Men should drink tea slowly and show unity, with me!

Drink your tea! I receive Missus's admonishment. Again. It's a daily affair. Why would anyone admonish my speed of drinking tea? I am feeling very attacked about this. It's right from childhood that this kind of thing is happening. Ma used to sit at the dining table and bark about drinking the water immediately after dinner. Later in life, health experts pounced on me and barked that drinking water after the dinner immediately isn't great at all. Who do I believe, health experts or Ma? Now this tea business. I should be at liberty to have tea whenever I want. It's like CPM at home. Yeah, CPM. Those guys used to tell me how I shouldn't walk on the sidewalk as that's where the party affiliated hawkers association used to put up their stalls. Then, they used to tell me how I couldn't admonish their affiliated members at work. I could only write to the party and request them to look into the staff issues. No admonishing. Who do I write to about the admonishment now? Mom-in-law just guffaws at me. It's like you have spent so many years together, ab Kya!! I cannot go to the daughter. Rolling eyes. Slow shake of head. Quietness. That will be result. I am feeling very "Bangladesh" type. Last ball six type. Nearly won the game but now well played type. Like Indian Hockey team. Goes down fighting. For the whole of childhood we were subjected to "goes down fighting". It's gone into our DNA. It's why we cannot win any battle with Missus now. She's taken the tray and standing with it challenging me to finish the rest of the tea fast as she wants to clear it off right then and there. It's a duel. We are eyeballing each other. I know I will lose. There's no precedence. No man has won this duel. Even on moon we will not win. Armstrong only won by stepping on to moon. Let the first woman walk out there. Armstrong will have no arm left. I challenge. Neither there will be any strength left. I double challenge. I am going to change the adage "behind a successful man there's a woman". It will be: Behind a man there are some women who talk, bark, admonish and eyeball right from childhood to keep him straight so that the guy goes and does something useful and pertinent. Including drinking tea.

The Nazia Hassan phenomenon

Feroze Khan had derring do. He used to do things in his films that others never thought about. He cornered the kitsch Western films market like no one before, Khote Sikke, Chunaoti, Dharmatma and a few more. Then he went and did car racing across Europe with Mumtaz in tow in Apradh, a film that I liked very much, at least till when he's singing his way through the geography with Mumtaz. Not when he starts to make a living. But his biggest contribution to Hindi cinema came in 1980 and with Qurbani when he introduced Nazia Hassan to us. I mean, look at his ear for a good thing. There's a chit of a girl, a Pakistani, somewhere in London. He discovers her, offers her a song in his film. Gets her to record. Gets an independent music director Biddu just for that song (it didn't happen those days) and makes it an anthem hit across the nation. Biddu himself was a struggling musician till then doing cover versions in UK till then. It's very hot in Chandrapur and we are at the school bus stand. Anna, our trusted hair saloon meters away, put on the music early in the morning as he opened up his shutters. And I heard. Aap jaisa koi meri Zindagi mein aaye. It was instant love. The whole school bus started to talk about the song. The song itself was so easy to hum that I hummed it right through the maths, social studies and Hindi classes in the morning. Those days, we didn't see films as they released. So the romance of what could have happened in the film, with the song and with the actors stayed in stills garnered from LP VInyl covers and newspaper cinema ads. The romance with Nazia Hassan lived on. A few years later she was back with the epynomous Disco Deewane. How would we classify it? Disco it was, but slow. Even the Disco unabled with two left legs could dance to it. I was in hostel those days. And I had been invited over to our English teacher's home for lunch when she'd thoughtfully put this cassette on. Picture this, we are sitting in sofas with a plateful of rice in hand and there is Disco Deewane on the player. Only our feet can tap out the rhythm. Gawky teenagers listening to Disco Deewane solmenly. But that was the romance of Nazia. Around then, there was that other big hit from a flop film, Star. Boom Boom. Nazia, by then was making waves in her own country. And what a star she became. Tall, lissome, good looking. Even had a great looking brother, Zoheb. Yeah, well, girls in our class collected his posters. So, can vouch for that. Thank you Sayantan Mondal, you got me to remember early morning. It's a shame that we have to listen to Sufi cum Kabir cum Ghalib cum something that we cannot understand as it's being warbled by indulged singers with tinpot interludes that have only one meaning, don't listen to us, run along.

In flashbacks, truth happens!

Story tellers use flashbacks to tell a back story. Some use a flashback in the beginning to set a foundation and others set up the progress in the story by small doses of flashback. Life does that too. It's happening so often to me these days that I am left connecting dots for hours post that. For example, I am walking with Missus last evening, quick walk to clear the head before I get back to unfinished work. It's 6.45 pm. Suddenly, raindrops. Bangalore is very warm now and the sun has been at it through the day. But then, raindrops. Missus is a practical person. She starts walking swiftly. Ahead of me. Saying she's washed her hair. She cannot have her hair wet again. I am at the back of her. Trying to catch up. It's when I have that. Flashback. Goa. Maybe 1997. Same. She ahead of me. She's telling let's just get home. Me at the back, trying to catch up. I can remember even the clothes. I can remember my rubber sandals. I can smell the wet soil of Carenzalem, where we stayed then. These kinds of flashbacks have been happening a lot. I wouldn't know if it's good or bad. I also wouldn't know if it tells me something or not. Evidently, it should. But you know how it is. I don't get any life enhancing thoughts from that. Just the flashbacks. Maybe it's like Vinod Khanna's Major Ranjeet in Achanak where he does things based on the flashbacks he has, of his past, of his trainings and such. Tries to save himself from police parties. I am having other flashbacks too. Of Farakka Barrage back in the 70s and the sharing of water controversy. Bangladesh was horrified back then in the early 90s when the Bengal government first and the Indian government said that we had a formula and that formula said that majority of the Ganga waters was to be in India. Padma, a branch of the same Ganga, is the lifeline of Bangladesh. They have numerous livelihoods that depend on that river. So, understandably they were livid. That was never resolved satisfactorily though many governments since then have sat down to resolve. Once, pretty recently, during the UPA 2 times, nearly everything was resolved when Queen Mamata had a change of heart. Back to square one. Now, this NDA government has proposed water sharing through many states. I have flashbacks of that Farakka Barrage and Cauvery disputes. Why do we have to get into disputes? There's technology and better infrastructure available today. Rainwater harvesting techniques are far better than ever before. You hear of successes in many hamlets too. How about institutionalizing rainwater harvesting? One village. Farming all around. One rainwater harvesting project as a cooperative. One ePassbook for all members and users. One gas project. One mini power plant or a solar project. One purchase point for all produce and livestock at fair price set up by government or a nationally computed price for that year, that month. How difficult is this? Maybe it isn't. Maybe it's just the will. Because we are only emotively attached to our villages and see them through the prism of nostalgia, we cannot or do not bother to see them self reliant. At all.

