A Song 2

At Marine Drive on
Arabian Sea,
Kabir, Tuka missing.
Kabir picked up as terrorist,
Tuka as activist;
found Das Kapital on Kabir,
Mao on Tuka,
detesting development
protesting moksha,
attesting poor,
holding up Cadillacs
loaded with patrakars.
Sec. 144 put down as
police shutdown for
corporate upside downs.

A song

At Marine Drive on
Arabian Sea,
waters shiver,
traffic on reverse.
Kabir, Tuka content stilling
unstill seas,
unsure winds,
with dohas, abhangs
scribbled on skies
without horizons.
Untuned Ram, Krishna, Haris
cantillated unhurried,
going well with Cadillacs and Marutis.  

Hashim Amla and Eden Gardens

Wept over morning filter kapi. Hashim Amla, me favourite cricketer, will not anymore walk in whites to the pitch for a toss. That ultimate gentleman of international cricket, who still walks and waits not for the umpires, will not captain South Africa. Thankfully, he will continue to play for South Africa and hope South Africa keeps him. And Eden Gardens will have a name change proposed none other than by a Bengali and former India captain Sourav Ganguly. Amla has style, maybe not as much as Azharuddin and Laxman; but the leg glance and cover drives with little of bat and legs are there; Amla is Rumi of world cricket. Associated Press in The Indian Express says: Some of the criticism of the softly spoken Amla's leadership style was that he wasnt aggressive enough, a characteristic out of kilter with some recent Proteas captains, who favoured an in-your face kind of style. 'If you try and copy anybody, you'll never be a success', Amla said. 'There are many forms of leaderships.' Yes Sir Amla; you are a man me will walk the greens with and chat cricket. Not the convict behaviour of Ricky Ponting or Virat Kholi with boxing gloves. Firdose Moonda in ESPNCricinfo, South Africa correspondent, quotes Amla: 'Temba and I have very similar careers. The first time you play Test cricket everybody doubts you because of the colour of your skin. Even though you've got the stats to back it up domestically, everybody doubts you for various reasons.' Sad. And this in Nelson Mandela country. Those who count cricket like loose change, Amla has a batting average of 51.13. From Amla to Sourav Ganguly is a steep drop. For Rs. 5 crore and more, Sourav Ganguly, president, Cricket Association of Bengal, proposes to do away with Eden Gardens. Eden Gardens will be sponsored with the highest bidder nailing his name plate to the door. The scoreboard will be sponsored by none other than Reliance Jio of Mukesh Ambani. The Indian Express correspondent writes: 'More precisely, Eden Gardens is home venue of Kolkata Knight Riders , a direct rival of Mumbai Indians, which is owned by Mukesh Ambani. Will the KKR accept a potential threat of ambush marketing? The franchises pay Rs.30 lakh per match to host associations in the IPL.' With my uncle (now residing in Khar Road) have watched Test cricket at Eden; relished Pataudi and his team at net practice at Eden; have walked the Eden turf, never played on it; on Test days, a Bengali will ask another: ' Eden jachish (Going to Eden).'; and a Bengali doing the damage. Now there will not be Eden Gardens as there is no Calcutta. Sourav Ganguly will style himself Sourav Ambani to find favour with Mukesh Ambani and Anil Ambani.  Thanks Sourav for the insult. No Eden, No Gardens.   

