Last week on February 16, in an event that went unnoticed by the Indian media, one of the most talented tennis players ever-John Patrick McEnroe turned 50. It was a bit difficult to believe that the enfant terrible had turned 50.
During his heyday McEnroe, was famed for his clashes with authority and once described the Wimbledon umpire\referee as “the pits of the world”. The man who used the racquet to play a rare soliloquy confounded everyone by chucking the same racquet in rage on the court. If he was poetry in motion, his language on court at times could have had nothing in common with verse.
Yet it was this rare combination of genius and a combustible temper that appealed to the teenager in me. While my friends hated McEnroe for this trait I idolized him precisely for this. Many is the argument that I have had with people about McEnroe with me often being his sole supporter. The other trait I liked about McEnroe was his ability to announce his intention to do something and then precisely execute it. After he lost the epic 1980 Wimbledon final to Bjorn Borg he said “ No man can keep winning forever. Not even Borg can do that. When that happens I intend to be there at the other side of the net.” Sure enough in the 1981 Wimbledon final he beat Borg 4-6, 7-6, 7-6 & 6-4. Another example is his comment after the 1984 US open semi final when he was told that Ivan Lendl was to be his opponent. “Tomorrow, I am going to come out as fast as I can. I am going to get it over as quickly as I can and I know that I am the favourite.” Sure enough next day he despatched Lendl 6-3, 6-4, & 6-1.
McEnroe’s career was topsy turvy. He won seven grand slam titles between 1979 & 1984 and then none till his retirement in 1993. On his retirement an Indian newspaper summed up his legacy saying that he was a “flawed genius”. It is hard to disagree with that view. The Bach with the racquet could metamorphose into a Mr Hyde on court. McEnroe may have been my teenage idol but despite all his talent and achievements he would be the wrong kind of idol for anyone as far as behaviour went.
The 50 year old McEnroe has today metamorphosed into an exceptional and incisive tennis commentator post retirement. He has also handled his affairs much better than his most famous rival Borg who has been saddled with financial and personal problems. His place in the history of the game as one of its greatest artistes is assured. More importantly, the left handed genius from New York has really grown up. 50 years is just a signpost in that metamorphosis.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The road from Chennai
As I tried opening my bag at my cousin sister Chitra’s house in Chennai during my recent trip, I saw a distinct smile. I refused to acknowledge the smile for what it was and quietly went about putting my clothes in. About an hour later, when it was time for me to leave for the airport, I saw that the smile had widened into a grin. A huge grin at that. I could no more deceive myself but acknowledge it for what it was- my bag was sporting a huge tear. It was time now for panic stations as we had very little time to leave for the airport. My brother-in-law Sivakumar helpfully fished out a suitcase while my nephew Golu helped me pack at the speed of lightning. Soon we were on the car being driven by my brother-in-law to Trishulam, Chennai’s international airport.
On the way I saw posters of a prominent Tamil Nadu politician being splashed all over. “This guy looks really ugly,” I remarked. “Still he manages to have many affairs and many handsome men get left behind,” Chitra remarked. “You mean handsome men like me,” I asked as the car resonated with laughter.
Soon it was the midnight flight and I was back in Mumbai in the wee hours. My trip to Chennai however held happy memories. Apart from being able to visit my old school, I was also able to connect with my cousin brother Babu after a quite sometime.
I spent three happy years in a Chennai hostel when my parents were largely abroad. It was the time when adolescence and its related pursuits set in. It also held memories of my reading South India’s premier daily The Hindu—at my hostel. It was really more of a fight to get to the paper as about 30 hostelites jostled for it. It was also the period when I read Charles Dickens unabridged edition of David Copperfield—over 900 pages plus. My reading the Hindu and its associated magazine-The Sportstar also helped me embark on the path of becoming a journalist which in turn qualified for the job of a communications professional. Those three years marked more than just a shift from childhood to adolescence.
On the way I saw posters of a prominent Tamil Nadu politician being splashed all over. “This guy looks really ugly,” I remarked. “Still he manages to have many affairs and many handsome men get left behind,” Chitra remarked. “You mean handsome men like me,” I asked as the car resonated with laughter.
Soon it was the midnight flight and I was back in Mumbai in the wee hours. My trip to Chennai however held happy memories. Apart from being able to visit my old school, I was also able to connect with my cousin brother Babu after a quite sometime.