The Dhoondho Dhoondho Rap!

I am trying to figure out how the hills around Kathmandu airport prevent ATC signals reaching the small aircrafts flying in and out. It caused a horrific accident yesterday killing at least 50 people in Bangladesh aircraft. Amazon Echo aka Alexa suddenly pipes up in the room all by itself and out comes "Dhoondho Dhoondho re Sajna" the Naushad song. It's not the original tune. It's a rap version. It's as if Sehwag and Babul Supriyo have come together and done something unidentifiable to the song. It's more Guyanese Bhojpuri Rap. Then it disappears. Alexa shuts itself down. I wait. I don't want to ask Alexa anything. Whatever I ask of her these days has only one answer, "I am not sure I know that". I know the world outside has difficulty deciphering me. Alexa is also giving up. So, I hold my counsel. I don't call out to her. But she's quiet. Then I realize what has happened. Missus has her phone. It's got Bluetooth. We are listening to some songs awhile back wherein she had transferred her playlist from her phone to the Amazon Echo via Bluetooth to listen to songs while she dressed up for the gym. Then she disconnected and left in a hurry. But Mohd Rafi hadn't completed his song, "Dhoondho Dhoondho re Sajna" and probably he was fighting with Alexa to let him complete his song in the background even after she left. So, Alexa gave permission. "Please finish fast, I have to shut down again". It's like those last encores in Calcutta restaurants from back in the 70s. One last Morricone please! Okay, only for a minute, then we have to pack and go men!! So, Rafi comes back, does the Dhoondho Dhoondho Rap and goes away within seconds. I being the sole listener. Alexa should be more considerate. The other day she laughed at someone. Someone who was prone to asking stupid questions. "Alexa, will you go out for a dinner with me?" Alexa wanted to say "Shakl dekhi apni!" But couldn't. She couldn't make up the English version of the effective Shakl sentence in time. So, she laughed hysterically. The word went out that Alexa had laughed hysterically. Everyone went into a tizzy. Amazon got many tweets saying "Ban Alexa!" How dare that lady laugh at us. Amazon bechara napalmed it's Artificial intelligence section and set right the bugs. Alexa will no more laugh hysterically at stupid men. Men are safe. What safe? So many women are still laughing. They just cover their face with their hands or their hair. Or just turn around and look elsewhere. Eyes rolling constantly. Only Alexa was left. Woh bhi gayi.

India and the Order of Govinda

India was socialist and confused as a nation till 1986. In 1986, two things happened. All of the nation started talking about the imminent advent of computers in our work life. The other was Govinda. India was no longer confused. Computers were put to use in various government departments, banks and railway reservation counters progressively to show us that we could get services in a better way, above zero that is. Govinda showed us we could fight, dance, eat, jump and play flute in the air, all with a smile. Govinda made us strong, affable, confident and resilient. Computers started to be looked as the next big employment thing. Some boys lined up at various visa centres and started to go abroad for projects. These boys never came back. But their parents were elated. Their dowry rates climbed up into the stratosphere. Govinda, in the meanwhile, could do no wrong on screen. He democratized the classes of our society, he could wear anything and do anything. He got nearly the entire cow belt dancing to his rhythm. Youngsters suddenly were okay with wrong English and fast Hindi or the other languages. 1991 came. Rajiv Gandhi went and a quiet old man Narasimha Rao quietly ushered in economic reforms. Wily that he was, he got Manmohan Singh to announce all of it. The country went into overdrive. Jobs happened. A lot of money suddenly fell into people's hands. 1991 continued. Aankhein happened. Govinda was the king of all that the common man surveyed. Pink shades, yellow jeans, rough cut CDs, Jhankaar beats, motorbikes, rainbow coloured dupattas, boots, sandals with heels and gyms, they all happened then. Because of that awareness, we got cable TV at home and in 1994, the whole country witnessed a Ms Universe and a Ms World arrive in India. Sushmita and Aishwarya. Notably, both acted in the Hindi cinema industry where Govinda had been churning loads of hits every year. That's when, aided by better budgets and the Ms India philosophy, a unibrowed Karishma suddenly turned modern and created some more monster hits with, yes Govinda again. They created anthems and you know that anthems unified the country more than ever. In the meanwhile, what was a trickle in people learning computers and doing things, became a flood. You could study anything but end up making a living sitting in front of a keyboard. And go abroad too. On projects. By then, phones and calls had also become cheaper. Govinda also helpfully did a telephone song. He philosophically asked, what is your mobile number? The country responded by hitting high double digits growth in mobile phone sales. Suddenly, the country was connected. Just like that. The South had by then seen and understood the power of the bumpkin hero. They reinvented Rajinikanth and Vijay in the same mould. Students saw their movies, did an engineering course from some college in Tiruchi or Vellore and viola they were in, US!! Andhra Pradesh took over. Their films, that were in a way the precursor to those Govinda milestones, just became grander. Venkatesh, Nagarjuna or Chiranjeevi. Six songs, six dances and lissome heroines. Some eight fights and three comedy scenes. They churned out blockbusters by the month. Their students clogged the dialled internet lines between Nalgonda and New York. Life wouldn't ever be the same for an Andhra guy ever again. By the end of the nineties, the Order had matured. The Order of Govinda. The baton had to pass on. His hair, belly and smile were starting to sag. Two things happened. The first dotcom bust and Dil Chahta Hai. The momentum had shifted. Indians would now do what their Dil Chahta Hai. They couldn't be led by the Order anymore. So, Quality came into public consciousness. It wasn't the same again. Secretly, even today, all the 80s and 90s gen pay obeisience to those Pentium 1 computers and Govinda. To lives and lives of back then. Gritty nostalgia. "Arre, tu jaa re!"

Secret Superstar and a Mum

A scene within a home. A family is told by the man of the house that they will have to go a party. The wife is told to make an exception in her attire as the gathering is a bit modern. She does not have to wear the Burqa. She is happy and dresses up. Pertinently, the daughter is not told to go along. The daughter is a teen. Appearing for Class 10.

The mother decks up. The man comments that there is a necklace missing in her attire. He asks her to take out the "only" necklace that she owns. Fear sets in. The lady cannot tell the truth. That she sold the necklace and bought a laptop for the daughter. Fear makes her fumble. Fear makes her daughter discover the truth. Fear makes them look at each other in utter helplessness. Fear makes the man bigger than he actually is. A ritual of physical abuse starts as everyone cowers in fright.

The story of "Secret Superstar" is not so much about a girl going against all odds, meeting a mentor and making it. It is all about a woman discovering her voice against abuse and dependence.

