, and there is a perceived challenge from someone else, two things can happen. One, you do your best, stretching your physical and mental limits, then sit back and accept what happens . The other way, is to manipulate things so that your challenger is seen in a bad light, you build more on that, and achieve success by hook or by crook, mostly by crook.

What path you choose to follow depends on who is at the top. Watch the body language of Ponting and his boys, on the video visual where he tells the umpire that Clark took Ganguly's catch. The leader of the pack , his finger up, is dictating stuff; the expressions on the faces of the juniors standing behind, display their amazement at the blatant capitulation on the umpire's part in response to Ponting's so called bravado. When the man at the top is a thief, the others get lessons in stealing.

Happens all the time. In life as well as in politics, and , well, cricket.

Getting to play a test/ODI match is fine. But you are supposed to have made the grade when the entire opposition crouches around you on the pitch mouthing unprintable abuse. You learn to ignore. You also learn the abuse.

Sometimes you answer with a six-run hit, or four-letter word.

Time was when one did sports for exercise, entertainment, as an excuse for not studying, and sometimes, because you had aptitude for it. You played till you ran out of perspiration. So did your friends. There were scrapes, scraps , a bit of fisticuffs, swallowed tears and perceived insults; but ten years down the line, you always looked back fondly on those days, as you met up to have a drink with the guy who actually kicked you on your backside in the final round .

Reactions have been diverse.

The chief referee, Proctor, who accuses Harbhajan, says he knows about racism, since he hails from South Africa. That's like Musharraf saying he knows about democracy.

The ICC Chairman, Speed, would shine in another avatar as an Indian politician, as he redefines the reasons behind the removal of umpires; "they had a bad game ..." !

But the best has come from Michael Holding. He called the whole thing rubbish, and said something, that I have been wanting to say for a LONG time : that monkeys are our ancestors, everyone, regardless of color has descended from them, and calling that racial, is rubbish.

Actually, folks have a doubt whether Harbhajan said anything remotely connected with monkeys.

Some said he cursed Symmonds, in "accepted" Punjabi style, in words that had something to do with Maa.

Others are convinced that, playing his valiant knock of 63 against great odds, Harbhajan was singing a prayer he learnt in school that went "man ki shakti, Tan ki shakti, de Bhagawan...", and Symmonds, only heard the beginning. (What a pity. If Hayden had heard the whole song, he would have shaken Bhajji's hand in admiration.)

Still others claim that Harbhajan was tired and tried to psyche himself up with virtual energy, by singing "Man ki shakti, Bournevita!" as he flitted around between the stumps, and Symmonds hear the first part....

The new analysis of the rhesus monkey genome, conducted by an international consortium (Baylor College of Medicine's Human Genome Sequencing Center in Houston), of more than 170 scientists, reveals that humans and the monkeys share about 93 percent of their DNA. By comparison, humans and chimpanzees share about 98 to 99 percent of their DNA.

While monkeys across the world are probably disgusted with the going ons in their name, by humans who should know better, maybe its time for someone in Bollywood to make a song about chimpanzees ?

And commission Brett Lee, who is so good with his guitar, to sing it ?

The unbearable delight of being Sachin.....

No one I know is universally loved. Give me a person, and i will show you someone who cant bear the sight of his face, the sound of his voice, his batting stance, his fielding gaffes, his wasteful bowling or whatever is anatomically or otherwise disturbing.

Watch cricket audiences. In the living room, public halls, roadsides, and stadiums.

The Indian people have amazingly unexplainably strong opinions about the team. Fairly strong and postive, and sometimes equally strong and negative. A hand banged on the head seeing someone brought in to bowl; a refusal to sit and watch thoughtlessly aggressive bowling, lacking finesse and cunning, advice to the captain playing 1000 miles away, reserved opinions about some controversial players, however great...

And in all this, there is one person, who, if you think about it, is , to put it simply, universally loved.

And it is very very clear that this guy is unique.

Idle chatter in the dressing room dies out as he takes his stance. People doing multitasking in front of the TV, go into single task/watching mode as if not to distract the batsmen. Mothers in kitchens, about to roll the 15th phulka, turn down the flame, and appear in the doorway, wiping hands on their palloos, sure that they are going to want to applaud; little folks, pretending to do homework in the next room, defiantly suddenly appear in the living room for undefined reasons, and their father pretends not to notice. Bus conductors delay giving change as some guy in a heavily packed bus, gives the general public an update, and even those, with partial hearing thanks to aging, make the great effort to turn a shaking neck, sometimes in a collar, a toothless indulgent smile indicating their great interest in hearing the latest about the exploits of this wonderful"boy"....

