The master in the making!

Mumbai’s School Cricket tournaments date back to the days of the Raj. We do not know who Messrs. Giles and Harris were, but the tournaments instituted in their name continue to this day. For every Cricket player in High School, the Giles Shield for Under-15 and the Harris Shield for Under-17 are coveted tournaments. Despite our urge to weed out pre-Independence names, Giles and Harris have surprisingly survived.

The competition was fierce and the top schools vied for the title. These tournaments served Mumbai’s cause well. From the days of Gavaskar to today’s Prithvi Shaw, Mumbai has produced run-making machines in every generation. Their skills were honed in these school matches, where kids as young as 10 years lugged heavy kits and played hard, competitive Cricket. Mumbai’s Azad Maidan and Cross Maidan- these sprawling grounds have nurtured many a school Cricketer, who went on to play for Mumbai and India. The erstwhile Bombay brand of batting was plain and simple. Play like a disgruntled miser, “khadoos khelneka”, never give your wicket away and bat till you wear the opposition down. It was in school cricket that these basics were instilled.

School Cricket was a bubble in itself. Information traveled quickly by word of mouth. Everyone kept a keen eye for the next big star to dazzle the Cricket horizon. Umpires officiated in these matches for a pittance, with even one elderly English umpire. His passion for the school games was so intense, that he had missed the vital point that it was now Independent India and continued to stay on! Journalists covered these matches prominently. If you scored 30 runs, you saw your name in the next day’s newspaper. If you scored a 50 or a 100, you earned the headlines- so and so “shines”. If you took 5 wickets, the headlines screamed so and so “deadly!” Needless to say, this was a school kid’s instant claim to fame. You felt on top of the world!

I was fortunate to be part of this Cricket circuit through the years in school. Regardless of my performance in Cricket or the lack of it, it has surely supplied ample text for conversation! And there is no Cricket narrative that is a bigger hit with young fans than this one. “You mean, you played Cricket with the Master himself?” It is a question bordering on disbelief that I am often faced after each narration. “Not with, against!” I would gently correct them. This is how the tale goes.

It was a Giles Shield match at Shivaji Park where our school faced Shardashram Vidyamandir. We were quite well placed in the match. After the fall of a wicket, a sixth grader with curly hair came in to bat. He played strokes that belied his age, especially the way he pulled the short ball to the boundary. There was something special about that boy- he was a pocket-sized dynamite. His innings made the difference and we lost the match.

A few years later, a certain curly haired boy made his debut for India. The similarity was too close to be casually brushed aside. I could not contain my curiosity any more. One evening, I went to school and requested the old scorebooks to be pulled out. I flipped through the pages and finally rested on the page I had in mind. My finger hurriedly scanned the list of batsmen from Shardashram’s scorecard and sure enough, he was there. You guessed it right. It was Sachin Tendulkar, the Master Blaster!

Many a night, I have suddenly woken up and rewound the mind's tape to that day. I can feel the sea breeze at Shivaji Park, the sun-swept ground and the Cricket pitch closest to the statue of Maharaj. I chuckle at the thought- who knows, maybe, it was our bowling that gave that sixth-grader the self-belief that he belonged to Cricket. And go on to be the phenomenon he was, for a quarter of a century! Back then, he was not a finished product yet. I was lucky. I could watch glimpses of greatness at such close quarters. “Yes, I saw the master...while he was still in the making!”

Nadaswaram and weddings!

Nadaswaram is a “mangala vaadya”, an instrument that ushers an auspicious atmosphere. South Indian weddings and nadaswaram go hand in hand. To think of a South Indian wedding without the nadaswaram is like celebrating Deepavali without lights or Holi without colors! So intimately, the sounds of the instrument are woven into the occasion.

Even before the wedding gets underway, the nadaswaram troupe is at the hall, in the wee hours of the morning. The troupe consists of the main musician, his deputy, a drummer (thavil vidvan) and occasionally, a cymbals player. The main nadaswaram artiste has a regal appearance- draped in a spotless silk “jibba” and “veshti”. His torso is decked with multiple gold-chains and medals. He displays them with pride- like an army officer wears the badge of honour. The deputy artiste literally plays the second fiddle. His task is important- he has to maintain the pitch unswervingly, while the main artiste improvises the music over this drone. The drummer’s fingers are taped in white-bandage, or so it looks to the onlooker. It is as if, he needs that protection as he pounds his drum!

