Roger Federer and Tennis: The everlasting love story

I was 9 years old. Those days, my aim was to be able to master multiplication and division, addition and subtraction. Learning tables was what I was fond of. I loved reading Enid Blyton short series. I had never given a test or an exam in life. Halfway down the world, a young 18 year old boy called Roger Federer was making his debut at the Australian Open. He was reasonably successful in reaching the 3^rd round. Just another teenager trying to make his name in the world of tennis which was ruled by Pistol Pete.

He had started playing Majors.

I reached middle school. We used to have those weekly tests, called cycle tests. My aim was to be able to do well in them. And understand friction. God, I really struggled with it. And condensation and evaporation. I was fascinated by the concept of Rounding Numbers. I loved our English book called ‘Insights’. Roger had already landed a monumental blow by knocking Pete out at Wimbledon. However, he had temper issues. Lleyton Hewitt, the rising star owned him. Each big victory was followed by an unbelievable loss as whispers of another great talent being wasted spread. However, somehow he managed to lay hand on his first Major at Wimbledon.

He was playing all the Majors now.

I reached senior secondary school. Just started preparing myself for giving three hour papers. I learned I did not like Chemistry. Boards were upon us. It used to be a big deal. A late joiner, but I was finally a fan of Harry Potter as well. Roger Federer was, in the world of Chris Gayle, the ‘Universe Boss’. He could not stop winning matches. He could not stop winning tournaments. He was beating the lights out of his former nemesis Lleyton, including a double bagel in US Open Final. He was untouchable. The magical wand he held was an extension of his body. He glided around the court, dancing a silent but a beautiful dance. He was breaking records for fun. He was humble, he was correct. He was the perfect ambassador for the world of tennis. Along the way a young Spaniard Rafa Nadal had come along.

Roger was now winning all the Majors.

Senior school is a nightmare. I made the cardinal mistake of choosing non-med. School, tuition, Vidyamandir, eat, sleep – that is what the schedule was. Organic Chemistry, Integration and Differential, HC Verma. Nightmare. Roger Federer was still thumping everyone except for the aforementioned Spaniard. As months passed, the red hot streak began to slow down. Still winning the tournaments, but not that easily. Closing in on Pete’s record steadily. Clay was tough to master as Rafa was sweeping everything. The pair, unlike some of the previous rivals, were good friends and appreciative of each other. The world of tennis was seeing two contrasting style of tennis blossom and even if he lost, which was more often than not, it was tennis which was gaining.

He was playing all the Majors, probably not winning as easily though.

College was a new experience. I made some great friends, and had a very enjoyable run for four years. Roger, though, was losing his grip. Rafa had defeated him everywhere but US Open. Mononucleosis and back problem were hampering his play. No longer one of the young kids, he had to deal with the rise of the third generation – Murray and Djokovic. Tennis was less of the beautiful game that we were used to seeing, but more of a boxing match. These younger kids were so much stronger physically. Courts were slowing, serve and volley was almost dead. He did land his hand on French Open to complete the Grand Slam and went ahead of Pete by winning the following Wimbledon and Aussie Open. He got married. A proper family man, he invited his dad and mom to almost every tournament. All global brands chased him.

And yet, despite all off field distractions, all injuries, new rivals, he kept on playing every single Major.

I was doing my MBA. Trying to complete my CFA charter as well. Trying to get a nice job. Roger won his 17^th Major at Wimbledon and retook the World No 1 ranking. But the next year was marred by subpar performances.  Back troubles had reignited. At 32, many wondered if this was the final phase of his career. Repeatedly, Roger denied this. But the numbers told a different story. No Major final, just 1 tournament through the year. The semifinal streak had ended a couple of years back, now the quarter final streak finished too. He was ranked as low as 8. Too many doubts, too many questions.

Yet, despite all this, every time the list of 128 players for a Major was announced, the Swiss maestro was always there.

I had managed to get a decent job. It was long working hours. I now moved out of my home city for the first time. Lot of adjustments. Roger had come back like a whiff of fresh air. Leaving the baseline, he was attacking the net. He was bringing back the old style. The ATP field was left dazzled and confused. Second serves were being returned from inside the service box. His hands, even at the ripe old of 34, were fast enough to block any passing shot. The love story between tennis and Roger had been breathed a new life. In the autumn of his career, Roger was teaching the world of tennis a new lesson of endurance, adaptability and flexibility. Each year, the scheduling was managed so that the fans could see the magician for a few more years. The burning desire to win that one more match, one more tournament was the same as it had been all those years back when he had stepped into the Melbourne Park at the turn of the millennium. His rivals from that era were in the commentary box (Roddick), coaching a Davis Cup team and fellow players (Hewitt) or simply enjoying the post retirement life (Safin).