Numerous small moments strike you. The mother raising her arms and doing a jig as her husband leaves for another country, in relief. The grandma telling a story about a mother desperately running away to save the girl child in her womb. A money making tuition teacher realizing the plight of the girl who tries to apply herself to studies in spite of a very abusive home. A mother who buys a guitar for her six year old daughter. A canny mentor searches his soul through a forgotten song. A daughter discovers the plight of love in her little brother's handiwork with scotch tape. And TV, to escape the mundane existences in middle class India.

In all this, a very lovely teen love affair blossoms knowing fully well that it will be crushed by hard reality. Hindu - Muslim. In Gujarat. She, having stars in her eyes. He, a middle class steady boy, knowing his place. And they get a permission to be together from the mother on their last day at school. He takes her to his home. She's fed aam, very aam moment but powerful in the message. It's over. Because, he knows that the girl and her parents are going away to another country.

Yes, it is again the magic of cinema. It can be manipulative at times like Aamir Khan's efforts with another story about a buck tooth autistic boy a decade back. But it is streets ahead of any other maker's vision.

All the actors are in form. Zaira Wasim and Meher Vij are unstoppable in their roles as daughter and mother respectively. Meher has many close ups and her eyes are so expressive and similar to Zaira's that it makes them mother and daughter in more ways than screen. Raj Arjun has been around and he revels in the father's role. The violence is implicit and in his demeanor and that's commendable work. But the scene stealer is the classmate cum boy friend called Chintan. Tirth Sharma does the role and he just rocks every scene he is in. That includes roaming a city in an autographed shirt.

The songs could have been better. In a film about songs and talent, the songs are not catchy, that's sad. Amit Trivedi, such chances do not come by so easily.

Know the name, Advait Chandan, the director. His idea of stories on film is just about blossoming. Like, his "Secret Superstar".

Jubilee!

Do you people know "Jubilee Kumar"? No na, I thought so! Jubilee Kumar was reigning deity of Hindi Cinema between some time in late 50s to somewhere in the late 60s. He was there later too. But no one called him Jubilee Kumar anymore. He was called Papa of Kumar Gaurav. Please don't ask who was Kumar Gaurav. I will have to search for the right chappal to throw at your mirror. Jubilee Kumar was thick in the waist. He never danced. At best, his hands swung and his head bobbed around to the mood of the song playing in the background, usually sung by Mohd. Rafi. The heroines did all the hard work. It's like an immobile doubles partner in Tennis or Badminton. The agile guy did all the work and the stationery guy, well, just remained stationed and watched in glee. But yet, Jubilee Kumar turned out hit after hit. Some said, lucky guy. Some said, the heroines toiled and made it for him. Some said, he bought out the tickets of some key cinema halls in Bombay and ensured full houses. Word travelled and a middling film became a hit. Rajendra Kumar, if you must know his actual name. I feel like "Jubilee Kumar" today. I floated in a river of genius friends, classmates, colleagues, fellow cricketers and footballers, professionals, family members, minstrels, wandering monks and general busy bodies. People kept throwing lifeboats and wooden logs to save me in the gushing torrents. I drank water, coughed, yelled and paddled along awkwardly with these geniuses and here I am, "Jubilee"! I feel like the Rajendra, the Sehwag, the Madhavrao, the Venkatraghavan, the Bikas Panji, the Mulgaonkar, the Vani Jayram, the Mahendra Kapoor and the Chunky Pandey of my times and journeys. The journeyman. The survivor. The "Shavaasan" expert.

Jagga Jasoos - our childhood comes back

Moynaguri. North Bengal. A boy is born and left at the hospital. He is brought up by the hospital staff. He stammers and so he keeps quiet. He has his own world. Among books and nature. One day he watches a man take a dive from a coal train. The man is rescued by the boy and moved to the hospital. The man and the boy become father and son.

The boy is Jagga. The man is Bagchi. Both are investigators. But of different kinds.

Jagga Jasoos.

I won't tell the story here. Let me dwell on some moments.

The father stumbles into clues and circumstances. He isn't prepared half the time. Yet he makes do. In a ganjee, he cycles off with Jagga to save himself through green top jungles. We see the sequence in song, in motion, in swirling light, in brilliant green and in an anxious Bagchi's face who's so unlike an investigator up close. We are being surprised just like Jagga is being surprised too.

Jagga looks at details. He has a yen for details. There's a clock tower mystery he's solving. There's a school assembly. There's rain. There's late evening. There's a clock tower. There are two women. There's a man. And a lot of little details. Now, Jagga's mind is registering these details in staccato mode. We watch the unfurling story in the same form. Through his eyes. Through his stammering speech forms. Through a song that acts like a voice over showing all the scenes happening with swift cute. Mystery in a box. Evening. Night. Next morning. Jagga with friends. The final say on the mystery, Sherlock or Feluda style.

Jagga adds things up. They are in Ukhrul, Manipur. Shruti, another reporter-investigator arrives there. Jagga bumps into a man. He follows him. Then, there's a murder in a room and a murder on a sky wheel. Jagga's mind takes him to some conclusions. We are nudged to some conclusions too. With Jagga. Via the net, a book with Netaji's exploits, a tunnel and Shruti's own background. It's a pleasure for us too when the mystery unravels. As they stumble through to success.

There's whimsy. Through songs and stutters. Images dissolved appear and then gain focus. Like evolving minds. There's small facial expressions. Bagchi's nods. Later Jagga's nods and eyebrow ticks. Shruti's lips pursed. Portents of done mistakes. There's swift actions. A la a young Feluda or Sherlock. Or Tintin. There's a back shot of Jagga standing at a round window and dark visage exactly like Tintin is in his comic books. Every disaster of Shruti or Bagchi ends with them being flat or legs up, like Thompson and Thompson or Captain or Prof Calculus.

There's enough happening in the songs as they are dialogue in verse. Beatboxing, guitar strings, horns creeping up, violins being maudlin as Jagga is being lonely. Choruses bring enthusiastic as Jagga solves mysteries. A whole orchestra picking up as Jagga and Bagchi adventure through Africa. Music is the soul of each happening. The reason for existence.

Katrina is Shruti and she bumbles through the film quite sincerely. She adopts the clunkiness that is required with admirable gusto. Saswata Chatterjee is priceless as Bagchi. He's a detective and a Bengali. Considerate, funny, sad, emotive, stubborn, witty, angry and fueled by adventure, all at once. This is a bravura act by Saswata and shall be hailed in different ways in years to come. He's Sanjeev Kumar and Peter Sellers coming together in Eastman colour.