Several hearts miss beats as he , with middle age on the horizon, takes his time deciding how to despatch which ball.

He misses something, and the collective tsk-tsk implies that they understand, and the nation is convinced it is a wide or a no ball.

A matter-of-fact lbw appeal against him, irrespective of the decibel level, has in recent times, probably made some umpires marked men in the eyes of the nation. Big grown men talk about "Khota out" , and shake their heads in the same way they would when they hear of some massive crime being committed somewhere.

An entire country telepathically makes an effort willing a third umpire to declare him not-out.

An angry nation focussing its eyeballs on the errant bowler.

Statisticians get busy trying to figure out which new record he is about to break.

Every single time the man has gone out to bat, everyone expects him to reach 3 digits and then some. Every time he strikes, despatching balls to the ropes with a flourish, the stadium goes into brownian motion , as if jumping up and down saying "we told you so!"; and every single time he has missed that by a whisper, no matter how thick, the audience goes ominiously silent. 50,000 people, feeling for him, wishing things were'nt so, standing forelornly in support of the amazing talent of one man.

Entire stadiums asymptotically quieten down to a whisper , as he looks at the umpire, glances at his partner at the other end, and starts the trudge back to the stadium.

Not just talent, but his entire way of conducting himself.

He lives in the thick of Bollywood, In the same building as Aishwarya Rai did . She probably considered herself lucky.

One never heard of him, even when he was younger, performing at discos and stuff in the company of the opposite sex, or traipsing in and out of fancy places at unearthly hours, with haircuts and companions that changed monthly in length and colour. Which is not to say that he never had his wild days. He probably did. We just never heard.

Older and bigger masters, still call him Little master, only the operative word is now "master". When unduly and greatly incised about a decision, he will simply look at the umpire, never glare in defiance, and then he will walk back , determinedly to the pavillion, trying to think what he needs to do to avoid such a situation again.

Give him the ball, and you can actually see the twinkle in his eye, and something ticking in his brain, as he thinks about how to fool the batsmen into thinking that the ball is something its not going to be.

A wicket is rewarded with a face crinkled with child like glee, and a pumping of fists, which every small child of India interprets a way of saying "pakad liya !" No running around with bird like postures, or walking down the pitch with threatening faces saying "nikal ja" ....its plain and simple.

In a world where folks in the slips allow their reaction times to slip, by virtue of their reputations with the bat, he fields and runs deep, and when he has participated in catching out a legend who is in his last match, the little master runs in all the way to the pitch to shake his hand, one great man applauding another. Steve Waugh would know about that.

And he has been missing centuries lately.

He moves on. Thats life.

And while folks in Australia who should know better, start all this talk about footwork , and preparing game plans for him, he will probably do what is little son advised him.

Hit a massive six when on 94.....

Jubilees of the bovine kind

(Cows of IIT grazing outside CSE dept
before KRESIT happened)

Inhabiting a verdant green landscape for most of your working life changes the colour of the glasses through which you view life. All through one's working life one has interacted with the bovine population, like rest of Mumbai interacts with the four wheeler variety, three wheeler variety, and sometimes the two legged variety.

Back in the middle seventies, we were not yet a "brand". There were no real "show" standards. Twenty five years of sweaty summers, heavy monsoons, combined with vague maintenance, had converted the corridors to a dripping labyrinth, where students with uncombed hair, mismatched "hawai" chappals, missed breakfasts, forgotten umbrellas, and unsubmitted assignments, hurried , sometimes late for classes; more so, as they encountered an angry buffalo, head down, horns pointed straight ahead, sauntering towards them with single minded dedication.

I mean, constantly chewing the cud amidst the greenery, traipsing long distances, to meet up with other buffaloes and cows , exchanging notes about pesky troublesome dogs, and newly cleared , now unavailable, green patches on campus, can get a trifle boring.

If you are of the bovine kind, that is.