I spent three happy years in a Chennai hostel when my parents were largely abroad. It was the time when adolescence and its related pursuits set in. It also held memories of my reading South India’s premier daily The Hindu—at my hostel. It was really more of a fight to get to the paper as about 30 hostelites jostled for it. It was also the period when I read Charles Dickens unabridged edition of David Copperfield—over 900 pages plus. My reading the Hindu and its associated magazine-The Sportstar also helped me embark on the path of becoming a journalist which in turn qualified for the job of a communications professional. Those three years marked more than just a shift from childhood to adolescence.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
School, Nostalgia and Big street
“Hey, let us get out and take a look at our school,” I told my cousin Babu. He agreed reluctantly but quickly introduced himself as an ex-student to the person closing the school gate who then opened the door and graciously let us in.
As we entered the gate that Saturday, the air was thick with memories of a happy three years that I spent in the school and its associated hostel when my parents were abroad. I was there in the Chennai school -the Hindu Senior Secondary School from Class VIII to Class X.
A quick glance at a board revealed that my English teacher Prem Dulari had been the principal of the school for 24 years. I glanced at another board and saw the list of toppers in the 10th standard and the 12th. Standard board examinations. I remembered the debating contests that I had won, the music competition where an unforgiving audience had made me vacate the stage, the teachers and the school romances.
Soon it was time to catch- up with an office staff-- Ms Anuradha who to my considerable discomfort remembered Babu and not me. I learnt from another member of the staff that the hostel had been closed down and now housed classrooms.
I was saddened by this but then everything changes with time. When I said my goodbye and moved out-I saw one enduring remnant of the hostel- the metal statue of Saraswati-the goddess of learning atop the building which had housed the hostel. There were other changes as well with a couple of shops that I had known including the appropriately named Fancy Mahal having disappeared. Nor was the bakery in front of the hostel where I had gorged on cakes present any longer. Clearly, the times had changed.
So had my perception despite the nostalgia and the sepia toned memories. I realized that the road in which the school was situated was nothing more than a narrow line. Ironically, it was known as Big Street when a more appropriate name would have been Small Street. It was me-- the school boy who had grown into middle age and fatherhood. My son Sandi has now begun school and life has in many ways come a full circle.
Big Street has been replaced in my life with ambitions big and small. A corner of Chennai has however forever become a part of my consciousness. As the poet Wordsworth wrote in his poem ‘The Solitary Reaper’—“ The music in my heart I bore long after it was heard no more.” It was wholly appropriate that I had learnt this poem at the Hindu Senior Secondary School-Chennai.
As we entered the gate that Saturday, the air was thick with memories of a happy three years that I spent in the school and its associated hostel when my parents were abroad. I was there in the Chennai school -the Hindu Senior Secondary School from Class VIII to Class X.
A quick glance at a board revealed that my English teacher Prem Dulari had been the principal of the school for 24 years. I glanced at another board and saw the list of toppers in the 10th standard and the 12th. Standard board examinations. I remembered the debating contests that I had won, the music competition where an unforgiving audience had made me vacate the stage, the teachers and the school romances.
Soon it was time to catch- up with an office staff-- Ms Anuradha who to my considerable discomfort remembered Babu and not me. I learnt from another member of the staff that the hostel had been closed down and now housed classrooms.
I was saddened by this but then everything changes with time. When I said my goodbye and moved out-I saw one enduring remnant of the hostel- the metal statue of Saraswati-the goddess of learning atop the building which had housed the hostel. There were other changes as well with a couple of shops that I had known including the appropriately named Fancy Mahal having disappeared. Nor was the bakery in front of the hostel where I had gorged on cakes present any longer. Clearly, the times had changed.
So had my perception despite the nostalgia and the sepia toned memories. I realized that the road in which the school was situated was nothing more than a narrow line. Ironically, it was known as Big Street when a more appropriate name would have been Small Street. It was me-- the school boy who had grown into middle age and fatherhood. My son Sandi has now begun school and life has in many ways come a full circle.