Having settled down in a corner of the wedding hall, it takes just the clatter of the drum and the first few notes of the nadaswaram to transform the place. The hall and the entire neighborhood is charged with festivity. Such is the nadaswaram’s magical effect.

The nadaswaram’s role in a wedding is like the background score in a film. The background score fills every frame of the film, but strangely, its presence goes unnoticed. So too, all the wedding’s proceedings are conducted against the backdrop of the nadaswaram. The groom and the bride occupy center-stage, the priests maintain a rhythmic chant and family members welcome the guests. Ladies sashay in colorful silk saris, children run around, there is laughter and conversation, everything plays out over the hubhub of the music. The nadaswaram artiste is like a zen-monk- unmindful of the overwhelming commotion. He maintains a line-of-sight communication with the main priest. At opportune moments in the wedding, the priest waves his hand like a music-conductor. The cue is for the musician to change the tempo and raise the pitch to a crescendo. That is only attention that comes the nadaswaram’s way through the function.

In the same hall, sits an elderly gentleman in the far corner. Family members are unsure which side of the family he comes from. They leave him alone. For him, the wedding has receded in the background. His attention is entirely on the music. His head sways, he blurts out “shabhash” and he keeps track of the beat when the drummer gets into action. The only time this gentleman gets up from his seat is to bless the couple with a shower of rice-grains, that too because someone thrust the grains into his palm!

By midday, the wedding comes to a close. Everyone makes a beeline to congratulate the couple and head for the sumptuous lunch. Our gentleman walks in a different direction, to the corner where the artiste has just packed away his instrument. “Your Todi raga was grand! And the percussion round was A-class!” The nadaswaram artiste’s eyes light up. He touches his heart with a gentle bow as he gracefully accepts the words of appreciation. “It is all my guru’s blessings!” he trails away.

A tailor-made relationship!

These days, you hear a lot about the “growth-chart”. The doctor measures the height and weight and tracks the Body Mass Index through the growing years. Going back in time, by about four decades, growth charts were non-existent. However, someone did track your growth spurts. It was your tailor!

Each family had its extended circle- a family doctor, a family priest and even a family tailor. You built the relationship with these caregivers over a period of time. It made the service personal.

The tailor greeted you with a big smile the moment you entered the shop. The shop was compact- shelves stacked with clothing material and filled with the aroma of fresh cloth. He had an amiable disposition with a pencil perched on his ear and a measuring tape hanging around the shoulder. The drill was familiar. Asking you to stand straight and tall, he measured you from top to toe. He made you extend your arms and part your feet. It tickled you to get so much attention and made you feel special. At the end of it, he peered into the notebook and gave a frank assessment- “You have become taller by 3 cm. You have also become a little fatter- by 2 cm!” He promised to have the dress ready very soon.

Personalized stitching took its own sweet time- 3 weeks to a month. From the sheepish grin with which the tailor greeted you, you knew the dress was not ready. Disappointment was inbuilt in the journey and made the final outcome fonder. He managed to wriggle away with a convoluted excuse each time, with the assurance that the next time, it would be ready! The excitement was in the wait, in the anticipation of the eventual fruition.

In the absence of social media, your window to the world and its sartorial tastes was limited. The tailor was the fashion-guru. Sometimes, he insisted on a “Bush shirt” and bell-bottom trousers. The following visit, the style had changed. “It is all pleated pants nowadays!” he announced with certainty. By Diwali, he had a different suggestion. “You go for a safari suit!” You blindly followed his instructions and seldom regretted.

Contrast this with today’s popular culture. You have lost track of the number of malls in the neighbourhood. Every mall is littered with branded, ready-made clothes of bewildering variety. When you emerge from the mall, you carry multiple bags with new shirts and trousers. Ready-made wear is like saying –“One size fits all”. You can flaunt the brand name on the shirt pocket, but cannot avoid the inevitable fitting problems. You quickly pick the new shirt from the aisle and pay at the counter. It is instant. Sometimes, waiting is worthwhile. It is like getting hundreds of “forwards” on social media today, but not one letter specially written for you. You miss your tailor and the bond that you shared with him.

Back then, there was no need for self-help books and counsellors to boost your self-image. The tailor donned that role effortlessly. As you emerged from the trial room in a brand new safari suit, the tailor’s eyes lit up. He was effusive, “You look like a hero! Amitabh Bachchan will have to find a new job!” and put his hand affectionately around the shoulder. You felt on top of the world!