Suddenly folks started noticing us. Visitors increased. Every now and then we would see the advent of a high tech anti cow/buffalo device. We have several gates , which I suspect , exist for the sole purpose of closing at odd times, so people can jump over them. Several such gates , at a non trivial cost were modified with, what I was told is a Buffalo deterrent grill. A metal grill fixed on the road , in which the buffalo was supposed to get stuck as it placed its hoof on it. I am not sure whether they have standards for buffaloes. Obviously , a high tech institute has high tech buffaloes with super high-tech feet. One could see several of them routinely strolling over the grill, chewing to themselves, flicking tails at imaginary flies, as they sauntered towards newer department buildings, wondering how long they could outwit the technologists.

Then watchmen were given terribly low tech implements called lathis, and asked to chase errant buffaloes who dared to appear in the path of a "learned" population. The corridor was a favourite arena for driving them out. But I also remember the time, in the middle seventies, when the keepers of our security, stood in polished splendour, as an Ambassador car drove through the corridor from Chemical Engg to Central Library, carrying some Russian dignitaries, who probably could not wait to see the Russian mainframe we were using them. Students , employees and cows, often the target of shoo-ing security, stood by in stunned , open mouthed disgust.

Then there was the time, when a huge herd of buffaloes and cows, had just about had it, wandering for greens and running from lathis, and just sat down , in the middle of the road that runs from the main gate, and turns at the guest house. It was very impressive, cows coming home at dusk, and resting their tired bodies, fairly invisible in the frequently failing electric road lights, as two legged and two-wheeler types dodged around them. It was almost as if they were having a meeting.

Well, that's what happens when they inhabit an academic institute. Mindsets change.

No amount of lathi based cajoling worked, giving a well deserved victory to the original inhabitants of the campus.

Life has become tough since then. Leopards have threatened their space. The bovine society is alarmed over the attacks on its members in the black of the night. Like they heard on TV as they grazed in the semidarkness outside some flats at Hillside, crime in Mumbai has increased. A sign of the times.

So it was with great wonder that i noticed this cool November morning, around sunrise, a hefty buffalo, sitting is solitary splendour in the well appointed, landscaped grounds of the Kanwal Rekhi School of IT, nonchalantly chewing away, with nary a look at the several security types, trying to make it get up and leave. A great image opportunity after 50 years of combat between the two legged and four legged types. And the location was perfect. High Tech, meets low-take.

A raised lathi, and a tentative abusive command elicited a disdainful sneeze, a dismissive look from heavily lidded eyes, a flick of the tail at a pesky fly, and the animal continued its rumination, probably contemplating ,on the next paper it would publish in the Bovine Annals of Technology titled, "Making it to the golden jubilee : reminences of the bovine kind......."

management by obstruction

No, that is not the title of the latest book by Peter F. Drucker or C. K. Pralhad.

Its my realization of a new theory after observing things around me.

Mr Drucker hit the nail on the head when he said things like , "“So much of what we call management consists in making it difficult for people to work”, or "Management by objectives works if you first think through your objectives. Ninety percent of the time you haven't".

Accompanying an elderly illiterate pensioner to open a bank account in one of India's nationalized banks, in a decently big city, in bank premises studded with LCD screens, banners, snaking queues of people at counters manned by folks preening about passwords, I was aghast to hear that the elderly gent was supposed to have PAN card before he could appear as a record in their database. The attitude of the lady sitting under a sign saying "may I help you", was anything but. Here was a guy, whose pension did not suffice even for his monthly groceries, and he walked huge distances to save on transportation. And he is supposed to have a PAN card, which, until then , as i understood, was a means of keeping track of tax payers.

I was given the impression that even if the lady , as a special favour , entered our data, the "system" would not create an account unless you had a PAN number. This was followed by a smirk, probably expecting us to be technologically disabled out of fear of what Intel did Inside. The lady was unaware of write rights, screen access rights, and the fact that someone above her could possibly handle a non-PAN case easily . In fact banks have a set procedure for such non-PAN cases, with or without computers. That we went to another bank,, and got the needful done , is another matter.

But it then occurred to me that this was a way for the bank lady to manage her workload. OBSTRUCT people. Create fewer newer accounts. Particularly if it looked like their balance was likely to barely hit 4 digits at the end of the month. Weed out such people. Manage by obstructing undesirables.

