Bless You

I recently completed a course from the Art of Living entitled the Blessing/Healing Course. I am now authorised to bless/heal anyone having any problems - physical, mental or anything else. To be more accurate, I cannot really bless or heal, but attempt to channelise Guruji's power.

(If you are in the dark about either Guruji or the Art of Living you can use Google, because otherwise it would take a separate blog entry.)

I provide no guarantees as I don't understand a thing about how it works or when. But if you are in trouble you can ask me for help. I'll do my best. If you know me personally you can send in an e-mail or call me or accost me somewhere.

If you don't know me, you can still e-mail me. I'll see if anything can be done.

And oh yes, you don't have to believe a word of this for this to work. :-)

Just ask. You have nothing to lose.

Ustad Zakir Hussain, Me and Mayukh

If there is one sound that I could recognise while asleep, it would be the sound of Zakir's tabla. (I've irreverently called him by his first name for years.) In a strange twist of fate I had forgotten what it was like. To listen to him live. I had forgotten the fidgety, noisy audience before the curtain went up.

As I sat through his concert again, I remembered everything.

What the air smelt like, (perfumed and unlike Calcutta), the red-velvet chairs of the VIP's, the rich, the famous (all of whom would fall asleep in a short while), people trying to get noticed (by hand-shaking the red-velvet occupants from behind) - all very vivid.

The local musicians were all back-stage. (Mind you, when a Calcuttan refers to "local musicians", he refers to the best Classical talent the country has produced.) They were backstage because they wanted to talk to Zakir and let the world know that they were on talking terms with him. Normally, I would give and arm and a leg to be able to touch their feet, but today I wanted to be alone. Because today was the day that I heard that sound again.

I hated the crowd. I more than mildly hoped that I could wish them away so that I could be alone with him. OK, a few of the other genuine music lovers could possibly be admitted. Of course, I was the only person in the universe who understood his music. But the sleep-ers, the noisy, the rag-tag should definitely be shown the door. The "rag-tag" is used derisively but it it has no implications on social status and oddly enough, none on classical training or comprehension either.

I met Mayukh at St. Xavier's. I had a bit of an ego then because I could play the tabla fairly well and I think that he had an ego too and for exactly the same reason. We regarded each other with suspicion...

...till we discovered that we were both Zakir Hussain devotees. All was forgiven and we shook hands and made up. We spent time at each others' houses listening to Zakir's tapes and admiring his artistry. Eventually, we started practising together.

The wait for the curtain was getting unbearable. What made it more agonising was that you could hear Zakir tuning his tabla backstage.

The great Peavey's crackle to life. The crowd shifts and sits upright in anticipation of the announcement. With the introductions over the curtain goes up slowly to a mild mechanical whirring.

The suppressed hysteria finds vent. People stand up and cheer and clap and whistle and yell. Zakir has to quieten them down after thirty seconds.

The crowd is silent. Zakir signals to the sarangi and the heart-wrenching notes of the sarangi get added to the tanpura drone. The stage is set.

One cycle goes by. I wait for the life giving water. Zakir sits with eyes closed and hands on the tabla. As the sum is about to arrive, he suddenly awakens. There is a brief flash of his right index finger. It hits the kinaar in a single fulfilling stroke. Then silence again.

I drink in the perfection of the stroke. The tone is rich and full - I've never heard that in any other tabla player. The bol fills every nook and cranny of the auditorium. It permeates my being. My soul is full. The Ustad is ready. I am ready.

Eyes closed, I listen to the languorous peshkaar meandering its way through the sixteen beats. Unhurried, the Ustad plays. The perfection is all I can think of. Every strike is beautiful. What they create together is even more so. There is no flaw. He is doing stuff which under any other circumstance I would disbelieve. But now I cannot.

After 10 minutes we are still in ati-vilambit. My body strains and contorts as the rhythmic patterns get more expansive and elaborate. Its almost as if I fear that he is going to miss the sum this time - but he reminds you every time that while you are lost in his music, he is completely aware of the Beauty.