Ranbir Kapoor is Jagga and he wears the character, seeps it into his bones and lives it. The stutters, the little sounds, the facial expressions, the idiosyncrasies and the walk. There's so much to see. Deduce. Understand. From just his portrayals. Here's an actor who can go very far with the right stories. Watch him throw toothpaste foam into a basin from afar. Priceless.

It's Anurag Basu's mind that's on screen. His stories. His life. His interests. His wanderings. His childhood. His belief in theatre and music. He weaves it together as only he knows.

This is compulsory cinema for people who believe in the art. I mean, which cinema can have a Bengali music strain effortlessly segue into an operatic orchestra and then end up in an African tribal song all in one sequence?

Mr. Basu, just release those comic books. Bestsellers guaranteed. Please.

An afternoon with a Chef who makes things with Pumpkin

Yesterday was a Sunday. I decided that I needed to interview someone who's as passionate about food as I am. I landed up at Herbs n Spices. I know Chef and Restauranteur Paddy from far back. His background quickly then. Hotel Management from the Hyderabad IHM. A good career in the Taj group and with cruisers doing what he still does, cooking awesome food. Then, he with a friend, decided to set up a restaurant here in Whitefield, which back in 2000 was a sleepy village. He's seen restaurants come and go. He's still at it in the town that's Whitefield. We spoke about a lot of things. Chefs and their menus: We discussed the shallow menus being trotted out by all restaurants. Soups. Starters. Sandwiches and Burgers. Pizzas. Pastas. Indian. Italian. Chinese. An odd Mexican or Thai. Desserts high on cheese and chocolate. We then came to what he is doing different. I saw the authenticity he presents in his Continental and Indian items. We discussed sauces. I understood his passion for an original jerk sauce or an original provencale sauce. I got what he meant when he said every sauce is not creamy and cheesy. How a pasta Aglio Olio needs to be made. How olive oil is integral to authentic pizza and why he does not do pizzas at all because guests are so used to the mass branded cheesy pizzas. We shared some good thoughts on just enough sauce in pastas and nice herbs to taste. Why menus should change: Bangalore restaurants are faking it. Most of the time. There isn't much variety. Only derivatives. It's very silly. Tequila Chicken as developed by him seems to have gone to many a restaurant including a neighborhood one and he's had to change the menu. But it's good he changed. Because he could and other chefs faking it cannot. Restaurant owners should know food: We discussed the farce of having a lot of cuisines on menu. Chicken boiled and frozen in the freezer and adapting to all cuisines. Even a chicken sandwich in a very upmarket place tastes like unfrozen rubber that's leaking water. It's horrible, we agreed. He stocks for his menu. He buys fresh. He also makes food not available when it runs out. That way his Kebabs and Roasted Pumpkin soups are forever fresh and droolworthy. Desserts and their importance in menus: The main course needs to be just enough and well priced so that the guest can order a dessert. That's important for satisfaction and he tries that. And succeeds most if the time. On cue, a guest orders for one Gajar Halwa ensemble and follows that quickly with two more at the same table. I gape. That's a classy restaurant. Book it. And go ahead and enjoy. 154, Whitefield Main Road. Opposite Vijaya Bank. Whitefield 9945 420 242 12 noon to 3 pm 7 pm to 11 pm Pic: Chef Paddy with a guest https://www.good1.in/posts/3557

Exercise thinking

Very depressing. Wore a tee shirt. Stood in a group photo. Looking most wide among all in the pic. Some four days have gone by since that offending pic has graced WhatsApp. But mind not moving from the obscene bulge on the side.

Sages have advised. Warm water intake. Earliest possible dinner. No rice or flour. Run. Walk. Crawl. Surya namaskar. Breathe in breathe out. Slow breathe out. Problem is, nothing is forever. Of course, only diamonds are, but that's a story I can't​ express. For that, one needs legacy. Aukaat. But why have I gone off to diamonds? Right, nothing is forever. Or I am the tail of a dog. I do. I wag. I wipe off targets and discipline and start over again.

I am the before guy in the before and after pictures that friends keep producing. A friend does plank for six minutes. I am lucky to do a minute. Another friend runs marathons regularly. And advises on running gear and music. I can't run. So I walk. Intermittent. I use gear too. Sometimes the music is so good that I amble to listen to the music more and my breath less. I mean, Hemant Kumar's breath intake would surely be more promising than my own, right! Friends rock. I like or wow them and leave it at that. I can't even discuss the niceties of bananas before morning exercise. That's Missus. She even has a banana box, shaped like a banana in her bag. Wonder who thinks like that?

Then there are the Yoga and gym guys. Everyone owns a mat these days. And they can stretch and touch their toes. Once in a while when other conversation flags, the yoga conversation is a life saver. I do conversations. I skip the yoga bit. Dhanurasan = Dhanu + Sivarasan. For me. I can talk more about the killers of Rajiv Gandhi. Possibly. But people want to show how good their arc is in Dhanurasan. I try to be amazed. My arc would more look like a sandbagged culvert. With no space below for water to flow. They are going the way of a trim Kapil Sharma. And I am going the Kapil Sibal way.

Many have personal trainers. The trainers enable discipline and fun while achieving the impossible. Some trainers are good looking too. I suppose that helps. The ladies may be able to tell more. What would a personal trainer do with me? Maybe use me as a reference in a classroom. This is not what you become. This is the opposite of where you need to go.

I love the men and women with washboard abs. I did the crunches too for a period when my back was good. I too stood in front of mirrors like they do. I too pulled up sweaty tees. They see etchings on walls. I saw Anil Kapoor hair. Their tees stayed up. My tee went down and was never brought up again.

But life does not cease to surprise. Maybe one of these days, I will do something.

Maybe, build a 56' chest. And point towards it with two hands. And talk into microphones.

The Asian invasion

I am Patrick. Short being Pat. Am an amiable Brit. I like Cricket on the weekends. I watch it. Don't play. Me and the missus get around to seeing a few games in the Midlands during the summer. We take our umbrellas. Brit weather, you know. We carry the sunglasses too. Brit weather, again. We rejoice if it is 11*C and the sun is over us. It used to be good back in the seventies. Snow, Botham and Willis. Gower, Gooch and Holding. Watch a game. Have a pint. Take the 9.32 home.

Then the Asians arrived.

Don't take me wrong. I am not the type to abuse them at the Ginger Pub with the mates over a beer. But it's impossible to watch and savour a Kohli drive if someone close is always dancing and falling over you without even registering the classicism of that drive. It looks like they've had a few even before they arrive in the morning. The Bangladeshis yell in Bengali and the Indians yell back in Hindi or the other many languages that they have. Their bad teeth aimed towards television cameras. They actually live for their cameras. The food drops off their laps when they find that the cameras are looking towards them.