Police supervising traffic out on the dug up roads outside IIT also "manage by obstructing". Standing on the side of the road, ever since a cop standing on the divider was hit and injured by a speeding vehicle, they get fatigued waving their arms. Traffic gets regulated by local residents trying to cross the road in one piece. The most dangerous are the easily maneuverable two wheelers. The cops specialise in "obstructing" two wheelers, which are then gently waved to one side, and asked to show their "particulars". Most times some other paper things also change hands. I have stood , aghast, 4 feet away and watched, mouth open, only to get a diesel fume blast in my face from a passing truck. Serves me right, I suppose. Who am I to "obstruct" these going ons. The cops continue to "manage by obstruction". Reduces the two wheeler congestion. Yes. Of course.

This was absolutely brought home to me, when i visited the rationing office for a modification to my ration card. After peering through various windows suffering from fading signage, and getting appropriate entries made here and there, i was asked to go round the back and present the stuff to someone for their exquisite illegible signature, which completed the process.

At a three feet wide door above 3 broken cement steps (without a landing , naturally, to obstruct folks from standing there ), there loomed an officer of the law. He stood with one foot down and one foot stretched out in front, resting on the other side of the door, in the finest demonstration of "obstruction" I had ever seen.

"Yes ?" a query and a bored look.

"I need a signature from XYZ" followed by a look at the "obstructed" door.

I was kind of debating whether to hurl myself over the "hurdles" in the finest P T Usha tradition, or bend and sneak in .

An elderly gent inside took the decision away from me. He cleared his throat. The "obstruction" was lowered. I sailed in while the officer of the law pretended he wasn't there in the first place.

One may "manage by obstruction". Ever heard of "management by dithering of laryngeal muscles" ?

Thinking out of the b-b-b-box......

Management gurus chortling with glee seeing everyone and every one's friend talking about "thinking out of the box" , obviously never thought of two things .

1. Which box, and of what size.

2. Who is in the box ad who is doing the thinking.

3. How the Mumbai Metropolitan Regional Development Authority, hitherto referred to as MMRDA, would excel at using this concept in unusual ways.

Living in IIT Powai, it's almost like living in a park.

That is, if you forget, having to dodge , disdainfully sneezing cows and bulls, who break into a Pavlovian Gallop in reaction to a two wheeler loudly changing gears in their vicinity, or, monkey families, in defiance of "hum do hamare do" , blithely scampering across trees and building gates, with a greedy eye on a bag of groceries being carried by a stupid human. Pythons and snakes are passe, and these days they spend more time avoiding Indica's and Honda's that seem to have invaded the campus

The main arterial road outside IIT, that connects west to he east is being "redeveloped" and one of the first things they did was to immediately raze to the ground the various convenience shops across the road, in the interests of road widening. The MMRDA, while regretting the "inconvenience", likes to put up boards saying "Please bare with us" with a fine disregard for spelling, and a great tendency for pun, or maybe they think its fun.

I am convinced that the MMRDA , in cahoots with the BMC, has a secret agenda. It is called "thinking out of the box".

The only difference is that those in the box and those thinking are different entities.

The idea is to teach the pedestrians a lesson. They need to "know their place". And how dare they appear on the windscreen of a great man , simultaneously on the wheel and his cell phone, shivering in the air conditioned interiors of his gas guzzling contraption with tinted windows ?

The road belongs to wheels, and NOT to legs.

Why else would they dig "boxes" in the rubble, about 5 feet deep, big enough to hold a person like me, and position them , so close to the road edge, that speeding motorcycles force pedestrians into them? Believe me, slipping into such a "box" while carrying a big watermelon and 2 kg of tomatoes , is not something you wish ,even for your worst enemy.

These "boxes" have been dug every ten feet or so. No sharp edges on the box , but a smooth and fine slide into the nether world is ensured, as you step aside in a hurry to avoid an onslaught of six motorcycles, who have a fetish for overtaking from the left. Helmets are supposed to be for safety. Actually, they are for hiding the drivers face, so you cannot remember them when you complain to the police. One less case to handle. Load reduction for the police. More time for imposing fines. A win-win situation for everyone, except me.

I am sitting in the box, and they think outside it.......:-)

Time was when traffic signals outside schools had some importance. Children, accompanied by retired grandparents and parents crossed the road in large numbers at given times.

That was when the Sports Authority of India (SAI) and the Mumbai Police decided to "think out of the box". All the boxes for trespassing pedestrians were already dug. And something was needed to bring about improvement in the track and field situation of the country.

So they fixed it so that the pedestrian crossing light would remain on, precisely for seven seconds.