I wish the peshkaar would go on forever. 20 minutes down, not a single pattern has been repeated. It is new every time and makes you want more.

The relaxed rhythmic expressions are giving way to short bursts of impossible speed. What is amazing is that the tonal quality and fullness come through unhindered. I know at once why I worship him.

One thing that Mayukh and I hated the most was the crowd hysteria in St. Xavier's over western music. People loved the school band. They whistled and clapped when they sang and drummed. And they boo-ed and jeered at Classical numbers.

We decided we would take the risk of our lives. Next Teacher's Day, when the students put up numbers for the faculty, we would join in. We enlisted as "Classical Tabla Duet" to raised eyebrows and smothered smirks.

On that fateful day in September, as the curtain went up we gulped. There were at least one million people in the auditorium. We were dwarfed in their presence. We couldn't see anything because of the lights on us. The world seemed like a black hole.

Our stomachs swimming, we stammered to the audience to give us a chance. They did and fell silent. We remembered Zakir in our minds, did a low five and started...

The qaidas take over. My disappointment at the peshkaar getting over is soon overcome. Zakir's left hand is doing things on the bnaya which makes the audience go crazy. I am hoping that they won't break out into foolish clapping and spoil it for me. They do.

Zakir's hands begin to look motorised. They are spewing out intricate improvisations. I watch open mouthed. He is smiling and has his eyes fixed in space over the audience's heads. I realise he is connected to a source of Beauty that I can only appreciate, but not see. He sways mildly and head-bangs vigorously. His fingers are a blur. But I can still hear each stroke. That same room-filling and soul-filling sound. There is no sacrifice of Classical integrity. He is doing undocumented stuff. But they are augmenting the integrity and reinforcing it.

The audience is hysteric, they don't know what to do. They don't see it as lucidly as I do, but they know that something is going on. The creative process eludes them. I see it. Zakir doesn't. For he is possibly unaware of what he is doing. There is a spontaneity rising from within him and his fingers are merely reacting in expression. He is oblivious that he is doing something incredible. He is doing it because it is flowing through him. For him, it is neither incredulous nor impossible. For he personifies something beyond judgement right now.

The resounding crash of the sum brings me out of the trance. The audience erupts. They feel the need for expression. Poor souls! If only they could see what I saw, they would not clap. Clapping is demeaning to the Beauty. Would you clap at a beautiful sunset? Would you clap at a garden in spring bloom? Would you clap at a Kalbaishakhi? Why do you clap now? If you can see true Beauty, you will be unable to react.

Mayukh and I became instant celebrities in school. We were heroes. Even the teachers looked at us starry-eyed. That was the confidence boost we needed. All of a sudden we were revered musicians.

Academics took the back burner. Zakir and the tabla were all we could think of. We sat on the same bench in class planning our next show. We were so lost that we often started drumming on the desk and had to be hauled up by the teacher. But celebrities are usually let off with mild chastisements...

We were on a roll after that. When some music school came on a lecture tour to St. Xavier's and starting acting too smart, Mayukh and I were called in (by the teachers believe it or not) to put them in their place. We did. When some Western Classical musicians came visiting St. Xavier's, we were asked to play at a private concert for them. We did.

But the icing on the cake came on Prize Distribution Day. The school band always performed on Prize Distribution - it was the norm. But that year, Father Headmaster and Father Prefect asked Mayukh and me to play on Prize Distribution Day.

Parents came up after the concert and asked us who we learnt from. We wanted to say Zakir Hussain, but kept quiet and smiled politely. But really, that is what either of us wanted to do. We were sick of having to imitate him. We harboured dreams of one day studying the tabla at his feet...

I lost touch with Mayukh 15 years ago when I moved to a different city to pursue my engineering degree.

Its been an hour. Ustadji shifts to madhyam Teentaal. There is a change in mood. A certain light-heartedness as he recites bols, attaches funny stories to them and plays them (immaculately). The audience takes in the stories very amused. Clever Zakir. While the stories are for the rag-tag, the bol's are for the the connossieur. One never knows the dividing line.