Big Street has been replaced in my life with ambitions big and small. A corner of Chennai has however forever become a part of my consciousness. As the poet Wordsworth wrote in his poem ‘The Solitary Reaper’—“ The music in my heart I bore long after it was heard no more.” It was wholly appropriate that I had learnt this poem at the Hindu Senior Secondary School-Chennai.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The world of the child
What does it mean to be a grown up for a child ? Becoming a doctor, engineer or the old favorite pilot ?
If you are three years old it can be quite different. Take my son Sanjiv for instance. “When I become big, I will be able to put my hands inside the plug points, he says.This is because all of us at home do not allow him to go anywhere near the plug points. His other favourite refrain is, “When I become big I can open the medicine box”. My father who is a heart patient has to take a lot of medicines every day. All of us at home have expressly forbidden Sanjiv from touching the box containing medicines. Child that he is he does not realize that having to take so many medicines are really a curse and not a source of joy as he imagines.
His other aspiration is a little more in line with that of ordinary mortals. He wants to drive a car except that for this one he doesn’t want to wait till he grows up but do it immediately. For a start, whenever we hire a car for long distance travel he wants to sit next to the driver. That is because we don’t allow him to sit on the driver’s seat and get behind the wheel straight away. Nevertheless at the end of each journey, he insists that he sit behind the wheel and pretend to drive. Child that he is he does not see the Mumbai traffic and the attendant problems but only the joy associated with driving.
The world of the adult and the child are quite divergent. Many things that adults see as a problem is a source of joy to the child. Perceptions obviously change as children first metamorphose into adolescents and then adults. All of us would however be a lot more happier in life if only we could retain a bit of the child.
If you are three years old it can be quite different. Take my son Sanjiv for instance. “When I become big, I will be able to put my hands inside the plug points, he says.This is because all of us at home do not allow him to go anywhere near the plug points. His other favourite refrain is, “When I become big I can open the medicine box”. My father who is a heart patient has to take a lot of medicines every day. All of us at home have expressly forbidden Sanjiv from touching the box containing medicines. Child that he is he does not realize that having to take so many medicines are really a curse and not a source of joy as he imagines.
His other aspiration is a little more in line with that of ordinary mortals. He wants to drive a car except that for this one he doesn’t want to wait till he grows up but do it immediately. For a start, whenever we hire a car for long distance travel he wants to sit next to the driver. That is because we don’t allow him to sit on the driver’s seat and get behind the wheel straight away. Nevertheless at the end of each journey, he insists that he sit behind the wheel and pretend to drive. Child that he is he does not see the Mumbai traffic and the attendant problems but only the joy associated with driving.
The world of the adult and the child are quite divergent. Many things that adults see as a problem is a source of joy to the child. Perceptions obviously change as children first metamorphose into adolescents and then adults. All of us would however be a lot more happier in life if only we could retain a bit of the child.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Daddy, Mummy and Baby
Daddy and Mummy had planned on seeing a movie together after many months. They had however reckoned without three year old baby. Baby who normally loved to sleep with grandfather and grandmother decided inexplicably that they were not congenial company. He was immune to any blandishments offered to him in the form of his favourite sweets and biscuits.
He realized with his child’s intuition that Mummy and Daddy were going out. He wanted a slice of the action. He made his views quite clear and chose the child’s way of expressing himself- he simply hollered at the top of his voice. Daddy’s fervent pleas that he wanted to go to work and Mummy’s assurances that she would be quickly back from the market fell on deaf ears. Daddy grew increasingly angry and Mummy increasingly upset. Baby responded by raising the decibel level. Daddy was worried that the tickets that had been purchased at a popular Mulitplex for a fancy price would go waste. Mummy worried about leaving a crying child at home. Further, how would the child react even if he was taken to the theatre ? Baby eventually won the standoff and he was taken to the movie.
The humour of the situation was not lost on Mummy and Daddy. Sheer, childish stubbornness had won the day. The best laid plans of mice and men had taken a backseat. At the theatre, Daddy tried to catch up on the movie while baby busied himself with popcorn. Mummy, alternated between watching the movie and keeping an eye on the baby as he was prone to go for walks. Finally, the picture came to an end. Mummy and Daddy agreed that one had to be extraordinarily unfortunate to watch a movie like “Bad Luck Govind”. Baby had really had the best of both worlds-he had come to the movie but had not really understood whatever little he watched. Daddy and Mummy agreed from now on baby would figure in all their movie outings for however bad the movie, baby could be relied upon to provide the fun.