Other countries have the motto of "catch them young". We catch them even old. And so, every morning , you see a gaggle of kindergaarten and primary kids, being escorted by retired grandparents, trying to sprint across a wide expanse of potholed road, trying to adjust school bags, lunch boxes, sun hats and water bottles.

The SAI needs to be applauded for thinking out of the box, in an effort at introducing sprintingand hurdles training for school children. It also reduces the number of potholes the BMC needs to fill, since we need to have natural hurdles. The Mumbai Police have obliged with creative road dividers, all in concrete.

And woe betide anyone who is being taken in an ambulance , anywhere. You need to get in line, even to die.

Maybe, if the road dividers were temporary , they could be shifted, to allow discretionary priority travel for the ambulance. But that is more work for the already burdened police. So you "think out of the box" when BMC suggests concrete road-dividers, and keep silent.

So many folks benefit. The police, the BMC, and the contractor they choose who will magically reappear a few months later to break down the same road divider, as some one with a secret agenda, a not so secret Z-class security, blaring sirens, red lights and open ambitions needs to pass by in a hurry......

There is, on this main arterial road, a Gurudwara, a Masjid and a Mandir. No amount of boxes and thinking out of them appears to have lead to a solution regarding their relocation. They stand in solitary isolation amongst ruins of their old neighbouring shops. No one DARES think about them , either out of the box, or inside it. A box implies boundary conditions. And here , there are no boundary conditions. Just conditions.

In the meanwhile, I have emerged, bloody but unbowed, watermelons, tomatoes and all, from the BOX, after thinking inside the box, about life outside the box.

I have bought a whistle. Rs 8/- only. It's readily accessible in an open compartment of my purse.

When in danger of being relegated to inside the box, the sheer moving pedestrian population allows me to freely give a piercing whistle that temporarily brings the traffic near me to a confused stop. Some startled glances (others), some shrugging of shoulders(mine), and we get to avoid the MMRDA boxes and move on.

Crossing the road is even better. Crowds have never been so welcome before. As you shuffle across with the masses, you take a fake, troubled look in the opposite direction from the police, and blow the whistle . People walking along don't bother you. One police thinks the other has blown the whistle for some purpose. By the time he figures it was a non police whistle, you get your additional ten seconds right there.

I have just decided. While I don't like the BOX, I will stick to the THINKNG outside the BOX.

And I am grateful to MMRDA, BMC, SIA and our own Police for introducing me to the two.

Learning from the blues and yellows

Some men in blue. Some others in yellow. Two of the yellow guys hold sticks in their hands. The "blues" circle around at various distances, which keep waxing and waning, and one of the blues always needs to do great deal of running, moving his arms and twisting of his wrist, on the way to chucking a ball at the yellows.

Then there are some teacher types, who behave like school monitors on the field. Like we did in school, they report names. We wrote them on a piece of paper and showed them to the teacher. They talk to the head teacher sitting far away, who secretly observes everything. Almost. Sometimes he even lip-reads.

Every time one of the yellows is able to whip the ball into the stands, there is a roar. Sometimes , when the places are reversed and the blues are with the sticks, the roar is even louder.

"Aai, why does the man crouching behind the 3 sticks talk so much ?"

"I don't know, son. Must be telling the stick holder to pay attention to the ball thrower in front of him. Like your teacher asks you to pay attention to what's being written on the blackboard in class, in front of you. And never mind the constant poking in the back from the student sitting behind you..."

"Aai, why does the ball thrower look in anger at the stick wielder ? The stick did not even touch the ball as it flew past. Wait, this time it did, and the fellow behind the three sticks caught it. I think the stick man did not like it at all ..."

" That's life, son. You learn to face the good and the bad in life."

"Aai, why did the ball thrower act like he was giving a "shaap" to the stick holder ? Why did he sit and bang his fists on the ground in front of the stick holder ? And why does the stick holder, stare and holler some stuff back ?"

"Son, sport is never like this. War and fighting is.

The child's eyes gleam. Its amazing, but the yellows and blues are behaving just like they do in his school in the recess, when games are played under pressure, amidst crowds of other children, an impending buzzer signifying end of available time, and everyone wanting a chance to fling the ball at someone else.

The child learns something more. The big boys in the yellow, particularly a fellow with Lord Krishna type hair, and white lipstick a la Dracula, seems to be most active. He snarls and takes verbal swipes at the younger boys. Sometimes he and his friends make fun of the older blues too.

But like the senior boys at school, the older ones get away with ignoring the yellows silently.