Blitzkrieg after blitzkrieg they arrive. I have been away from him for too long.

I reminisced about how when 7 years old, I had increased my daily tabla practice time from 10 minutes to 45 minutes on hearing my first live concert - Ustad Alla Rakha Khansaheb with his worthy son in jugalbandi. I had hated the monotony of the tabla till then and my parents had given up hope in those one and a half years.

After that concert, my parents had to deal with a completely different devil. By the time I was 10 years old, I could effortlessly do around two hours. My parents were proud I think. Till I reached the 8th class, they remained proud. Then they realised that something was wrong. My friends were joining tuition classes and I was locking myself up in a room for steadily increasing times. I was listening to Zakir tapes, rewinding them. I must have seen 100 live concerts of him by then and my parents had always been very supportive.

But when I reached my 9th they weren't any more. My friends could solve complex engineering problems already whereas I didn't display the slightest interest in them. I was practising for 7 to 8 hours daily and doing it without flinching. I was seeing within myself a love so great that I couldn't stay away. I played the tabla for hours. In my mind's eye, I saw Ustad Zakir Hussain and I wanted to be able to play like him. I analysed and corrected my music in a mental comparison with him...

I am jolted out of my reverie. Ustad Zakir Hussain has just fumbled on stage. Of course, I was the only person who knew it. I look up at him amused.

For a split second he looks befuddled. Then he goes berserk. I see what he is doing. He is making it up to everyone. His drumming starts to reach an alarming volume. A volume which seems like it will hurt the ears but actually doesn't. Even at this volume, he barely lifts his hands. I grip my seat handles bracing for impact. I know I am going to witness something I will cherish forever. Only, I don't know what it is going to be.

Zakir is saying sorry and vindicating himself at the same time. His entire body stiffens. The drumming has become spectacular. The volume is high and unwavering. The bnaya adds thunderous bass. The speed is frightening. The auditorium is reverberating. You feel scared. The audience dares not make a noise. For we witness naad-brahma.

Do you know what this is like? It is like the feeling you would get at the moment of bungee-jumping off a cliff. It is the feeling you get when India gets a wicket in the dying overs of a cliffhanger. Only - this carries on and on. You have never experienced this before. Every nerve and sinew in your body is bursting with the rush of emotions, the high point of emotions. Yet this doesn't pass like it would when you actually bungee-jump or you actually celebrate the wicket.

Zakir has hit the pause button for the rest of the world. I am suspended in time, waiting to scream out in release. But he drums on. Same volume, same bass, same speed - unfaltering and unwavering. I begin to sweat. I think I will cry because I cannot take it any longer. I have never experienced so much Beauty.

One and a half minutes later, he releases me from my temporal imprisonment. I cover my face with my hands. Thank you God for having put me on Earth in the same time as this genius. Does Zakir look at me and smile? I am not sure. He is pretending that nothing ever happened.

1 hour 45 minutes, the concert is drawing to a close. Ustadji's rela's come out thick and fast and little mellow - adding perfect contrast to what just transpired. The sound is still perfect - as if he just started. There are thin streams of perspiration down the side of his cheeks. He changes from one pattern to another. There is one person in the whole world who can keep playing without loss of tonal integrity after almost 2 hours of solid percussion - and that is Ustad Zakir Hussain. Over and over, he defies limits imposed by mere human muscles and tissues.

Again there is a rumbling from his tabla. Another storm is coming. I am familiar with this one. It is the grand climax. Ustad Zakir Hussain is pumping out 32 strokes per second and I can hear each and every one of them. Foolish people start clapping again. Any moment now, I think.

Tihai part one, tihai part two, tihai part three. Crash, bang, and then boom and sum collide in an impossible flurry of hits. Zakir gets up, thanks the audience like he had just had a cup of tea with them and melts away back stage. Everyone runs after him and the police are forced to form a barricade.