Missus has got no interest in Cricket. She comes along because I go. She does the crossword during the matches. Last I looked at her crossword a few hours ago, she had drawn up quizzical lines emanating from the boxes. When asked, she said that the lines were because of the young men hitting her elbows as they kept jumping up every other minute. I felt sorry for her. How would DARWIN look if all the letters have spikes going all over? And she couldn't even glare at them as they kept muttering "Sorry" too.

The men who bring their Indian drums with those cymbals and one obese man who seems to wear a frightening contact lens and stare at the camera, were right there in front of us. When the cameras weren't looking their way, they ate. Or played the instruments. I could not hear the sweet thud of the bat on the ball all through the match. When the cameras looked their way, they became mini versions of Godzilla. Is being frightening a type of celebration in India? Need to research on that.

Even the Bangladeshis weren't behind. They brought in huge tiger dolls and shoved the dolls under my nose to make me frightened. I was, for them and their sanities.

This game used to be about tweeds, hats, whites and patience not so long ago. Am wistful. On the pitch, even now, I like it when the strokes are classical and the ball seams away well. But in the stands, it is as though "Planet of the Apes with bad teeth" has been released.

Well, one can't complain. They bring the economy to the grounds.

And what's this Jai Mata di? Oh, religion, is it?

Holy cow, they have this overt thing about religion, don't they?

How does Bhutan stay so happy and Pawan Kalyan Chronicles

Bhutan is a happy country. It is highest in the Happiness Index ratings. You know why?

They watch "Indra the Tiger" on TV. Daily. On repeat.

I swear. Ma Kasam. Heard from very reliable source.

Telugu to Hindi films have their own charm. Real hero. Doing hero things. Like punching one person and escape velocity making five persons go flying through the air with buzzing fly background music accompanying their flight path. Sometimes in slo-mo. Mostly in slo-mo. He'll say some small Telugu word, effective word, but it will come out as "Khabardaar Launde" well beyond the time his mouth is shut. You will marvel at the art of ventriloquism. Kamalhaasan did it in one film long long ago and made it a hit. They are doing it now in hordes of T2H films and of course, they will be liked.

But I like the challenges to science more in their films and that truly makes me happy. Like those people in Bhutan.

Pawan Kalyan is not just a hero. He is the God of parched earth and red mangoes and small things. All together. He thumps the ground and people in Bullock carts topple and acquire escape velocity. Then, if the people are flying say to the right, the Bullock cart wheels come out and roll to the left. Your scientific temper will be tempted to ask, "How"? Precisely, that's where Pawan Kalyan challenges you. Maybe, it's his shoes or the magnetic quality of his soles that attract the iron rivets in the wheels and so the wheels are tempted to roll back to where Pawan Kalyan stands with his thumped heel in the ground. Pawan Kalyan reinvents the tenets of science.

Doesn't that make you happy?

That should. That's the idea of T2H films. To make you happy. It's why people in Bhutan are happy. It's why Zee Cinema and Star Gold are happy making so much money on those sublime films.

I came to know of another one the other day. Supreme Khiladi. I was denied a full dekko by certain other pressing assignments like IndiaPak rivalry. But since I am generally happy person I know given a remote and a good day, I will again receive the bounty. Why did Akshay not think of Supreme Khiladi? What spurs a Supreme Khiladi?

The little I saw was breathtaking. Turning head. People flying. Someday I will know the science behind that too. And there's red eye and cheek shake when the mother is attacked. Or sister.

That's true service to the sons of the soil. Zee Cinema does that.

NDTV did not carry out the service. No red eye. No cheek shake. Nothing. Look what happened.

Khabardaar Launde.

The original startups and unicorns

Windows. The older versions. The ones that you looked out of. Not looked in through a computer.

Long ago, in my native village, they had these big four doored windows with iron bars, I used to sit at them. Two specifically nice ones, one overlooking a nice small mango orchard and another one overlooking a courtyard that had a "samadhi sthal" of our forefathers on one side and the Mandir on the other side and the clean middle area.

I watched a lot of things happen from these two windows. Summers they were. Lazy cows parked in the middle of the courtyard. Tied to tethers. Munching on what they had in their mouths. The mouths covered by a hay net so that they cannot eat more from the fodder stacks kept on one side of the courtyard. The floor of the courtyard made of clay. Everyday wiped with clay and dung mixture to keep it clean and cool. Trees as diverse as Jackfruit to neem to mango flanking the courtyard. The pond beyond the samadhi on the left. The ducks in the pond on the left. They quacked among themselves. On quite afternoons one could hear their entire conversations.

I discovered stories about my forefathers then. During those quiet afternoons.

It is the 1880s. Haripada Narayan Majumdar has just returned from Birsingha. Birsingha being the place where Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, the great Bengal Renaissance man and the revered teacher of Bengali grammar lives. Birsingha is about 18 miles away through the kuchcha roads from Shrirampur, our village.  Haripada wants to build a school in the village but he has no funds. He has taken with him some gold of his wife. She's okay with the idea. Vidyasagar does not take the gold. Tells him to show his determination by just starting a class in his courtyard. He gives him three copies of "Varna Parichay" the modern grammar book written by Vidyasagar himself. Haripada is overwhelmed as he recounts the incident and shows the books to his illiterate family. He is going to teach himself and then the others.

He does so.

In a year there are 18 children in that very courtyard under the shade of the peepul that I don't see now doing Bengali grammar and basic maths.

Vidyasagar is on the board of the province school authority in two years. He is called to inspect. He does so. He is shown the three tattered copies of the books he lent. He asks students some questions. He also is happy with the answers. He signs then and there for a school in a neighborhood village as he wants more students to come to be taught by my forefather.

One child grows up to be a freedom fighter and true to the hot blooded Bengali fire in the belly, he takes up arms and becomes a comrade of Aurobindo Ghosh. You would know him more by the Aurobindo ashram of Pondicherry that he founded later when he again found peace within.

Haripada dies in the famine of early 1900s. His legacy lives on through more promising students in the oncoming decades.

Now, students and their families are all over the world. Some I know. Many I have no way of knowing.

Wouldn't you call that a unicorn startup? A startup that lasted beyond its life and still gives to the society?

Two men on a field, for the last time

Ten men crowd around the stumps. In white. Green caps askew on their heads. The ground quiet and silent. Just a ball and another over to go. The rain has come on. Washes the perspiration from the ten faces. But no one, absolutely no one in the field has his mind on the rain or the floodlights that have come on. Two old men. At the brink of history. Of retirement. Of moving into the annals of history. As the greatest Pakistan Cricketers of all time. Younis and Misbah. Ex-Captain and Captain. Men who had marshalled the dawn of the golden age of Pakistani Cricket.