"Aai, why don't they complain to their teachers ? Maybe she will make them kneel outside the big white circle near the crowds of people. Maybe she will keep them inside the class in the recess and not allow them to play; maybe they will be forced to miss lunch. Maybe she will ask them to write a hundred times ,"I shall not swear ;I shall not swear....."...."

"Son, one goes to school to learn, and learn well. How well you do is judged by not just your final exams, but how you did throughout the school year. School also teaches you how to behave. With those you like and even those that you don't. You need to know why you are at school, and how priviledged you are."

"Unfortunately, son, the blues and yellows have forgotten that this is only a game."

"Aai, that's actually what our sports teacher told us ! Play true, play well, play like sportsmen, and play like team. Open your mouth if you have something to contribute. And let your sticks and ball do the talking.

"So true, son. Unfortunately , today, its like a fellow from your class, cheesed off at not being given his due "bhav", going crying to the teacher saying , "they called me a monkey!". Not done in sports. At the end of the day, there is another life in another place. And another game the next day.

"But Aai, I saw the blues teacher and the blues sports director having an argument yesterday. Do you think the yellows have arguments and fights too?"

"I am sure they do, son. But in their own houses. And normally, only one man speaks and decides. Unfortunately, amongst both blues and yellows, there are too many people talking, too many people carrying on about themselves, thinking that talking is "power"...

"Son, people like you notice these things and get the wrong ideas. Don't for a moment think, that giving a smart answer back to someone, or making a speech , works. It doesn't."

"But Aai,there are some blues who do not talk to much . Whenever they get angry, they take a deep breath, remember what their teachers taught them, and just play their sticks correctly. If one of the yellows stares at them , they just tap their sticks on the ground, , play an imaginary stroke in the air and shrug it off."

"Son. Learn from this. Most of the time, it happens that the yellows hear perfectly what you actually did NOT say...... "

Encounters of the Touchable Kind

 I was travelling for some work in the morning crushing rush hour in Mumbai's Central Railway. Typically , no place to stand, forget sit. I was squeezed in, in a weird position somewhere near the door to one side, and even if I wanted to scratch my forehead, I was probably going to injure 3-4 people with my elbow.

It is a truth , at least acknowledged in Mumbai, that even if there is absolutely no space in a train, sheer and blatant willpower combined with a not so gentle shove creates, along with several unpleasant things, some space.

Someone wanted to get off at the next station, and typically requested me to try and make some space for them to advance. I sort of moved maybe 1/100th of a centimetre to the right, only to sense that I had stepped on some one's 1-cm-squared portion of a hand or foot, The doubt arose because this person was sitting right in the doorway , and human anatomy combined with the assorted passenger height distribution made it impossible to see who was where.

What followed was a thump of a wrist on my ankle, along with some high decibel abuse in an unnaturally bass voice completely out of sync with the fact that this was a second class ladies compartment. I got about full three minutes of abuse in a completely alien language, possibly with special choice expletives thrown in, cursing me and probably my future five or six generations to some untold bad tidings. This was accomplished by a tentative waving of hands , and an animated shaking viscera, while maintaining precarious balance in the doorway, as the ever expanding crowd in the central passage of the compartment ensured that involuntary exits from the doorway were entirely in the realm of the possible.

With some previous practice,in the handling of folks causing trouble in local trains, and oblivious to everyone else, I asked this person to suggest how people could get off at stations, unless we moved. Wasn't it clear that some tolerance was required, and no one was fond of stepping on other folks limbs as a hobby? I got an answer back, in some language I didn't understand, with further wild gesticulation, jutting out of chins, and a distinct show of attitude.

Nobody paid much attention. These things happen several times every half hour. Some non-believers in non-violence even get into action, which is a distinctly dangerous activity given the location and the crowd. By and by , communication between me and this person, kind of exponentially decreased, everyone got a bored look on their faces, possibly implying what else was to be expected given folks like "us".....

The train was a minute away from reaching the half way junction Dadar. Probably the world's only example of how travellers literally "pour" out of compartments and "attack" compartment entrances to climb in , in a way that makes you wonder if the capacity of the compartment is infinite.