If there is something that I wanted to do very badly, it was to learn the tabla from Ustad Zakir Hussain. It had been my dream. Of course, now I will be too ashamed to even tell him that I once played the tabla.

Mayukh and I enjoyed a friendly rivalry over Zakir Hussain. At his concerts, we would try to outdo each other at how close we could get to him. Sometimes, we would manage to exchange a few words with the Ustad after the concert and then decide who he spoke more to.

Once, I beat Mayukh convincingly at the game. Zakir was playing with my (sarod) guru (Aashish Khan) and much to Guruji's dislike, I sneaked up behind him and sat on stage. Mayukh watched dismally from the audience. After the show, I rubbed it in but telling him how it felt like an earthquake when Zakir set off.

Mayukh however, had the last laugh. I got in touch with him last month after 15 years at a chance meeting. He has become a professional tabla player.

And he rubbed it in when he told me that he was learning the tabla from Ustad Zakir Hussain...

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Zakir's photo I took at a concert backstage and later had it autographed by him at another concert. Was lucky to have caught him in that pose...

Mayukh in blue and me in red. Sometimes I played the sarod, but mostly it was the tabla. This snap was taken when the Western musicians came visiting. We did play the tabla duet as the grand finale...

Lingua Franca

So, the British thought that they would be able to make English our primary language. 

I have spent time in three places - Calcutta, Pilani and Delhi - and have collected some gems of English from these various places. I am trying to enlist as many as I can recall. Most are from first hand experience.

By the way, this is not supposed to poke fun at either Bengalis or Marwaris or Punjabis. These are just plain funny and if you can't take it like that, maybe you shouldn't read any further.

A (C),(P),(D) will tell you where the collectible originated.

And Words Are All I Have...

Plantick (C) : What the other team gets when you foul their player in your own 'D' area in a game of football

Bridge (C) : Wind

Breeze (C) : Man-made structure connecting two non-contiguous land masses

Cambis Ball (C) : A tennis ball (I guess it comes from canvas ball)

Pum (rhymes with bum)-chaar (C)/Pin-chaar (D/P) : What you have when air leaks out of your vehicle tyre

Krunt (rhymes with grunt) (D) : The quantity you get when you divide voltage by impedance

Sport (D) : To prop up (emotionally or physically or mechanically)

Cartilage (P) : The small container inside your printer which holds the ink

Now For Some Phrases...

Jeevan Matrill (P) : Not Marwari for Life Insurance, but an alternative pronunciation used by some instructors for g-i-v-e-n m-a-t-e-r-i-a-l

Double up (C) : Used with abandon at a school in Calcutta (where I spent two years) by teachers (and hence also the students) to imply "Quicken your pace". Everytime I have heard that I have wanted to tell them that it should be either "On the double" or "Hurry up" but I usually laughed so hard that I actually doubled up...

Banging : Oooh! This is a good one. 95% of the faculty at a certain institution use this to imply castigation. I actually had to listen to this from a warden with a straight face - "Every night I am out with the students and as a result my wife bangs me. Every night I get banged by my wife and these buggers are still making a noise outside". Kinky!

Go For Togetherness (P) : Do something simultaneously. Example sentence construction - "Since the dates for the two conferences we are about to host are clashing, we will go for togetherness"

Complete Bloopers...

"It gets very hot in Goa in summer so the campus there is air-cooled"

One of the erstwhile hot-shots at an institution (who thankfully left the same) in a public gathering to students. The average maximum temperature at Goa is below 34 degrees Celcius by the way.

"I can't understand why we need research."

Another erstwhile hot-shot of the same institution (again who has left) in a faculty meeting during a discussion on research at the institution. I was so traumatised that I like to believe till date that I heard that wrong. I am sure its because he had difficulty conversing in English.

"Together we will have a huge technical orgasm" (D)

The speaker in his genuine attempt to inspire our design group to greater heights left out the "ni" syllable in the last word.