Summer vacation and Chess!

I hope Vishwanathan Anand does not read this article. He is likely to get sleepless nights that his favorite game was treated with such irreverence. But this essay goes back to a time when Anand was yet to hit world stage. Back then, only two individuals were playing the game on the entire planet- Karpov and Kasparov. At least, the Chess ignoramus that I was, no third name came to mind.

The Chess board gathered dust in the cupboard. Once a year, during summer vacation, it was brought out with great fanfare when all other entertainment was blocked. It was too hot to go out, there was no TV, no comics to read and the children in the neighborhood had gone to their native places. That left my sister and me to battle it out at home. And what can be better than a cerebral game like Chess for an engaging afternoon?

Chess is an acquired taste, much like Mathematics. There are people who take to it like a fish to water. And then, there are others who tolerate it. It entirely depends on how you are wired. But like the basics of Arithmetic, you know how the pieces move. That is enough to play the game. My sister was a shade better than me, which is not saying much, but it made for an even contest.

In the absence of formal tutoring, a Chess upstart devices his own strategy. One of them is to play “black” and exactly follow the opponent move for move. If the white pawn is moved, you move the same pawn on your side. If the Bishop is moved 3 spaces, you do the same. It makes the opponent nervous as though you are stalking them. My sister was clearly irked. “You copy cat! Don’t you have your own mind?” The trick is to silently endure the barbs, make the opponent so ill at ease, that they forfeit the game.

Sound effects add an element of suspense to the move. Or you use it to irritate the opponent. Each time you move the Knight, you imitate clip-clop of the horse, and when it comes to a standstill, let out a full throated neigh! If you move the Queen, you mouth an evil punchline from the latest Bollywood thriller. If you cut a piece, you strike it with such force, that it goes tumbling and takes it with, a few adjoining pieces! The mind games help- the opponent becomes tentative, makes an obvious mistake and the game is yours.

When none of the strategies work, you simply delay the game, pondering for an eternity before every move. It gives the impression that each move is calculated and precise. After a point, the opponent loses patience. “Why do you take so much time just to move a pawn? What are you thinking?” “I was thinking about the ice-cream we are going to have in the evening!” “Enough! Stop day-dreaming and play the game!” It is easy to end a game of Chess when it is not going your way. All it requires is a little nudge to the board, as if you have clumsily upset it. No one recalls the position of the pieces and you need to start afresh.

Playing Chess with the neighborhood champion is a different ball game. He is too good for you. In a few moves, he has called out “Check”. As you dither to save the King, for every potential move, his fingers twirl on his Queen and he calls out a louder “Check”. Like a trapped deer, you prance around this way and that, till he ends the agony and calls out a final “Check-mate”.

But the best of them can be cornered on a given day. You start off with a completely unconventional move. May be, you move the Bishop all the way. It is like sending the pinch-hitter in Cricket. The surprise element rattles the opponent. He expects you to be a champion player, over thinks and succumbs. That day, you feel on top of the world- you are India’s answer to Anatoly Karpov!

The allure of Marina Beach, Chennai

The moment Mahatma Gandhi’s statue loomed large, you knew you had reached Marina Beach in Chennai. A crow would be invariably perched upon the Mahatma’s shoulder or sometimes on his crown. Its blackness blended with the rest of the statue- it appeared an integral part of the sculpture! Edward Elliot’s Road as the road was called then, ended at the statue. From the statue, the sphere of vision suddenly expanded, stretched like a screen in cinemascope! All you saw was an expanse of sand. The ocean, in the far distance, was a thin ribbon of blue.

The excitement to get to the water could not be contained anymore. Running on the sand was not easy. You removed the slippers, took it in hand, and darted off like a 100 meters sprinter. Even the stiff sea-breeze could not hold you back. The sprint ended when you felt the wetness of the sand and came face to face with the ocean. The majesty of the ocean is unmatched and at Marina Beach, it was available in its uninhibited fullness. There was no obstruction, man-made or imposed by nature, to block your vision. It was sea and sand everywhere.

Each time you went to the Marina, you promised not to go any deeper into the water and get the clothes wet. Initially, you followed the script. The waves were mellow and played with you like a spritely puppy. They hugged your feet and as they retreated, tickled your toes. Wave upon wave stirred up and crashed as if made of sugarcane juice- greenish-blue in color and creased with white foam. You got used to the norm and became complacent- that’s when a monster wave came from nowhere and trounced everything in its wake, and when it retreated, you were wet from top to toe!