Anyway, here I was , trying to advance to the door, along with several others. Working young girls, winding their hair curls just so, hoisting their bags with their lunch, water bottles and all. Mothers with children, clutching school bags, that sometimes , give rough-and-tough anti-scoliosis treatment at the wrong age to young vertebrae. Vegetable seller ladies with their supreme disdain for faltu fashion, sarees firmly tucked in, huge baskets, looming over everyone, and two such ladies having a loud conversation across several passengers, on how someone was in trouble for not "paying up" someone. A chikoo vendor lady, trying to transport, with supreme confidence, hitherto never noticed in even our cricket team, several kilos of chikoos, unsmashed , from Thane to Dadar.

Normally folks sitting in the door get up , way before the train glides into the station, to avoid being trampled to death by the masses. I suddenly noticed my aforementioned "adversary", trying to get up, unsuccessful at putting weight on the hands , and unable to get a grip on something firm to lever ones self up. Without any thought and as if in reflex action, I extended my hand, which was gripped by a strong, almost masculine hand. Half a minute later this figure in a saree loomed up in the doorway, still holding my hand. Then it was let go.

Why ?

A grandly made-up face wreathed in grateful smiles, one hand was waved about my face (the other was clutching the entrance rod for dear life) , and this person touched both fists to the sides of the head, all the while again saying something , again, in a language I didn't understand. With lateral nodding of a slim neck, bedecked with false jewellery, heavy makeup, and a saree pallu carelessly thrown over the left shoulder, I was the recipient of smiles, blessings, good wishes , for god knows what life events,

A complete transformation from an "enemy" to a friend. For unexpectedly helping.

The person sitting in the doorway was a hermaphrodite, known in Mumbai local parlance as a hijda or , chchakka. An example of nature gone wrong during some process, but consequently, a life, completely changed for ever.

The reaction for inadvertently stepping on toes was an understandable enhancement over an already seething anger , against constant facing up to derision
from the general populace. An in-you-face answer to a population, (that shirks and shies away, treating these folks as untouchables), revelling in their own goodluck at being born completely of a single sex.

The helping hand was a purely involuntary affair. In the chock-a-block sardine like packing of humans in the compartment, thinking never occurred to me. Someone obviously needed help. Maybe there was a muscle condition or problem. Maybe a fatigue problem. Who knows. But we were taught always to go in there and help, and not worry over who it was ,how sick, how different, and how angry. Discrimination on the basis of caste.religion, sex, or age , by us , would have , always ensured gross parental non-approval. My parents were no more, but my reaction was almost automatic.

We got off at Dadar. Flowed out of the compartment is more like it. This person, still muttering something, which I hope were good wishes, got off, smiled at me and turned to wait for friends emerging from other compartments. I got several looks from folks who thought all this was too much. Some people just went shaking their heads, trying to ensure nil bodily contact with my friend as everyone pushed everyone else to reach the bottom of the stairs leading to the over bridge.

I waited , adjusted my dupatta, checked my purse to see if everything was in place. (You never know who has been active with single minded devotion to purses, in the exiting crowd). Hiked my bag over my shoulder. The density on the stairs was reducing and it was time to get going. As I angled myself to tackle the eerily sloped long ramp to the over bridge, I glanced over to my right. My friend was in the midst of more friends. Talking nineteen to the dozen in the same language in which I had been first cursed roundly and then blessed, even more roundly. A shake of the hip, a flip of the paloo, a wee thrusting out of the abdomen, and they were on their way.

I waved and the entire lot waved back at me. I felt good. I hope they felt good. The only folks who didn't know what to feel, were those watching us from the platform, still debating whether to display their sense of disgust, incomprehension, or wonder at what the world was coming too.

The Father of the Nation was probably chuckling to himself somewhere UP There.

60 years and these folks still have not learnt a thing ?

The super 5's.

Those in the sixth decade of their life in India might fondly look back on the sedate , tolerant pace of life in their childhood. Television had not yet made life,per se, a function of time, where you behaved like a statue, and stayed motionless, when india were 8 down, Sachin and Harbhajan batting , with 3 balls remaining and and 5 runs needed to win.

In those days, you basically had your nose to the grindstone studies-wise, and occasional bouts of disobedience tended to make you quietly switch on Vizzy's commentary of some cricket match, which you surreptiously listened to, as your mother explained to the neighbours how you were busy studying for the prelims.

The skies did not fall if you lost, and even if you won, at the end of the day, the tired cricketers probably got back into a train at Churchgate station and rode home, standing inthe compartment door, cursing umpire so-and-so in their tired minds, worrying about getting back to office the next day. No motorcycles, cars, huge cheques, but just a trophy.

