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.

What is it about this movie ‘Birdman’ that has created such a buzz, propelling it all the way to the best picture and best director Oscar winner?  I’ll have to find out by watching it.  I’m so happy for Eddie Redmayne; the guy did a stupendous job enacting such a severely disabled character of Stephen Hawking.  Whatever people might think a best actor Oscar trophy really validates your identity as an actor and a performer.  You leave a legacy behind you.  You don’t have to look any further than Tom Cruise; he’s been one of the most bankable stars in Hollywood for many years and yet the biggest hole in his career has been the conspicuous absence of this golden statue.

   By the same token, Julianne Moore, after doing years of good work gets her due reward by getting the best actress award for playing an academic professor, who struggles to cope with the onset of Alzheimer in the movie ‘Still Alice’.  Even though I would have loved to see ‘Boyhood’ win some of the awards, because this movie is close to my heart.  But never mind there were so many good selections to choose from that somebody had to miss out.

   On a different note, how wonderfully they present the show.  Everything works with clockwork precision and the warmth and camaraderie seems genuine.  This is one occasion when the actors aren’t actually acting.  I was desperately hoping that Kiera Knightly or Jennifer Lopez would come on the stage so that I could have had a better look at them in all their glory!  But I did get to see Jennifer Aniston and boy didn’t she look stunning!  And Meryl Streep’s tribute to those who passed on during the course of the year was truly moving.  And last but by no means least, Lady Gaga can sing!

‘THE UNQUIET ONES A History of Pakistan Cricket’ has to be of the finest books on cricket to have come out in recent times.  And let me also say that the author Osman Samiuddin is without doubt the best cricket writer in south Asia especially when it comes to Pakistan cricket.  As the subtitle suggests, the book is primarily a chronological history of the evolution Pakistan cricket, but in broad terms you could also take it as a pithy and humorous observation on the state of Pakistani society and its rulers.  Although the author is a proud Pakistani, he doesn’t wear his patriotism on his sleeve and hence not blind to its faults.  What is quite remarkable is that how cricket and state of the nation have generally mirrored and reflected each other’s chaos and disorder.  But because of what the author describes as the innate ‘’jazba’’ or passion of its players and some brilliant administrators that Pakistan has enjoyed quite a lot of success and yet because the overall structure is inherently fragile and dependent on the whims and fancies of individuals, the descent into hell has been also spectacular.  This book is a true labor of love.  It is witty in style and ambitious in scale.

The couple of chapters devoted to unarguably the most influential cricketers that Pakistan has produced namely Imran Khan and Javed Miandad make for a riveting reading.  Their respective characters have been deconstructed like an accomplished psychoanalyst.  For someone like me who’s always had this curious fascination with Pakistan, our neighbor with whom we have shared a love-hate relationship for nearly 70 years, this was a kind of book I’d been looking for quite a while now.

I asked my Oscar trivia question to five people.  Shipra got it right while Kat, D and Mike came up with the wrong answer.  Sylvie had no idea and when I told her it was Daniel Day Lewis, she said the man creeps her out.  I was taken aback somewhat.  I mean why would such a seriously fine actor like him would creep you out?  But anyway, to each his own.  Kat said Jack Nicholson which is par for the course.  What was most interesting was Mike and D’s answer.  They said Marlon Brando.  A perfectly reasonable answer given that he has been one of the legends of Hollywood in fact film scholars and historians talk about the craft of acting in two parts namely before Brando and after Brando because he was the watershed as far as the method of acting is concerned.  Because until he arrived on the scene, acting was done mainly in a theatrical fashion which was far from natural.  But his approach to acting really changed the way subsequent generations of actors faced the camera.  Marlon Brando introduced what is now known as method acting where there is plenty of realism in the way you enact the character.  They call it “getting under the skin of the character”.  So it is but natural to assume that if anybody would have got three Academy award for best acting in a leading role, it would be him.  And yet that’s not the case.  Brando got two Oscars in his glittering career.  First time he won the trophy in 1955 in Elea Kazan’s ON THE WATERFRONT and the second time he was given the award was in 1973 for playing the role of Don Vito Corleone in THE GODFATHER. 

When he was called upon the stage in 1973 to receive  the award, something almost surreal happened when I think about it.  Not only he refused to accept the award which  so many actors crave all there lives but he also launched into a full blown tirade against the American corporate and military-industrial complex in general and the brutal and exploitative treatment of the native red Indians by the state in particular.  Things got so heated that he had to be ordered off the stage by that poster boy of right wing America John Wayne who was obviously outraged.  By that time Brando had clearly aligned himself with the liberal agenda big time.  He was a sort of pioneer in Hollywood activism the likes of which men like George Clooney and Sean Penn have carried forward.