A trip to Marina was complete only when you played in the sand. You either dug a well or built a mountain. If it was a well, it had to be deep enough till you met the water. Sometimes, you abandoned the project midway because you disturbed a crab’s family. If it was a mountain, it had to be tall and patted to a finish with wet sand. You dug tunnels from four sides till four sets of tiny fingers could shake hands inside the mountain! Later, you scoured the sand till the pockets bulged with the booty of colorful sea-shells.

As the sun set, darkness was quick to descend. The ocean looked more ominous now. The waves were darker and bigger, and the roar, a decibel louder. A twinkle in the distance indicated a lonesome ship. A row of lights in the distance marked the harbor. The light-house now came alive. Its encircling beams cast a patch of light in each direction. It was time to head home.

Beach vendors enticed you with raw mangoes- sliced into thin strips and arranged in an arc, like miniature coconut fronds! Smeared with a generous coating of chilly-powder and salt, raw mangoes were an irresistible treat. It did not matter that it was too spicy and the sides of the mouth burnt with its tingling sensation! As we hopped into the car, it could not be more uncomfortable! The clothes were dripping wet, caked with sand and clung to the skin. And the entire evening was fanned by Chennai’s summer heat and humidity. Still, there was not one complaint. It was the best evening you could wish for.

I have not been to Marina Beach for a long time. The entire essay has been written from memory dating back to childhood. But memory is a great companion. As you think, more details emerge and you are transported back in time. I hope the Marina is still as inviting as in my dreams. I hope to go to the beach and find that child once more. I hope to stand at the ocean-edge with my hand held out and ask, “Appa! If I swim in this direction, where will I reach?” “May be, Sri Lanka!” “And what if I swam keeping this angle, appa?” “Well, who knows? May be, you will reach America!”

The magic of the fountain-pen

The “coming of age” moment is different in each generation. For many of us, the moment was in school, when we transitioned from the pencil to the fountain-pen. It was in sixth grade, but the excitement of the passage-rite is not forgotten. The fountain-pen stayed an inseparable companion from then on, right through college and the years at work.

Fountain-pens were messy, especially for a sixth-grader. The pens leaked and the finger-tips had a perpetual blue stain. Any excess ink on the fingers readily went to the hair and served as a natural conditioner! Filling ink into these pens required the precision of a chemist. The ink-filler either went missing or lost its natural suction. It meant tilting the ink-bottle in full and filling the fountain-pen. Accidents were many. The white of the floor lay splattered in blue-ink and had to be cleaned-up in a tearing hurry, before other questioning eyes could witness the crime-scene. Despite all the care, sometimes, pens fell off the table. One fall was enough to cripple the pen’s nib and it could rarely be salvaged from then on. Still, we loved the fountain-pen. For exams, multiple pens were kept in perfect shape, like an archer with a quiver-full of sharp arrows.

A fountain-pen did not work as intended, the moment you bought it. It had to be tamed and domesticated as one would train a pet dog. In the beginning, the pen had a mind of its own. It was rough, scratchy and with no smooth flow. It had to be coaxed and cajoled and as we wrote more, it fell in line with the writing style. Some pens were stubborn and refused to be reined in. It required strong-arm tactics like polishing the nib on a piece of coarse sandpaper. In due course of time, it was no longer a pen, but an extended arm. As we dotted the ‘i’s and crossed the ‘t’s through reams of paper, it was artwork all the way!

In those days, fountain-pens made a suave style statement. There was an air of sophistication associated with the pen. It was clipped to the shirt pocket so that only the golden-glint of the cap-holder was visible. Just the manner someone pulled out the fountain pen, wrote a few lines in an elegant calligraphic hand, and placed it back in the pocket, made an instant impact. We were filled with awe and went weak in the knees, as if in the presence of Shelley, Byron and Tennyson, all rolled in one!

Fountain-pens and diaries went together. Many an aspiring poet or budding writer, in the first flush of youth, maintained a diary where their imaginative minds found poetic expression. Recently, I chanced upon an old diary of mine from college days. Eagerly, I flipped through the pages to perchance stumble upon some long forgotten secret. I had no such luck. There was one page with a single entry that read “gulab jamun two rupees, fifty paise”. It was written in running hand, in a breezy style, and with a flow indicative of a good fountain-pen. I could not help but admire the piece of calligraphy, and of course, the thought provoking content. The fountain-pen does that magic. It has the ability to convert the mundane and the ridiculous to the sublime!