Everything had a natural pace, with a noticeable lack of desperation.

Television taught the subsequent generations to expect more and more, faster and faster. A guy bowling at 130 miles per hour could smirk via-a-vis someone excelling at 129.8 miles per hour. One learnt how to be dissatisfied or exult for the most insignificant reasons. Everyone wanted more.

At the end of the day, the bandwidth of our minds was fixed, and so our attention spans decreased. And there was a great minimization, of what we did and what entertained us.

The days of "do it now" and "do it fast" had arrived.....

Today, 5 day testmatches have degenerated into one day internationals. Now that we have had enough of those, the 20-20's are upon us. And lets not even think about income generation, audiences , cricket boards, avarice, profits, politics etc etc

Switch to what would happen in 2020.

The year , that is.

Coming up, the Super 5's.

Each side gets to bowl 5 overs. No one can bowl more than 1 over.

There is no LBW, but there is HOW, otherwise called Hip Obliterating Wicket. A batsman trying to face a possibly high ball by twisting to a side and presenting a hip, not only gets hurt badly, but he will be docked one run. Shouting HOW'zzat will now take on a new meaning. Anyone whose run count goes negative must go back to the pavillion. And so you need to score nicely before trying such acrobatics.

There will be beepers set into the ground, where the bowler is supposed not to over step his mark. Every 2 beeps, and the bowler will bowl the next ball with his alternate hand; a right hander will bowl the "punish" ball with the left and vice versa.

There will be special circuitry incorporated in the balls and the bats, so that everytime the bat and the ball touch/snick/scrape, there will be visible sparks, enabling erring umpires to make decent decisions , and never mind the singing, hooting, waving audience. Anything hitting the pads will not even raise a whimper.

The third unpire sitting in comfort inside the pavillion, will hear an almighty clang in his ears corresponding to the spark, so as to wake him up from an English or possibly Soth African, Indian, Pakistani or West Indian stupor.

Beginning with the first over , all fielders will be within a radius of 10 yards. Every consecutive over they will move 10 yards further away . This will introduce a new concept of "delicate wristy batting" which would lead to something similar to "placed" shuttles in badminton, where guile and not power is the requirement.

There will be NO Duckworth Lewis calculations. The algorithm in use will be the latest Abhyankar Gokhale rule, which takes into account monsoon wind speeds, greyness of clouds, aeroplanes flying overhead, and , finally, certain sweet tasting items being placed strategically on the pitch.

Microphones placed near the batsmen will be automatically connected to an automatic translation system similar to the United Nations, so the quality of on-pitch "chirping" can be monitored, irrespective of the language and dialect used. This information will , again, be fed to the third umpire, and will also serve to keep him wide awake.

The third umpire has been made significant in the scheme of things, after a West Indies umpire functioning as one was found nodding off to sleep, because the ground umpires refused to refer anything to him. Rumor has it that his phone was always busy.

In case of a tie after 5 overs each, each side would nominate a batsmen who would face 3 balls blindfolded. The batsmen to make the most ball connections would win for his side.

In case the tie still existed after this, each side would then nominate a bowler to bowl blindfolded, to sighted batsmen. The side to connect most balls would win.

In case this again proved equal, as per the latest ICC rules, both the teams would exit the championship.

Microsft and Intel are in the race to design the chips to be installed in the sparking bats and balls. There is an ongoing litigation over whose logo the players should wear, and Mr L. Yadav, president emeritus of the ICC, has suggested a compromise in the form of a logo saying "Doodh" , as a fashionable version of the word "Dude".....

An additional point of worry has been introduced due to the advent of some newer cricket playing nations like China, Bulgaria, Albania, Brunei, Russia, and Iceland. The influx of fake circuitry and rogue softwares cannot be denied, and the BCCI has recently met where Mrs Chakde Dhoni-Sehwag , the chairperson, appointed the cricket software firm of Kumble & Dravid to investigate things........

In the meanwhile, great celebrations were the order of the day in Bandra ,Mumbai, where youngsters Arjun Tendulkar and Samit Dravid were being felicitated for their grand success in the singles and doubles events in the recently concluded US open Tennis Championships.....

And Sachin Tendulkar, out for a walk at the Promenade after the felicitations, looked up at the sky, almost lifted his hand up as if he were carrying a bat , then thought otherwise, smiled to himself , shook his head and carried on....