"The engine is very spacious" (D)

A very attractive girl to me in the showroom when I was trying to decide which car to buy.

"The electronics industry was bludgeoning then..." (P)

Ummm...I said that to a class of 250 students. I meant burgeoning.

Icing on the cake...

And finally, the jewel in the crown. 

For over a year, my phone bill from Airtel Rajasthan has arrived with a peculiar line in the address. They spelt my name wrong and I forgave that but this line really got me doubting that I didn't know enough about Pilani even after spending so much time here.

For a year I remained convinced that Pilani was referred to as the City of Inwar by the locals.

Till I remembered that I had once told the Airtel Rajasthan Customer Care that I lived inside the college campus. And then it dawned on me.

I'm including a snapshot of my phone bill address area. Can anyone crack this one? Cryptic crossword solvers should have a head start.

History Demystified

In case you didn't realise the revolution I was talking about in the previous post, here's what was happening in the world.

The oldest radio that my grandfather had was built with vacuum tubes - the only "switches" available to the world of electrical engineering then. The smaller ones which came after this had these vacuum tubes replaced with transistors. That meant that it took less space and transmission was immediately available as the transistors were devices which required no heating up time.

'AM' or Amplitude Modulation was the only medium of radio transmission for a very long time. 'FM' or Frequency Modulation came much later on. The communication engineers had been in a phase of great creativity. (I remembered all this vividly during my Communication Systems course at BITS Pilani. I made a 'D' in that course.)

I also had shivers up my spine when I read Tom Lee's book a few years back and he talked about the 'V.HOLD' (vertical hold) control on old television sets and how it was the first rudimentary phase locked loop (PLL) which needed to be manually locked from time to time. 

The BMW toy car that I had was one of the earliest things I saw which had put to good use the advances in mechanical and electrical engineering and the first example of a decision making (feedback) circuit that I saw.

Sinclair Research was a spectacular company. The early 1980's saw a spurt in commercial products utilising man's ability to make transistors smaller and fit on integrated board in chip form - and Sir Clive Sinclair was one of the first on the bandwagon. My cousins' computer was a ZX Spectrum. A massive commerical hit. It's heart was a VLSI chip known as a microprocessor. It was called the Zilog80 - Z80 in short.

(I shall be forever grateful to these cousins of mine. I knew about microprocessor machine code when I was 12 years old. Too bad I didn't own a computer then.)

Sinclair Research failed because of one solitary reason - it was incredibly ahead of its time. It was trying to do things technology would be able to realise only in the future. 1984 was really the year of doom for Sinclair.

More so, because in 1984 a young feller by the name of Steve Jobs introduced to the world a revolutionary new machine. It was called the Apple Macintosh. It used a new input device called a "mouse" and ran a "graphical user interface" operating system called the Mac OS. (My owning the MacBook today is my way of being a part of this legacy.)

The PC's which followed were a result of the rapid shrinking in transistor sizes. They stayed the same size but became more and more powerful. For example, the 486 microprocessor used the same area as the 386 but also had a mathematical co-processor on chip. With the 386 if you wanted faster math, you'd have to fix a separate processor on your motherboard. It was called the 387. 

I didn't know when I tried my hand with 'V.HOLD' on my grandfather's TV set, that I would work for a chip design company in a group which dealt with PLL's. I didn't know that I would specialise in integrated circuits which brought my beloved computers to my doorstep and eventually on to my lap. When I saw the first "transistor radio" I didn't know that many years later I would have the opportunity to teach to hundreds of people, the nuances of the device that made this fascinating gadget a reality.

When in 2001, I stood for the first time in front of more than two hundred people and proudly said, "The first edition of the Pentium has 42 million transistors on two centimetre square silicon", I knew that in a way I was fulfilling a prophecy. I was paying silent homage to the solitary transistor in the famous transistor radio.

Do you see how proud a flagbearer I am?

When I Witnessed History...