We do not know when the fountain-pen went out of fashion. In some ways, it was a definite victim of the IT revolution. Now, people write less and type more on their computers and laptops. Writing has fallen out of favor, and with that fountain-pens have been relegated to the background. Even children have other pens- ball-pens and gel-pens but rarely a fountain-pen. We have reached a point when the hands tremble just to sign a bank-check. So woefully out of touch we are, with writing. Fountain-pens are on the verge of extinction and will find their rightful place in the glass cases of future museums. We will take our selfies with fountain-pens, much as we do with vintage cars, as relics belonging to an earlier age.

Paan-India delicacy

If there is one eatable that has a pan-India appeal, it is “paan”. The fascination for betel-leaf extends across the country- from Banaras to Belur, from Baroda to Bongaigaon! Like any indulgence, moderation is the key. But there is no doubt, that this betel-leaf preparation is India’s favorite delicacy. Every street-corner has its little paan-shop.

The paan-wala in the Northern parts of India, has a regal presence. A ball of fragrance hangs around him. His compact shop is packed with varieties of betel-leaves, dozens of silver containers and copper pots. Wiping his hands off his red rag-cloth, he is truly an artist, as he gets to work. His canvas is the green betel-leaf. He coats it with a calcium paste in white, adds a liquid in brown, and then, mixes the colors to a light pastel shade. His nimble fingers now get into action- a dash of power from one container, a sprinkle of coconut filings from another and a shake from another dispenser. He tops it with a spoonful of rose-petal paste, a pod of cardamom, folds the betel-leaf in a triangle and hands it out in style. For special customers, he has an ice-box filled with customized, frozen paan- the betel-leaf embossed with a silver-foil and with a cherry-top toothpick to hold the betel-leaf together. Who can resist this indulgence?

The South Indian betel leaf is slightly different- It is smaller, greener and spicier in taste. There are not as many paan-shops in South India, but the fixation for the delicacy is no less. In earlier times, bus journeys were a great opportunity to observe a betel-leaf aficionado, who sat beside and indulged in his pet pastime. Much like the cellphone is an integral part of a person’s make-up today, in earlier times, it was the compact, silver, betel-nut case. Open the case, and it was stacked with sheaves of betel-leaves. The indulgent carefully pulled out a couple of leaves, shook off the water droplets and peeled off the tiny leaf-stalk. His fingers dug out some slaked-lime paste from a side-compartment. He finger-painted the betel-leaf and topped it with a sprinkling of fragrant betel-nut flakes. He meticulously rolled it up in a bun, and even as we watched curiously, popped it into the mouth. With the betel-leaf tucked in a ball to one side of his cheek, he was a changed personality! The irritation that accompanied the long, arduous bus journey was gone. His face exuded an indescribable calm and happiness- he was at peace with himself and with the world at large!

Betel leaves have a prominent presence in South Indian weddings. They are given prime-place in the wedding-hall with a table specially reserved for this. The betel-leaves are arranged on a silver-tray with the satellite accompaniments- packets of aromatic betel-nut crushed powder, areca-nut sliced flakes and a bowlful of sugar-crystal. By mid-day, the hoopla of the wedding celebration comes to a close and the hall empties out. The blazing sun outside, the coolness of the hall, the satiation following a full wedding-meal, all combine to keep the last few guests still lingering in the hall. They laze around in the hall to catch a quick, afternoon siesta and then reach out for the betel-leaves. As they work on the betel-leaves in the mouth, in a sort of reverie, it is best to avoid conversation. Betel-leaves and conversation do not go together. Much as we would like to know if they need a ride back home or a cup of coffee, we get no proper answers. The lips are stained a bright red and the juices threaten to overflow the sides of the mouth. All they can do is nod, mumble and gurgle incoherently. We leave them to complete their rumination!

The names are many- “beeda”, “maghai”, “banarasi”, “vethalai-paakku”, but the relish is much the same. The indulgence in betel-leaf is truly a connoisseur’s pursuit- where sight, smell, taste and after-taste all intermingle to make it such a delightful experience. It is iconized in film and song. Who can forget Amitabh Bachchan’s feet-tapping song in the 1970s- “khaike paan banaras wala”?