Then, there are the two batsmen from the islands. West Indians, they call themselves. A pale shadow of the team that had muscled other national teams thirty years back. A batting that was being shepherded by a batsman who till the other day was known more for his bowling. Another, who was literally the number 11 in the team batting order. Whose idea of batting is a prod at any ball. Roston Chase and Shannon Gabriel. Cricketers who are barely known around the islands. No showmen, as the showmen were all away playing for gold and town houses in a league that has quixotic team names for cities. Chase and Gabriel. They could have been a bank, the way they have defended their citadel for the last ten minutes.

The premier Pakistan bowler, a leg spinner, crouches at his bowling mark. He has been beyond super through this test match. Bowling from wide of the stumps, lobbing the ball at the batsman from a height and angle where it causes much discomfort. In failing light, misty rain and inadequate floodlights, he is always going to be a handful. One last ball is left. One last ball to get to five wickets. One last ball to leave his superlative impact on a test that has swung like a yo yo between the two teams. Yasir Shah, a man who looks more like a footballer than the ace cricketer he is.

The hush descends as he comes in to bowl.

Gabriel is the batsman. He has been coached by Chase at the wicket. Defend, for your life depends on it. But he has ten world weary men crouching around him. Ten men from a country that has nothing going for it other than this game. Ten men who cannot play in flashy cricket leagues around the world. Or don't. Two among the ten are so old and weary that crouching for a catch is also task. But yet they are there, for the nation. For themselves, for history.

Yasir bowls. It is a wrong one. Gabriel has a brain seizure. He decides that the best way to defend would be a hoick over the in field. Get it over their heads. A milli second later he hears the sickening sound of the ball hitting his stumps. Inside edge. His face crumples. What's he done? Chase is shell shocked. One ball and he could have defended the final over. One ball and he could have carried the team into a memorable draw. But what's the young man done?

The Pakistanis are everywhere. Younis plucks the stumps. The substitutes arrive with the flag. Yasir is jumping around in footballer glee. Misbah is engulfed. He is looking towards his family. They are in the stands. He is 42 years old. The oldest captain in the last thirty years of modern Cricket. He knows what he has achieved. He runs towards his family. The inscrutable captain at last shows some emotion. Younis has a smile as wide as the Indus.

Maybe, just maybe, this is the most bittersweet hour for Cricket.

Two honorable gentlemen leaving the field for the last time, draped in their country flags, as winners.

Just know, their impact on the game has been much more than Dravid, Tendulkar, Miandad, Inzamam and Sangakkara. The other South Asian greats.

Old men. Victors. More than ever.

What did Bappi Lahiri do with Kaifi Azmi's poetry?

This was 1978. There was a flood in Bengal. My father travelled there to give some succor to our suffering family. They had lost their house and were living on the banks of a seething riverine. Father had some money. So they started rebuilding the house. Father did not have much leave and he came back to Nilgiris where we were then.

I did not watch many movies then. In fact, even if we went to the movies, I tended to loiter outside. But then, I was fixating on a strange song called "Bambai se aaya mera dost" and the film was Aap ki Khatir. And that had come to the Kilimanjaro hall in Wellington. Charming hall beside a cricket ground. So we went to see it. Vinod Khanna. Rekha. Some domestic drama. Both of them in robust form. Suddenly Bambai se...burst onto the screen. Ecstasy. First sampling of the Bappi beat and the Bappi voice.

Bappi Lahiri became an artist to follow up on.

And what a follow up he presented.

Toote Khilone. The title would straightaway suggest bad songs. Wrong. Bappi Lahiri would make history with this.

But let me start with the cast and crew. Shekhar Kapoor was the hero. Shabana Azmi was his lady in the film. Again, a drama. Shekhar was unimpressive. His acting career went to dogs post this effort. Shabana went the other way. Ketan Anand directed the film. Very underrated director. Yes, he was another nephew of Dev Anand. I was to meet him eight years later in Hyderabad. When he was there for Filmotsav along with his next, the superb Shart. But this was pretty insipid drama. Loosely put together.

But that song. Maana ho tum behad Haseen. Alone made a difference to its lifetime business. Rescued it from the depths. The entire nation took notice of Yesudas's skills at the mic and Bappi's orchestral skills.

Listen to Bappi's work closely. This. Aitbaar. Namakhalal. Sharaabi. Sansar. Sailaab. Chalte Chalte. One thing would be common. His set up of the orchestra. His clean instrumentation. His chorus. You got to listen to his choruses. And the rhythm. He also was very good with classical compositions. Bappi is ridiculed a bit these days. Memes, spoofs and what not. But back in the days, he sometimes provided great music.

Back to the song. It starts with a guitar riff. Then a brief lull before Yesudas's voice brings in certified magic. The chorus follow and immediately there's an aura to the song. Yesudas raises pitch with Dekho kabhi toh pyaar se and you are tempted to sing along. There are the violins and there's the piano. Very Bappi. He could play all these instruments himself. And the simple rhythm. The bass guitar keeping count. Very understated orchestra giving primacy to the voice. Very unlike Bappi and his reputation.

In the following years, I must have sung the song countless times in the bathroom with a plastic mug doing the work of the bongo. I loved the enclosed space feel in the bathroom that gave the right vibration to my voice through Maana ho tum.

But who wrote the song? Gulp. The illustrious poet lyricist Kaifi Azmi. You nonplussed? You thinking how did that blingy man get to do this great song? Well, he was a talented young man then. Bappi Lahiri.

Yesudas rates him as a great composer to this day. Unfortunately, Bappi chose the easier way out by living under the shadow of the moniker "Disco king".

That said, just listening to "Koi yahaan aha nache cache!" Yeah, kill me.

Hey! The economy will not dump you

The notes have been discontinued. The matter is done. The cows have gone home. Now what?

Take the money to your nearest bank and deposit.

If it is unaccounted, you will receive a polite call or message from the Income Tax people and you will do well to pay up the fine, grin and bear it. You will still have much to salvage.

If it is accounted for, why worry your head off? You are paying your taxes. Use your plastic more. Intelligently. That's it. It is not for you anyways that the government has done what it has done. It is for the guys who run a mammoth black economy and deprive the nation of its rightful path, putting the stress back on the taxpayers that's us. 3% of the whole population. Us. It's to bring at least another 40% into the rightful way of economic development.

Just imagine what could happen now?

Banks will receive over Rs. 80 lakh Crores. Flush with funds, RBI could announce a slew of cuts in interests and repo rates. You could borrow money from banks at much easier rates than ever before.

Banks will reach out to the unbankable and create newer propositions giving birth to an altogether new economy.

This could benefit a slew of new entrepreneurs who could, with the help of banks, participate in personal growth and nation development. Education, services, infrastructure and utilities would receive a big fillip. Money will go where it is supposed to go.