Palwankar Baloo, the Dalit cricketer

Watched the first black South African, Temba Bavuma, score a century at Cape Town and most appropriately against the Englismen. He steered the ball past first slip to the third man boundary, joyran the pitch with helmet off. Makhya Ntini in the stands cheered loud and long and why not? Bavuma walked to the pavilion, not out at 102; a short, strong build, he seems to prefer shots to the mid-wicket region; he stretches forward more than using his feet for the classical back and forward sway. Enjoying the cricket amid drinks, dances and kisses; yes, the female audience is a delight; wish our fans could do the same at Eden, Chepauk and Wankhede. South Africa and England are playing for the Basil D'Oliveira trophy. John Arlott writes on Basil: 'He did the impossible. He broke out of the bonds of apartheid which rendered him a second-class citizen in his native South Africa to reach the highest level of his chosen profession in another country; and to be decorated by the Queen of England with the OBE. That was his message of hope to all the under-privileged races in South Africa, that escape to emancipation, liberty, and success, though still remote, is not impossible.' Temba Bavuma has made it and if South Africa wins the series, Bavuma should be requested to accept the trophy and Hashim Amla, cricket's best gentleman, will surely agree. For me, there are two fine cricketing humans in international cricket: Hashim Amla and Moieen Ali. A genre sharing with Bavuma is an Indian cricketer deleted from Indian cricket memory: a Dalit called Palwankar Baloo, dealt with sympathy and in detail, by Ramchandra Guha in A corner of a foreign field; perhaps, the best book on Indian cricket and may boast of Rahul Dravid, as the lone reader. As Guha admits, Palwankar Baloo is entirely off the screen, not a blink. A Calcutta journalist of those times details: A fine left-hand bowler, who possesses marvellous stamina. Breaks from both sides. Has the easiest of deliveries. Seldom tires. Can bowl all day long. Keeps an excellent length. Never sends down a loose delivery. Understands the game thoroughly. Places the field to a nicety, catches come (to the fielders), they have not to go in for them. Decidedly a head bowler.' Being a Dalit, was treated a Dalit. Invited to play for Poona Hindus, on humiliating terms. 'On the field the upper caste cricketers touched the same ball as he, but off it they observed the ritual taboos. At the tea interval, that ceremony sacred to cricket, Baloo was served the liquid outside the pavilion, and in a disposable clay matka, while his colleagues drank in white porcelain cups inside. If he wished to wash his hands and face, an Untouchable servant of the club took a kettle out into a corner of the field and poured water from it. Baloo also ate his lunch off a separate plate, and on a separate table,' details Guha. Baloo knew C.K. Nayudu and Dr. B.R. Ambedkar. BCCI annual awards has a trophy in the name of C.K. Nayudu: Col. C.K. Nayudu Lifetime Achievement Award. No award in the name of Palwankar Baloo. Sorry, Baloo. 

The Lady and Dahl

A wide-mouthed 'Happy 2016', from the Lady as she shook me hand and unhinged it. Did not mind having stepped into 2016 pulpy in the head after all the reading of Roald Dahl and his kids books - Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Matilda and The BFG. 'So how was it all,' me asked and she sat me on the bench at Bhagwan's tea stall. 'A long week my pets - birds, dogs, cats and Dinesh, my donkey - have slept; nights we chatted, sang and drank French wines, a friend sent me; two fruit bats, as you know, had no problems as they munch the nights and snore the days; Dinesh shook my hands with his forelegs for the good times; excited, kicked the sofa with his hind legs; and now, back to the ancient routine. The Lady was dressed, adequately covered, upside down-way - a T-shirt for her lower half and a frock for the upper half - with her walking stick bent into a purse. Tea session over we stood up to continue with the walk like writing a news report after stepping out for a smoke. Along the wall guarding the St. Francis ground, we were making our way, when out flew over the wall a five year old boy, landed on the Lady; apparently, the kid ran in to kick a football in the ground (a penalty), missed the ball, came over the wall; the ball stayed unmoved; oye, shouted his team and the coach as they came out in search of the Shandy, the kid. Shandy was not sure of the proceedings; had a belly laugh as his friends collected him and put him back into the game; as that was happening, an elder riding a cricket bat scaled the ball in search of a cricket ball, crashed into the Lady; this time the Lady fell while the elder had no clue to the happening. An amused Lady was thankful stones and birds were not falling from the skies as it happens when she is deep asleep in her bed. The last stop of the Lady is the Bun Shop opposite the Church whose owner, young Philip, is madder than the Lady; most of the time, he is at the Church in prayers leaving the Shop open and customers waiting in unison, praying; they wait as the buns are cheap, weighty and sweet; at 6 in the morning, the bun van comes, Bun Shop opens, fresh cakes, pavs and bread loaves are stacked on the shelves; Philip runs to prayers as then business flowers, he claims and the Lady and all nod yeses. Philip is brisk at the shop, neatly packs items in fresh, morning newspapers, the vendor, his friend, drops. No complaints over the food; ready with loose change; first cum first serve, no breaking lines. The Lady shuffles into the queue for her regular, vegetable puffs, brun pavs and Amul butter; Philip is sure, it is not for her but for her pets; on Sundays he gives a hefty discount to the Lady. Yes, that's what the chewing of Roald Dahl does to readers, unfixes a 70 year old. 

Kottaratil Sankunni, the first Indian columnist?