Friends, this is the story of myself, my wife Vidya and son Sanjiv. It happened yesterday and it could have happened in a lot of families. No doubt it has happened before and will happen again for children like history repeat themselves.
He realized with his child’s intuition that Mummy and Daddy were going out. He wanted a slice of the action. He made his views quite clear and chose the child’s way of expressing himself- he simply hollered at the top of his voice. Daddy’s fervent pleas that he wanted to go to work and Mummy’s assurances that she would be quickly back from the market fell on deaf ears. Daddy grew increasingly angry and Mummy increasingly upset. Baby responded by raising the decibel level. Daddy was worried that the tickets that had been purchased at a popular Mulitplex for a fancy price would go waste. Mummy worried about leaving a crying child at home. Further, how would the child react even if he was taken to the theatre ? Baby eventually won the standoff and he was taken to the movie.
The humour of the situation was not lost on Mummy and Daddy. Sheer, childish stubbornness had won the day. The best laid plans of mice and men had taken a backseat. At the theatre, Daddy tried to catch up on the movie while baby busied himself with popcorn. Mummy, alternated between watching the movie and keeping an eye on the baby as he was prone to go for walks. Finally, the picture came to an end. Mummy and Daddy agreed that one had to be extraordinarily unfortunate to watch a movie like “Bad Luck Govind”. Baby had really had the best of both worlds-he had come to the movie but had not really understood whatever little he watched. Daddy and Mummy agreed from now on baby would figure in all their movie outings for however bad the movie, baby could be relied upon to provide the fun.
Friends, this is the story of myself, my wife Vidya and son Sanjiv. It happened yesterday and it could have happened in a lot of families. No doubt it has happened before and will happen again for children like history repeat themselves.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Revisiting Enid Blyton
In the last few weeks I have been reading the favourite author of my childhood-Enid Blyton- all over again. Specifically, I have been reading the series on the Five Find outers and the Dog. The titles that I have hungrily devoured include The Mystery of the Disappearing Cat; The Mystery of the Pantomime Cat; The Mystery of Tally Ho Cottage; The Mystery of the Strange Bundle and The Mystery of the Spiteful Letters.
The principal characters in the story are five children comprising Frederick Algernon Trottevile (Fatty); and two brother- sister duos—Pip & Bets and Larry & Daisy. Giving the children company in all their mysteries is Fatty’s dog Buster. Fatty is of course the brains of the group with Bets occasionally supplying some inspiration. The children are in constant competition with the local policeman- Mr Goon- who says clear orf by instinct on seeing the children. He feels that they are constantly interfering with the law and refers to Fatty as a toad of a boy. Buster also has taken a fancy for Goon’s ankles and has a go at them every time he sees them. Mercifully, no harm is done as Fatty calls him off each time but not before everyone has had their quota of fun.
In between solving mysteries the five find outers and dog munch on ice creams, scones, sandwiches, potted meat and drink lemonade. Reading these books acts as a tranquilizer as the stories are fun, pacy but not fast enough to get the adrenaline flowing.
Now as a child I enjoyed reading the children’s fights with Mr Goon. I loved it when Buster pranced around his ankles or Fatty led the policeman on a merry-go-round in one of his numerous disguises. As an adult, I cannot help thinking that perhaps Mr Goon was right after all about the “interfering with the law” bit. Further, does being amateur detectives really give Fatty the licence to lead ‘Goon on a dance’ or plant false clues. Even more strange is the attitude of Goon’s superior—Inspector Jenks who rises to become a superintendent during the series of books. He openly sides with the children in their fights with Goon. Granted Goon is not the brightest of policemen but surely his superior cannot be seen to be siding with his rivals ?
These are of course adult thoughts that intrude about books that are essentially written for children. Even as one sympathises with Goon, one cannot help enjoying the book which acts as an anodyne in a stressed world and brings back warm memories of childhood. Here is a treasure trove for children but are enough of them reading Enid Blyton in an era in which it is more fashionable for even kids to surf the Internet ? The answer to that question will determine whether the appeal of the Five Findouters and their dog lingers on to this day.