Government, now cash rich, can undertake many budgetary reforms and augmentations than ever before. Again, Infrastructure, education, police, law, healthcare and agriculture will receive much needed funds to breathe easy and improve their lot.

Maybe, just maybe, the taxed will be taxed less. GST is going to help in some way already and maybe our tax slabs can get easier. We could hope for that. Then, more money in our pockets.

WhatsApp forwards and shovelling dirt at various political fatcats is all fine. I have enjoyed some jokes too. Over the last twelve hours but this is good.

This is what India should be about. Bold and sure footed. Strong, healthy and bubbling. There will be some of us who will have major concerns with cash in hand.

I still say it's time to show it. To the banks and the tax guys. No harm. No one is gonna put you behind bars. Some fines.

As for me, blissful. I am most happy using plastic and transferring money through the net.

I am lazy. And using a mobile to transfer money fits my type completely. Cheers!

Ae dil hai mushqil - musings

Love has been quite overrated. Very underwhelming. Sometimes. It does not have enough legs to stand on, yet it professes to be around.

Friendship, on the other hand, has a definite premise and yields a lot on ground, during the playing out of the relationship.

Love suffers because of the immaturity but friendship thrives. Love asks questions of us that threaten to disturb the whole balance but friendship rarely, if ever, asks these disturbing questions. Love always speaks of this immense giving in a relationship to make it work. Friendship professes no such lofty principles.

So, why do people look to fall in love? Rankle themselves enough while knowing that a comfortable and cozy friendship is just there. Always there. Trusting. Easy and unobtrusive.

Is it the classic "wanting more" syndrome? The well injected custom of being good girl or boy and so have to marry to prove love. And belonging?

Ayan is a chap who's a bit shallow. Thoroughly spoilt and aimless, he sets his aims on simple love. Alizeh is a girl who's wanting more from every moment that she is in. But a girl who's actually defeated in love. They go through a faux friendship process that's unconvincing even for their limited worlds. And then she decides to marry her old beau. She admits to her defeat in the hands of love and walks away to a future that she thinks is sustainable.

Ayan frets the fact that he could have given her more in love and searches for love more than ever. Enter the poetess. Who teaches him the ways of amour in more ways than one. But they aren't in love. It's more the kind of teacher disciple stuff. Alizeh comes back. The teacher walks away. Ayan is left to grapple with another bout of love. This, when Alizeh tells him that they were much better off with friendship.

No one walks away easily from such abject propensities. It's foretold. We know it's coming.

Johar writes a very tough story. There aren't any pretty pictures here. I mean, cinematically there is, but the story inhabits a much gloomier space.

There are unfortunate let ups. I could not wrap my head around the Paris trip. Neither could I understand why Sabah, the poetess, wanting or clamouring for such a physical relationship. It was kind of, weird.

Anoushka and Ranbir had their great moments. But the absolute killer was the one scene Shahrukh. The compelling romantic actor in him just shone so brilliantly in that one scene that it paled all of Aishwarya's work till then effortlessly. Ah, that actor still has it. Still!

In a way, this film reminded me of Devdas. See it my way and you'll know.

Ae dil hai mushkil.

Film musing - Zulfiqar (Bengali)

Zulfiqar. Ceaser + Anthony & Cleopatra. In Bengali. Transported to the dock underworld of Calcutta. Note that I have put it as Calcutta and not Kolkata. I know this underworld a lot closely. I know the kind of people who have made money here. I know of people who have flourished and how. Who managed the dock workers. The truck parking. The boys who worked illegally in the parking lots. The illegal auctions of items off the broken down ships. The scrap. The voluminous smuggling off broken open containers. I can go on and on. It sort of got set up as an organized underworld in the middle 70s. The parties entered it in the early 80s and even now the guys who profit the most from it are around wearing the colours of a particular party. The spread is now from Kidderpore to Budge Budge. The movie skims through this history very simply in the first few minutes of the film and quickly comes to the conflict between the members of the highest echelon of the underworld, the syndicate. Since, I don't do reviews I shall refrain from going through the story. Suffice to say, much happens but actually not much meat. Srijit, the director, has created a large canvas for himself. Then, he flounders badly. This is a large story. Ceaser. Zulfiqar. It needs that time to spice the politics happening. To bring in the right marinate and make the meat juicy. Brutus or Bashir here was not just a good man who killed his friend over some misinformation fed to him by Cassius or Kashinath here. There was a lot of undercurrents. At the personal level as well as the political level. There were family intrigues. I really thought Srijit underdid those areas of the story. He had the actors who could have pulled it off. But he chose not to. In the last few scenes, it was sad to see him get the entire cast do a confusing gunfight scene in the dock like the 90s Mithun classics. Locations of the gunfight shifting in a jiffy. Prasenjit Chatterjee as Zulfiqar is trying, hard. One can see that. But he does not have the gravitas to pull this off. His screen son loving the same woman Rani Talapatra or Cleopatra is even poorer. Anthony's debauchery does not even start to peek through. Rani Talapatra is done by Sayantika who starts off proceedings on a strong note. A scale that tells me that she will play the queen in a certain manner. And then I am devastated to see that she becomes the whimpering B grade Bangla film heroine. Parambrata and Dev are a duo here. Tony Braganza and Marcus. Zulfiqar depends on them the most. They do well in the beginning. Parambrata does the talking. Anglo Indian English peppered with some Hindi and Bangla. He does it well. Dev is dumb. No talking. He does most of the fighting. Does it well. They have a little bromance going. But just when it starts to go well, there's a strong stage scene and all goes haywire and downhill from there for these two actors. The saviour is an actor called Kaushik Sen. He plays Bashir. He talks in a higher pitch. Is a kind of a good man in a bad trade. Kaushik nails most of his scenes. He has great expressive eyes. The director is intelligent enough to spot this early and gives him a lot of close ups. Kaushik also gets his Calcutta Hindi very right. There's a scene. Bashir is calling back Zulfiqar's friends and family from where they are hiding. Kaushik is seated in the corner of a large sofa with a cellphone. The only movement in that dark scene is his eyes and head. Must say, I was blown by his act. Jishu as Kashinath and Paoli Dam as Zulfiqar's wife are simply not there with their complicated roles. I could not even understand what Paoli was saying in a couple of scenes. Srijit is probably looking at quantity but then he should attempt simpler films. Simpler stories. Ceaser is very complicated. Shakespeare meant it that way. So that people could come back over and over again to see his plays. This was Srijit's Bombay Velvet.

