It had to happen in Paris

Roger Federer won at Paris because he wasn't playing Rafael Nadal. Entirely possible. And entirely academic.
There is a reason why sport is above its players because much like life it rewards and it levels and it betrays.
I think what we saw at Roland Garros was the triumph of the human spirit. Here is a great champion who was made to look ordinary on its unforgiving clay for years. Nadal had opened the doors -- Roger was human and fallible -- the others stepped in. But Federer never gave up. Unlike another great champion Pete Sampras, he didn't belittle the surface or ingore it just because he couldn't win on it. He slaved like a mere human and he won. He may never beat Nadal in a Grand Slam but he will never give up. That's champion stuff and it would be a great quality for his younger rival to emulate in a Federer-less future.
And how romantic it had to happen in Paris.

Uncle George's house and other stories

Uncle George's house during Christmas. The bejewelled Christmas tree, the sparkling star, carols, Carol, red red wine and the smell of freshly baked cake.
When I was six, I wanted to be a good Christian. Good was optional.
Amitabh Bachchan in Deewar. Smouldering anger and super cool all at once.
How I wanted to be Amitabh Bachchan. How I wanted to dangle a beedi from the corner of my lips when I grew up.
Stanley Motor Service from Panambur to Hampankatta in the heart of Mangalore in 20 minutes flat. The fastest, meanest, unsafest bus in town.
Oh how I wanted to be a bus driver ... sigh.
There is grey in my goatee now ... miles to go before I sleep.

Go Aussie

In a land far far away big brave sons of the soil are defending their turf by beating up visiting Indian students senseless. Brave no?

Learning to ride

Summer holidays. I am learning to ride a bicycle. It's been raining, the earth is squishy under the wheels. I can smell the Eucalyptus trees as they wave in choreographed unison. I can feel the wind in my hair as the bike rattles along unsurely. It's one of the great lessons of boyhood ... learning to fall and learning to get up and go again.

We invented impatience

A telecom company is peddling impatience as a virtue. Like we needed it. Ha. Impatience is our birthright. We jump up and yank our baggage before the aircraft lands, neighbour's luggage and head be damned. We honk the life out of vehicles that have had the audacity to stop at traffic signals. We effortlessly step on toes, shoes and even heads to get ahead in a queue. We can't be bothered sticking to the straight and long road, we bribe our way through short cuts. No sir, don't sell us impatience, we invented it.

Child of a lesser God

Durga Das works the tables at the plush Emirates transit lounge in Dubai airport. He mostly encounters human beings at their worst -- in between long hauls or waiting for delayed flights. He realises it's important for him to smile when being yelled at. It's an important weapon to have when you deal with jerks.
Durga left his village in Bihar many moons ago in pursuit of the petro dollar. He tells me he must be the richest man ever from his village. He wishes he could get a better life than to wait tables but for now the Dirhams keep the stove burning back home.
As he offers me another beer with a smile, he analyses transitional humanity to me. White people are largely polite, Arabs are indifferent and Indians are the worst classists, he declares. He is quick to point out that I am all right. Indians are the worst, he seethes, all sugar and honey with even white beggars but so rude to "lesser" Indians. I nod in empathy. Durga walks off to attend to fat white man who has spilt food all over his generous tummy. The smile is back on.

I hear the wind wail

I am not one for urban legends but it was hard to ignore this one. Over many rounds of Old Monk on a muggy Kerala night, they tell me the tale of this landed family. These regal gents who ruled the little town that I come from, bought an old Taravad (or great house) as part of a distress sale. The owners, once royalty themselves, had fallen on hard times. The house with a million memories was all they had left. They sold it for a square meal or three.
The new buyers acquired the mansion with it's sprawling teak verandahs, rosewood chests and the grief that had seeped into its pores. They say when you buy an ancient house, you buy its sorrows as well.
They tell me that an entire generation fell prey to mysterious ailments. Man after woman was laid to rest on the weeping verandah. It's been years now, the once regal mansion now rests like a fallen angel. As I poke around the sprawling grounds now unkempt and haggard, I spot the poison well they told me about. I swear I can hear the wind wail.