The principal characters in the story are five children comprising Frederick Algernon Trottevile (Fatty); and two brother- sister duos—Pip & Bets and Larry & Daisy. Giving the children company in all their mysteries is Fatty’s dog Buster. Fatty is of course the brains of the group with Bets occasionally supplying some inspiration. The children are in constant competition with the local policeman- Mr Goon- who says clear orf by instinct on seeing the children. He feels that they are constantly interfering with the law and refers to Fatty as a toad of a boy. Buster also has taken a fancy for Goon’s ankles and has a go at them every time he sees them. Mercifully, no harm is done as Fatty calls him off each time but not before everyone has had their quota of fun.
In between solving mysteries the five find outers and dog munch on ice creams, scones, sandwiches, potted meat and drink lemonade. Reading these books acts as a tranquilizer as the stories are fun, pacy but not fast enough to get the adrenaline flowing.
Now as a child I enjoyed reading the children’s fights with Mr Goon. I loved it when Buster pranced around his ankles or Fatty led the policeman on a merry-go-round in one of his numerous disguises. As an adult, I cannot help thinking that perhaps Mr Goon was right after all about the “interfering with the law” bit. Further, does being amateur detectives really give Fatty the licence to lead ‘Goon on a dance’ or plant false clues. Even more strange is the attitude of Goon’s superior—Inspector Jenks who rises to become a superintendent during the series of books. He openly sides with the children in their fights with Goon. Granted Goon is not the brightest of policemen but surely his superior cannot be seen to be siding with his rivals ?
These are of course adult thoughts that intrude about books that are essentially written for children. Even as one sympathises with Goon, one cannot help enjoying the book which acts as an anodyne in a stressed world and brings back warm memories of childhood. Here is a treasure trove for children but are enough of them reading Enid Blyton in an era in which it is more fashionable for even kids to surf the Internet ? The answer to that question will determine whether the appeal of the Five Findouters and their dog lingers on to this day.
Monday, December 29, 2008
Laughing gas
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Hydrogen Sulphide (H2S) is known as the gas with the rotten eggs smell but once in my life, it caused much mirth to all those around me.
I was a first year science student of college and all of 16 years old. The venue of this remarkable event was the chemistry laboratory, where presumably bright young researchers are produced.
I was conducting an experiment which required me to use H2S. The problem was that there were a bunch of others who wanted to do the same and there was only one gas tank (for lack of a better word). A bunch of noisy boys and girls gathered round that and were trying to outdo each other in getting a share of the gas. I guess the action got a little general and Rakesh brought the hose pipe from the tank a little too close to my nose.
The next thing I knew was that I was being transported by six people from one end of the laboratory to another. This was after I opened my eyes, for there was a short period when my eyes were firmly shut on falling down unconscious after inhaling the gas. They carried me as though I was on a stretcher and deposited me on a chair on which I managed to sit down. Ms Potnis, the teacher was cool, calm and collected. She ordered a hot cup of tea for me. I was considerably refreshed after all this but was excused form further laboratory work for the day.
My classmate and friend Sivakumar brought a refreshing perspective to the entire affair. “Hey, I really envied you as the attention of the entire class, including the girls was upon you,” From a 16 year old’s perspective that wasn’t exactly a rotten experience.
Hydrogen Sulphide (H2S) is known as the gas with the rotten eggs smell but once in my life, it caused much mirth to all those around me.
I was a first year science student of college and all of 16 years old. The venue of this remarkable event was the chemistry laboratory, where presumably bright young researchers are produced.
I was conducting an experiment which required me to use H2S. The problem was that there were a bunch of others who wanted to do the same and there was only one gas tank (for lack of a better word). A bunch of noisy boys and girls gathered round that and were trying to outdo each other in getting a share of the gas. I guess the action got a little general and Rakesh brought the hose pipe from the tank a little too close to my nose.
The next thing I knew was that I was being transported by six people from one end of the laboratory to another. This was after I opened my eyes, for there was a short period when my eyes were firmly shut on falling down unconscious after inhaling the gas. They carried me as though I was on a stretcher and deposited me on a chair on which I managed to sit down. Ms Potnis, the teacher was cool, calm and collected. She ordered a hot cup of tea for me. I was considerably refreshed after all this but was excused form further laboratory work for the day.
My classmate and friend Sivakumar brought a refreshing perspective to the entire affair. “Hey, I really envied you as the attention of the entire class, including the girls was upon you,” From a 16 year old’s perspective that wasn’t exactly a rotten experience.
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