A bearded leader and some bearded men

Virat Kohli smiles a lot. He also gasps, fumes and grimaces. Sometimes his inner Captain Haddock takes over on the field if his deep fine leg is standing on his heels. At other times he's found wringing his hands in dismay or having a rueful smile when his nice fielders get into a tangle with the ball. Read Rahane. Or Ashwin. When he's running like a grammar school kid after school. But Virat gets his job done. I won't mind saying that this cute little team has more talent on field than the times of Saurav or Dhoni. But putting the available talent to work and getting the best out of each guy is another sort of work. Your talent cannot graze grass at third man like some of the pacers did in other times. Nor they can be toggled between third slip and midwicket in fervent hope that the ball will show signs of deviant bounce or the pitch shall show frantic signs of turn just after 3.17 pm in the afternoon. Talent has to be put to work. Logical. Yeah, but try telling Amit Mishra that. Or Praveen Kumar. Praveen may even bring down his family mace onto your head. It's the near past. Just look through the score sheets and see how these guys were used. Virat has succeeded in this. I would not venture to say fully. I fear a caustic Viru tweet if he ever reads this. Ever. But sample this. You have a setting sun. You decide to change Ashwin's end and bring in the tall bowler against the setting sun. You employ a leg slip for his faster ones. You have your best in field catchers at all the close in positions. Then you put in yourself for the uppish drive at short mid on. You ask Ashwin to go about his business with trajectory and drift. You get results. The science and art of talent management onfield comes alive. It's beyond all fixes and cave ins. Virat loves his hours of the day. His declarations have had a certain certainty to themselves. It isn't about waiting for Rohit's fifty or Rahane's hundred. It's telling them that he's going to declare at this hour and they better move their arse if they have to get the team anywhere near to an objective at that appointed hour. Then, like a fielding captain with a Border level mojo, he rotates his bowlers. Shami and Umesh or Bhuvi for the first eight. Jadeja for some quickies in between. Ashwin centrestage. Grinning and fuming. Alternately. Bhuvi certainly near the twenty fifth. Shami for the thirtieth. Reverse swing, you see. Setting sun. Jadeja back for his bootlickers. Ashwin, the hulk in the dark. Shami, if someone needs to smell some leather. Virat senses. The team rallies. Watch Umesh run for the ball. He knows he's being valued in the deep. They all pester him for the piston throws from the deep. Jadeja must throw. Saha must dive for the unreachable. Rahane must walk in a few paces for the faster ones coming off the edges. Angles. Trajectories. Gambhir found himself at sea for a few minutes before he accepted the new order of things. His bones didn't. Play for the team. It's a team game. Good man and cinema feature, Dhoni, brought this concept back into Indian Cricket after Greg Chappell had majorly messed around with the lateral thinking of the nation's favourite team. But Virat is making it sharper. He does not need a saw. He has allowed the beard to flourish. Like that other great thinker of our times, Misbah ul Haq. Forward thinking. Take more singles. Adds to a total. Drive in the V. Get the partnerships going. Facilitate two all rounders suddenly. Get your quiet wicket keeper to breathe at the wicket. Allow your speedsters to do the seam and bounce thing. Junk containment. But dry up the runs through aggressive fields. Allow your premier spinner to give away runs in search of wickets. Keep working on the impish left armer's fields for a variable bounce off the pitch. Forward thinking. Think ten overs hence. Scenography. Again Misbah. But not as inscrutable. Not at all. Voluble. Jolly. Very Punjabi! Kohli!!

A bearded leader and some bearded men

Virat Kohli smiles a lot. He also gasps, fumes and grimaces. Sometimes his inner Captain Haddock takes over on the field if his deep fine leg is standing on his heels. At other times he's found wringing his hands in dismay or having a rueful smile when his nice fielders get into a tangle with the ball. Read Rahane. Or Ashwin. When he's running like a grammar school kid after school. But Virat gets his job done. I won't mind saying that this cute little team has more talent on field than the times of Saurav or Dhoni. But putting the available talent to work and getting the best out of each guy is another sort of work. Your talent cannot graze grass at third man like some of the pacers did in other times. Nor they can be toggled between third slip and midwicket in fervent hope that the ball will show signs of deviant bounce or the pitch shall show frantic signs of turn just after 3.17 pm in the afternoon. Talent has to be put to work. Logical. Yeah, but try telling Amit Mishra that. Or Praveen Kumar. Praveen may even bring down his family mace onto your head. It's the near past. Just look through the score sheets and see how these guys were used. Virat has succeeded in this. I would not venture to say fully. I fear a caustic Viru tweet if he ever reads this. Ever. But sample this. You have a setting sun. You decide to change Ashwin's end and bring in the tall bowler against the setting sun. You employ a leg slip for his faster ones. You have your best in field catchers at all the close in positions. Then you put in yourself for the uppish drive at short mid on. You ask Ashwin to go about his business with trajectory and drift. You get results. The science and art of talent management onfield comes alive. It's beyond all fixes and cave ins. Virat loves his hours of the day. His declarations have had a certain certainty to themselves. It isn't about waiting for Rohit's fifty or Rahane's hundred. It's telling them that he's going to declare at this hour and they better move their arse if they have to get the team anywhere near to an objective at that appointed hour. Then, like a fielding captain with a Border level mojo, he rotates his bowlers. Shami and Umesh or Bhuvi for the first eight. Jadeja for some quickies in between. Ashwin centrestage. Grinning and fuming. Alternately. Bhuvi certainly near the twenty fifth. Shami for the thirtieth. Reverse swing, you see. Setting sun. Jadeja back for his bootlickers. Ashwin, the hulk in the dark. Shami, if someone needs to smell some leather. Virat senses. The team rallies. Watch Umesh run for the ball. He knows he's being valued in the deep. They all pester him for the piston throws from the deep. Jadeja must throw. Saha must dive for the unreachable. Rahane must walk in a few paces for the faster ones coming off the edges. Angles. Trajectories. Gambhir found himself at sea for a few minutes before he accepted the new order of things. His bones didn't. Play for the team. It's a team game. Good man and cinema feature, Dhoni, brought this concept back into Indian Cricket after Greg Chappell had majorly messed around with the lateral thinking of the nation's favourite team. But Virat is making it sharper. He does not need a saw. He has allowed the beard to flourish. Like that other great thinker of our times, Misbah ul Haq. Forward thinking. Take more singles. Adds to a total. Drive in the V. Get the partnerships going. Facilitate two all rounders suddenly. Get your quiet wicket keeper to breathe at the wicket. Allow your speedsters to do the seam and bounce thing. Junk containment. But dry up the runs through aggressive fields. Allow your premier spinner to give away runs in search of wickets. Keep working on the impish left armer's fields for a variable bounce off the pitch. Forward thinking. Think ten overs hence. Scenography. Again Misbah. But not as inscrutable. Not at all. Voluble. Jolly. Very Punjabi! Kohli!!