Evenings at Kottayam in the 1900s. Friends K.A. Varghese Mappila and Kottaratil Sankunni and a few others meet to chat. Something of a needy rite. K.A. Varghese Mappila, editor of Manorama and Bhashaposhini and Kottaratil Sankunni wrote, subbed, edited, brought out in a manner Manorama, daily; took a break at 4 p.m. for talks over chai and paruppu wada at a potti kada, not sure; at these sessions Kottaratil Sankunni unroped tales more imaginative than factual; one day Varghese Mappila offered to serialise the tales in Manorama and Bhashaposhini; Ithihyamala got birthed; later editor of Lakshmibai, Vellaykal Narayana Menon bound the columns into a book. That's the story signed off by Kottaratil Sankunni in a preface dated, Kottayam, 5-9-1084 (17-4-1909), to Ithihyamala. In Calcutta, father read out an old Malayalam edition on Sunday afternoons and me enjoyed the tales dipped in magic; in recent times, wife Rama helps with the Malayalam telling from a revised two volumes of Ithihyamala. Abraham Eraly has a compressed English edition Tales once told: Legends of Kerala; 'These are not folktales, but historical anecdotes of a legendary character. Most of the events described in them lack hard historical veracity, but they are nevertheless invaluable for exploring the psyche of Kerala lying beneath the surface clutter of manifest facts,' writes Abraham Eraly. Me does not claim a Kerala psyche but surely have been touched by Kerala psyches; a risible, doubting and cynical psyche; an architectural must for a newspaper columnist and cartoonist and Kottaratil Sankunni, perhaps, is the first Indian language columnist. Experts may correct me though the thought remains; tales crafted with mind and magic locked for company; easily written; menu deep and wide as the kayals flowing by Kottayam. 'But more than anything else, these are fascinating tales in themselves,' writes Eraly.  It should have been a fine adda under coconut lined skies; for me, Narayanaththu Pranthan, the favoured. Pranthan rolled stones up a height, roared in fun as they rolled down; an entire day; in the evening, he cooked what he got, mostly rice; one evening he boiled the rice over a fire taken from a burning body in a masan; a ferocious goddess asked him to quit, he did not; she promised to fulfil any wish put up by Pranthan; can you shift my death date, he asked; she said no; and Pranthan went his way or as the Tamils say: Chithan pokku, Shivam pokku. Pranthan is a part of me from the time Father told the tale; rewind him every day. Life is an absurdity; Pranthan is absurd; we are absurd. Now two requests to the Kerala psyche: a film on Pranthan, imaginatively rich with loudness absent; a biography of Kottaratil Sankunni in English. He may be best for journalists 2016. India 2016 needs Sankunni most.

Brijnath and sports

   

'Uncle, khelega,' smiled 6-year old Siyu with a bat and ball in hand. 'Haan,' me responded. Siyu handed me the rubber ball as she marked the crease, settled down to bat with the bumper of a car for stumps on a cemented half-feet of space. Me under armed a spin to the ball and she hooked it over 5 cars, scrambled past six cars for runs; me bent under a Mahindra SUV for the rubber sphere, not a kookabura. Within minutes, Chiyu, Niyu, Biyu, Hiyu and Kiyu joined up, teams were formed and a Test started among parked cars. That space in the housing society was a green park; now a cemented parking slot, with cars and SUVs stacked back to back, one on another; a rusty, tin board in a forgotten corner says: For children. Fathers and mothers pat, wipe, kiss and chat up their cars while yelling out their kids, spend more hours in cars than outside. That's living in Mumbai, New York style. Today, the Test match eased into its own rhythm with toss, Cokes and protests to me, doubling as the lone umpire. Parents were living their hangovers in bed. Dance and drinks had done them in, they forgot their cars; dreamt of cars. Their children were happy ..... or that was what me thought when a wrangle, green shooted, Chiyu refusing to field claiming the scoreboard to be tampered...a routine affair with adults. Maybe, Chiyu was at the TV for India-South Africa Test matches in Nagpur, Delhi and wherever. In India, India alone wins; in South Africa, England wins. The Test match stood suspended with no reference to dodgy ICC. The kids broke into another game setting me free to sofa rest weary legs ...it was not so years ago stamping the Maidan grass in Calcutta; Maidan youthed me; Maidan is in me; and as Maidan is sports, for me sports is everything; everything else can wait, waits; me faith; or rather, much better put by that elegant sports writer Rohit Brijnath in Mint today: ' Why I still have faith in sport'. Rohit Brijnath is the verser of sports and philosopher of sports, of all sports; he writes: ' ....And then there is Charlotte Brown. We speak of extraordinary athletes trusting their skills, but she stretches that idea of faith so far that it is bewildering. This year she, 17, hurtled down a runway, planted a vaulting pole and ascended 3.50m into the air to win bronze at the Texas state high-school championships. Which is unexceptional till one considers that Brown cant see the runway, cant see the pole-vaulting box, cant see the bar, cant tell where she is. 'If I am going to challenge myself,' said the blind teenager,'why only challenge myself a little bit. I want to make it hard.' Yes, that's blind faith in sports. Yes, Rohit Brijnath. Am not a sports writer (tried, got rejected); but watch all sports; when nothing is live on sports channels or in living, watch DD Sports with its last century clippings of  Indian athletics. Yes, sports is me faith, Maidan me prayer book.