My life has been extraordinary. Not at all because of what I've made of it, but because of the many wonderful things that I have been able to witness and experience. Once I saw a historical transition. I didn't know how much it would have to do with my life today...

Back in Calcutta, we still did the joint family thingie then. My father stayed in the same house with his two other brothers and my grandparents. My grandfather had a radio. But if you try to think hard and think of a radio, you wouldn't be able to imagine my grandfather's radio. It was a biggish box. Really big. It would occupy a tabletop all by itself. There were lots of dials and a mystic yellow light came out and there was a band of bright green line of light on a dial somewhere...

Anyway, there were family get togethers in front of the radio. 

He later got a smaller one which you had to shake really hard from time to time to keep going. It was like a fat book. The design on the dial was terrible and a nightmare to use. It eventually broke and something in my subconscious memory tells me that I had a hand in the anti-engineering feat.

My father tells me that one day my uncle walked in with a small radio held to his ear. The excitement in the Mitra household was palpable as everyone converged to see this new marvel, which could be carried around wherever you went. It was the size of a grown man's palm and about an inch thick. Radio on the go!

It had another name though. It was called the "transistor radio". This became such a rage in Calcutta that very soon people began to forget part of the name - the more important part in my opinion. They started calling it the "transistor". I don't know if this happened throughout the rest of India also. (If you could tell me or find out, I'd be interested. This would be around 1980 I guess.) All radios were promptly identified as "transistors" - irrespective of caste or creed or operating frequency!

Oh I forgot to say. There was a switch on the newer transistor radios you could flick (well force to click actually, it was an extremely hard mechanical switch and required considerable force (considerable to a three year old at any rate!) to flick between the two markings of 'AM' and 'FM'. I spent a remarkable amount of time doing this flicking and as a result of this initimate dalliance with the intricacies of communication theory, I stayed confused for a very long time between the AM/FM and AM/PM pairs...

Did I mention the household TV? Colour TV's were unheard of and only very rich men had them. We had a black and white set. It was more blue and grey set actually. And sometimes the pictures just rolled from top to bottom and wouldn't stay still. You were then supposed to turn a spiky poky dial called 'V.HOLD' and things returned to normal. If that didn't work you could slap the top of the TV a few times. Last resort - switch off the TV for some time and switch it back again. Rebooting always worked - a practice Microsoft adopted with great success later on...

And then Mamma Mia and Va Va Voom! Gifts from the West! My maternal cousins (two of them) had come back after quite some time abroad. They were the foreign returns, loaded with and giving everyone absolutely fabulously amazing gifts. I got a model car (first time that I heard of BMW), battery operated and it turned and went another direction if it hit something in its way. I was a stingy child and didn't let it run for too long for fear of using up its batteries. But the coolest thing about it was that I could turn a mechanical knob on the underside of the car to make headlights pop out of its bonnet. They were battery operated as well and shone two dense circles of light. I thought that was the coolest thing anybody had ever thought of.

Then it happened. My cousins fixed up a typewriter like gadget (to their Sony colour television) and you could play games on the TV after that. It was called a computer. To load a game you had to insert a cassette and press rewind and fast forward to spin to the parts you required. Then it would display "© 1982 Sinclair Research Limited" on the screen. You could write something called a "program" and make the computer do stuff. My cousins wrote one that would draw a TV set inside the TV set - and then it would continue to draw repeatedly but each time with a different colour. I was fascinated.

I wanted a computer very badly. I was about eight years old then I think. In a year or so this same computer debuted in India and I would stare at the newspaper advertisements. My parents at that point in time could not afford the machine (it was Rs. 4500) and soon I realised that I wasn't getting one any time soon.

I can't tell you how painful the next eight years or so were. My mind was dealing with the myriad possibilities of programming and the stuff I could do with a computer. I read up programming books and knew the keyboard of this computer by heart. Sometimes I would take out my father's mechanical typewriter and pretend that it was a computer.

