Sick IPL Player

The amount of attention Fake IPL Player has been getting indicates how diseased we are. We are flocking to the blog in hordes to lap up all the cheap shots he is taking at his team-mates, team owner, opponents, TV crew and just about anyone who has anything to do with the IPL. Here is a man who is bitching out his mates to the world and we are clapping our hands in glee. How sick are we, really? Perhaps, sicker than him.
Indications are that he is a really clever fake. It's not very difficult to make up stories that can't be verified. The Knight Riders are an easy target. Buchanan is not terribly popular, Ganguly is visibly upset, a celeb like Shah Rukh is always a soft target and they don't seem capable of winning anything.
Worse, he could be what he claims he is -- a disgruntled KKR player. And that would make him sore loser and a very sick man. Because for one, he is not good enough to play and for another hiding in the dark and taking pot shots at his mates is not particularly brave or sportsman like. And cricket, despite its millions, is still a noble game.
PS: I have been guilty of reading the trash he posts as well but not anymore.

Oh, you beauty

I ran into my neighbour at the hairdresser's salon last evening. I use "ran in" carefully here because he was running blind with some ghoulish white substance on his face and wafers of cucumber glued to his eyes. He is a heavy man and I am not so it was pretty easy for him to run into me. My ribs hurt.
He didn't recognise my ribs of course and it didn't help that he couldn't see through cucumber. So, I apologised and I noticed that he had some colour in his hair or what was left of it. To be technically correct, he had colour in his scalp and on some wisps that were stubbornly clinging to it.
When the cucumber was peeled off and he saw light, he also saw me. I tried not to grin or show disrespect to his beautification procedure. But it was too late, he caught my smirk the moment it left my face. "Missus is getting facial done and I had to kill some time," he mumbled through his warpaint. I couldn't nod in appreciation as the scissors were snipping dangerously around my only ears.
He must have thought me rude but rather heartless than earless methinks. When the hairdresser's assistant settled at his feet with a pedicure kit, I swear I heard him curse me.

Waiting for Sun

Rummaging through an old box, I found a weathered yellow teen rag called Sun. I dusted it and shook it and pat fell out a poster of an artiste named Prince. He was still a man and not a symbol back then. Sun oh Sun, was my escape to the wonderful world outside before they started beaming Top of the Pops into living rooms and selling Nikes in malls. Boy, how were shortchanged back then. In a mutliplex-less, VH1-less, Maruti-800ed India, one of life's biggest moments was waiting for Sun on a Sunday.

Whistling in the wind

Eyes closed to the world, lips pursed in defiance, he whistles in the wind. The mongrels laze in rapt attention. Even the flies that buzz around his rags seem to be in a trance. He is sprawled on the pavement, head resting on his worldly possession, hands and feet scabbed by life. But he whistles a happy tune. I can hear it clean and shrill over the cacaphony of the urban night. There is music in the man.

A jar of happiness, please

I push the trolley down the supermaket aisle looking for a jar marked happiness.
I am sure it's there somewhere hidden behind the soul soups, comfort foods, iPods or even the 42-inch LCD TV. Could happiness be out of stock today or do they call it something else now. The old man in the corner, mopping the floor, whistling a tune seems a good one to ask. He is resigned to his fate, whistling in appreciation, carefully wiping clean a mighty fine electronic toy that will never be his. Or perhaps he just doesn't want it.

Night flight to somewhere

Have I ever told you how much I love airports?
Ironically, I hate air travel but that's another story. I love the energy of airport terminals, it's like the world in a bite-sized helping. It's fascinating to watch people at the concourse ... you see hope, anxiety, happiness, despair, frustration and resignation. What you don't see is a pause or a full stop, you see many commas because life never stops at an airport. It's going somewhere and the seats, lights, capuccinos and bustle are just signposts on the journey.
You never feel alone at the airport because you are going somewhere like everyone else. When you are perched on that seat at the cafe, they look at you and smile because you are waiting for someone. No?

On days like today

What happened to Preeti with the braces and the lisp from junior school? Did she grow up to be heart-breaker, I wonder.
And whatever happened to Mr.Muralidhar who flunked me in math more than once. Did he turn blind and grow an extra nose like I wished him to.
Would I recognise Nirmal if I saw him cross the street? After all, we walked to school every single day when were were five. He still owes me the candies he stole from my bag.
I wonder if the little white bungalow with its sloping tiles and mango trees in the backyard still stands? I learned to walk there.
There is a piece of earth where Sunil and I buried a clutch of marbles, a top and bus ticket stubs for a rainy day. I worry that many rains may have washed them away.
There are little pieces of me that have been lost on the way. But they come back to me in flashes on days like today.