India had a  very good run at the world cup.  Just that we came up against a better team this time and could not get past them.  In a sport as in life, we are only obligated to try, we are not obligated to succeed.  So in that sense, India should be proud of their achievement.
 Now, I have a huge issue with the kind of regressive and misogynistic jibe taken at Anuskha Sharma, girlfriend of Virat Kohli.  I am sure he didn't go out on purpose to fail on one of the biggest stage and make a fool of himself!  It a game of chance and it can happen to anyone.  If she was his wife, and not his girlfriend, then then would have been pious outpouring coming her and not the vile comments she is getting on the social media.  After all nobody said anything when Sachin's or Rahul's wives watched cricket matches.  That source of the resentment is the ''Gifriend''.  What kind of a medieval mindset is that, especially among the young?  Doesn't Novak Djokovic's girlfriend watches when he plays in a major tournament?  The next thing they will say is that Anuskha is also responsible for the mind numbing poverty in this country!

I was listening to an audio clip of an interview the other day given by the writer and blogger Sandip Roy to the National Public Radio in the United States.  He’d just come out with his new book ‘Don’t Let Him Know’.  I presume that he is a proud member of the gay community and the book in fact, deals with the issue to a large extent.  During the course of the chat, he was asked about the difficulty of coming out as a gay man or a woman in the deeply stifling societal mores of India; and his answer was quite interesting.  He said that in India, you don’t really ‘’come out’’ as much as the whole family goes back into the closet with you!  It becomes a family shame and everybody rushes around to cover it.

   That response really struck me and when I started reading the book, I realized what an astute of human situation the man is.  ‘Don’t Let Him Know’ is one of the best work of fiction that I read in a long time.  There are thirteen chapters in the book and what is most remarkable thing about it is that all thirteen chapters could also be read as short stories on its own, but because the author has not lost the overall arc of the plot, it could also be enjoyed as a novel.  That’s the beauty of it.  It deals with the burden of secret many people carry in their hearts and always looking over their shoulders, fearing that if they let it out, it will disturb the delicate harmony of their lives.  Now I don’t wish to give away too much by way of plot, but couple of things really stands out for me.

  One is when one of the main character Amit returns from the US to Calcutta after the news of his father’s death.  The kind of emotions he goes through, the things that occupies his mind is a masterful portrayal of how spending a considerable period of time in the west especially the U.S, can fundamentally change you as a person.  The other scene that really made an impression on me was when Amit ventures out of the house to get himself a packet of chips and maybe a Diet Coke; the shop owner, having known him since when he was a kid, first commiserates with him at the passing of his father, and then asks him what he will do with the old big house since (he presumes), he will be taking his mother with him to America.  When Amit fumbles for the right answer, the old shop owner mentions about his brother-in-law who takes over old and crumbling mansions and converts them into modern day flats by dismantling the old structure.  And by the way of compensation to the owners, he offers them half the numbers of constructed flats.  So if he’s willing, he could get in touch with his brother-in-law.

      At this point Amit can’t help a wry smile on his face.  He thinks this is exactly the kind of conversation he could relate to his friends in San Francisco.  He could tell them that corner shop guys in India not only sell you things, but they also dispense real estate advice!  The point is that what attracts us-- and I’m sure I speak for a lot of people—towards a good piece of art or literature are not the elements of fantastical or outlandish, but the familiarity of mundane. 

I think I owe it to myself that I write a few words about Vinod Mehta.  Normally, you don’t get that affected by the news of the passing away of somebody with whom you've had no connection in the past or somebody you knew in a very limited way.  But ever since I came to know of his death at 73 yesterday, somehow the loss seems personal.  One reason could be my long stint as an avid reader of ‘Outlook’ magazine which he edited right through its inception in 1995 to 2012, when he decided to retire from day to day running of the magazine.  And that was also the time when I switched from the physical form of the magazine to reading online.

The other reason for this sense of loss is that when we like somebody for his or her views and are influenced by it in ever subtle way, we invest something of ours in that person.  We project all of our opinions, prejudices and insecurities onto that person and when that individual is gone, it seems baffling.  I liked Vinod for his uncomplicated and yet insightful views one politics in this country.  His fortnightly column ‘Delhi Diary’, which appeared at the last page of the magazine, was eagerly awaited.  It helped you make sense of the overall state of play in a very humorous fashion, puncturing a lot of bloated egos along the way.

This is not supposed to be a eulogy of the man.  He would have hated it.  So, I will just say that the biggest attribute of his was a certain lightness of touch; the ability to not take one too seriously despite being so famous in India.  He always believed that journalists are in a privileged position of having a ring-side view in the theatre of our Republic, but they must remain the spectators and not become players themselves.  If all those editors and journalists think that they are the god’s gift to humanity, then they are living in a fool’s paradise.  In the end VM embodied now almost extinct breed of editors who were steeped in the liberal and cosmopolitan ethos of another era.

Let me provide some context first.  I was born in 1976, so I’m a child of the 80s.  But there are some scraps of memories that keep floating back and one thing leads to another and become something you want to nurture.  There was a time when I took most of my cues from the guys who weren’t just older than me but also wiser.  I remember at that time Disco music was all the rage and a homegrown version of pop music was taking root in the country.  Once I heard somebody mentioning a singer called Nazia Hassan and how she was becoming so popular not only in India but also in Pakistan where she belonged.  I was dimly aware of her all the time and then I got to know to know that she was dead, but no more than that.

     A few weeks ago, my younger brother was watching a video on YouTube, and since the computer monitor was facing the opposite direction I could only listen to the voice.  It was the voice of what I presume must be a young woman who was having a bit of a friendly banter with her audience.  More than anything, what really hooked me was the voice and the way she was using it to interact with the audience.  I felt as if I wanted to drink that voice because really, it was oozing with a kind of lilting sophistication that was mischievously charming.  When I asked my brother who that is, he said Nazia Hassan and that made me start thinking about her.

   Even though one part of me knew that she was dead, but there was also a kind of vague hope that it not be the case after all.  Next day I googled her and there it was in the Wikipedia entry.  Born on 3^rd April 1965 and died on 13^th August 2000 at the age of 35 because of lung cancer.  Now all of the vagueness had evaporated.  Then I looked up the YouTube for believe or not I had no idea what did she look like though I was certain that she was good looking.  And I was not wrong.  She was the epitome of elegance and poise, a kind of charming grace that was enough to smoothen the rough edges in any human being.  I caught an old video in which she was introducing some Pakistani cricketers on stage and I watched transfixed as she uttered their names.  I’m not by nature given to waxing lyrical about the way somebody looks, but let me say this; you wouldn’t mind someone like her as your girlfriend or companion.

  I kept thinking about the monumental unfairness of it all.  That I am 37 and still living, and she was 35 and dead and almost on forgotten.  A lot of things were going on in my mind like what kind of morning it was in London when she breathed her last?  How did she spend the last night?  How does someone at that age even comprehend the dread that cancer induces in us.  In the midst of these morbid thoughts, I went off at a tangent and started wondering what was it like to be in the prime of her youthful singing career in the 80s.  It was a time when religious fanaticism in Pakistan was making serious inroads in society under the Martial law administration of Gen. Zia-Ul-Haq.  If I had my may, I’d have said ‘suck it General! She represents everything about your country that you never will!’

  In the end, it doesn’t matter.  Nothing ever does.  I am probably the only nut who’s remembering her.  But it’s amazing how small scraps of memories can set off a train of thought that once it gathers momentum, doesn’t know when or where to stop.