I begged people to let me use their computers. I knew everything about BASIC by then but had never had the opportunity of typing out a program on one. The rich kids even had "printers". These were "spark printers" and printing on them was literally a violent process because it made an awful noise and emitted sparks (hence the name) and filled the room with a mild burning smell. All that was normal of course as the printer magically transferred what was on the screen to paper.

Soon the landscape changed. Computers began to be called "personal computer" - 'PC' for short. They shipped with dedicated "monitors" and "floppy drives". The floppy diskettes were flexible (hence floppy) things (magnetic platters) which could store your programs and the monitors were miniature TV sets with seven green scan lines for each character. St. Xavier's purchased a few PC's and I shall be ever grateful to them for it, because I could finally get legal and quality time in front of these fantastic machines every week at school.

In 1994, I wrote my Class 10 board exams. As in I went in for battle, my parents said that if I did decently they would consider getting me a computer. Amazingly enough I stood first from my school. (I remember the almost decade-long wait even today. As I write this from my prized MacBook, I look up heavenwards and say "Thank You".) 

My machine was a 386DX. It had 128KB of memory and new storage device called the "hard disk" which was much faster and could store more data than the floppy - mine could store all the way upto 260MB. The monitor was no longer green but true black and white and could display upto 16384 different shades of grey. The clock speed was 133 MHz and the entire rig was assembled by a local outfit and cost over Rs. 30,000. Very soon, people started coming over to my house to use my computer - much like I had gone over to others' till recently.

Round about this time, I also heard of Apple Computers. As if the name wasn't funny enough, they sold computers named the Macintosh. My friend Chirodeep's father was an Apple computer dealer in Calcutta and all I remember is a select circle of people claiming elite status because of their association with Apple. Those were powerful machines which "professionals" used...

I don't really remember any other big technological change after that. There was the Palm and the mobile phone of course, but by then I had lost my childlike wonder.

More than two decades later however, I came back to the "transistor".

If you forgot about the historical transition that I talked about in the beginning, and didn't see it, I have another version of this story coming up.

Ode to Dada

by Anurup Mitra

(published earlier as an ode to Abraham Lincoln by Walt Whitman)

But one should be able to take a well-positioned plagiarism.

O Captain My Captain!

our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather'd every rack,

the prize we sought is won;

The port is near,

the bells I hear,

the people all exulting...

Cinderella Man

This story starts in 1989 - which is definitely a pointer to the fact that I started blogging rather late in life. But I needed a really powerful push...

I am from St. Xavier's Collegiate School in Calcutta. I am going to be proud of that fact till the day I die.

In 1989 I moved to the Senior School building at St. Xavier's. That's because I was in Class 6 and I had to move. The Senior School housed upto Class 10 (in those days) and my classmates and I were not without trepidation at being the youngest lot.

We had inter-section football and cricket matches after school and while I was abysmal at the latter, I wasn't bad at the other. I often loitered around after school to watch the Class 10's play football. They were fast movers and seemed wickedly good at the game.

One day as I watched, the crowd seemed bigger than usual. My father said that that many people were watching because of a certain footballer and pointed him out - an ordinary looking chap in a white jersey and black shorts, darting all around. What's he done, I asked and was told that he had been selected for the Bengal Under-19 Cricket team and was making lots of runs for the state.

That was the first time I saw Sourav Ganguly. At 12 years of age, I wasn't sure how important playing for Bengal U-19 was. I also wasn't sure how a footballer could get selected for a cricket team. But like all 12 year olds, I borrowed from the admiration evident in my father's voice and decided that Sourav Ganguly was a great cricketer.

I car pooled in getting to school every morning. It was from there that I learnt that he was the Xavier's cricket team captain. As things would be, Raja Lahiri (name unchanged) in my car pool was in Class 10 and he was in the school cricket team too. He told us a little about this Ganguly. Stubborn as an ass, arrogant, but on the off-side, very very good...

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In about 2 years time, in 1992, Sourav Ganguly was selected to play for India against the West Indies. I knew about his Ranji performance in those 2 years and was old enough to decide that this Xaverian had indeed done well for himself. Bengal watched with rapt attention as one of its sons went in for India. Heightened expectations soon turned to disgusted disbelief - LBW on 3 runs! 

I mean 3 runs? Who gets out on international debut on 3 runs? My father and his friends thundered and blamed and cursed and said that it was one more Bengali who was going to disappear after an insignificant appearance for the country...

I was heartbroken. Sourav-da out on 3? How could that be? He had been captain of Xavier's - didn't that say something? We are all waiting Sourav-da, for you. Please, please - for us, for Xavier's at least?

Sourav Ganguly was dropped in the next match and wasn't seen for a long time after that. I did see him though during that long absence though...

It was the middle of Class 9 and things were heating up for me on the academic front. In the sweltering Calcutta heat, my best friend Siddhant took me out for an afternoon swim to Tolly Club and athletic blessing that I am, I was panting within a couple of laps and decided to rest a bit on the sides as Siddhant toiled on in the waters. 

There were just two other people in the poolside. One fairly attractive looking girl and her bearded and grumpy looking companion. Once in a while I managed to take my eyes off the girl and see if her companion had caught me looking at her yet. After a few furtive and anxious glances at the boy, I realised that I knew him. 

What's become of you Sourav-da?! Beard and grumpiness? Where's the sparkling, smiling footballer I had seen on the St. Xavier's Senior School field 3 years back?

I wanted to go up and say that I believed and I cared - but didn't have enough courage. 

I called Siddhant to come with me and say hi to him. He, for reasons unfathomable, refused. Now Siddhant is the easy, outgoing type and a person I owe most of my social skills to. But back then, I just got tongue-tied with new people and without Siddhant, I was just part of the scenery. He didn't like Sourav Ganguly in the same way I did. Possibly. I don't know.

I came back home excited and disappointed. I told my father about it. Largely reflecting the general opinion, he snorted that swimming with girls was all that Sourav Ganguly had proven himself fit for. I was aghast, hurt and angry.

Smarting with the insult, I went the next day in school to my favourite teacher - Elphage Rozario. I told him, I had seen Sourav Ganguly the earlier day and I asked him why most of Bengal seemed to think of him as a villain of sorts. Rozy (that's what we called him behind his back) laughed that off and went on to tell me how a few days prior, Sourav had stepped out of his car on sighting Rozy and stopped in the middle of the road to touch his feet.

Satisfied with this simple example, a very happy 15-year old left Rozy that day. In a way, in my mind Rozy allowed me to say what I had earlier been unable to :

"Sourav-da, I care and I believe..."

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Life undulated along. I heard about Sourav Ganguly now and then in the local papers and remembered him fondly and wished him well. It was 1996 and I had finished Class 12 and had been admitted to BITS Pilani. I was to leave Calcutta in a month's time. Near the end of June as I lazed around, my father rushed into the house clutching the newspaper and red with excitement...

In a faraway country and on a majestic cricket ground, Sourav Ganguly had reaffirmed with a hundred runs, the faith put in him by an unknown 15-year old.

He was the Cinderella Man!

You know the rest of the story. You should be well aware of what he gave us and what we gave him in return.

William Shakespeare wrote that you could become great in one of three ways. You could be born great (as is Sachin Tendulkar), you can acquire greatness (as did Rahul Dravid), or you could have greatness thrust upon you (as VVS Laxman did - and came out with flying colours I may add).

But old boy Bill didn't know Sourav Ganguly. For then he would have mentioned the person,  who inspires all around him to greatness.

When Sachin retires, people will hail him as the World's Greatest Batsman. When Dravid retires, people will remember him for his resilience as The Wall. When Laxman signs off, he will be labelled the Australian Nightmare and the Indian Dream.

When Dada blazed into the sunset, a certain 15-year old (now more than twice that age) looked on in pride and awe and admiration and in the gratitude of a never-given promise kept.

Kept by the Cinderella Man.