And what was Roger Federer doing? He was playing every single Major tournament still. Not only was he playing them, he was reaching the second weekend with the consistency matched only by one other player. 

As I sit on the weekend reminiscing about all the years gone by, into the 3^rd year of my job, I can only thing of one thing.

Dear Father Time, please stop chasing him. For once you catch him, even God would struggle to create something as peRFect.

From a proud Proteas fan

It started with Kallis I think. I was in total awe of him. His game was pleasing to the eye. His stroke making was exquisite his patience infinite. But we had Rahul Dravid in the same mold. Yet, for some reason somewhere in my early teens I became a South African fan. Maybe, it had something to do with their tragic losses.

It has been more than a decade since. And yet I am still waiting for my favorite team to be holding an ICC trophy. Each tournament, I am left to fight for my team as my friends chide me and make fun of my team’s apparent choking habits. But today, in whole of the cricketing village barring NZ, there was a sense of gloom. No one takes the credit of win away from NZ, a side filled with such nice gentleman, yet unless the heart is plain cold, there was a lump in everyone’s throat when that ordinary delivery from an extra ordinary bowler was deposited over long on. Cricket is a funny game. You always dream of such games and yet when one comes along, the pumping of adrenaline is accompanied by a tight knot in the stomach.

SA did lose. From the minute they came back from the rain interval SA’s were up against it. They would have been looking for 370 in 50 (maybe 400 if Superman had his day). They got 298 in 43. Their frontline bowler was off today. They had chosen the wrong third fast bowlers. They dropped catches. They missed run-outs. And yet, in those 43 overs, I was able to find one answer. The next time someone asks me why SA, I will have an answer.

This is a team that plays sports in good faith. Along with NZ, they proved a point. Sledging is not a part of the game as the arrogant Aussies so often like to portray. A game can be won on the basis of pure skill and talent. And even the bitterest of pills can be swallowed with humility and acceptance. Australia and England, are you listening?

AB came to the post match press conference. He refused to blame the rain when I and many others will hold it responsible. This is a man captaining a team that has been haunted by the ghost of rain and D/L since the time I was born. Yet, he acknowledged the ultimately fatal rainfall as his own responsibility. He was asked about the missed chances. He only talked about what he missed, the crucial run out of Anderson. No blames were placed. No names were taken. You could see the disappointment written on his face. You could see the contorting face trying to prevent the leakage from the eyes.

Faf du Plessis, arguably the second best fielder of the team, was diving about as if his life depended on it. No, this is not a metaphor. He actually fielded as if it was a matter of life and death. In the second last over he dived for that catch when it was impossible for him to reach. He fielded at midwicket and with his dives, tried to act as a proxy mid-on. Not only him, the whole side was diving around, trying to save that one run that may prove to be the difference in the two teams. Fielding at short fine leg, Morne Morkel, not the best among the group, slipped and fell, yet he did not let the ball go past him. Never mind the fact that he was to bowl the next over and any serious injury could have hampered SA’s chances severely. Pragmatism, so often the key words for a fielding fast bowler, had been left in the dressing room by this world cup hungry team. 

Oh, the fast bowlers of SA. Starting from Allan Donald and Shaun Pollock, passed on to Ntini and now carried on the broad shoulders of Morkel and Steyn, this legacy of SA will have its name etched in gold on the portrait of South African cricket. They are not like the abusing and sledging species that come from Australia. Nor are they like the pseudo skilled craftsman from England. They are simply passionate, hungry and intense. Steyn comes in and delivers spells in excess of 10 overs, each bowl delivered with a careful mix of venomous pace and startling accuracy. When he has batsman at his mercy, he does not sledge. He looks the batsman in the eye. Stares. And then walks away. He is more in the Ambrose category than in McGrath’s. And somehow, I have always liked the former. When he takes a wicket, he celebrates. It is not an over the top celebration like Tahir’s. But his eyes convey the message.

Today, he had an off day. Which meant that the burden fell on the perennially under appreciated Morne Morkel. For years, my brother convinced me about the understated importance of being Morne. He does not average 4 wickets a test. But if it were not for him even Steyn would also have struggled to get 4 in a match. Luck wise he is the Ishant Sharma of South African test cricket. Despite having 317 wickets in 62 tests and a 169 in 99 ODIs, you feel he should have had more. Tells you a lot about this giant. Today, he was immaculate. When Steyn failed against Baz, he delivered. Then, he got the best batsman of their side. He was asked to come on when Steyn walked off the pitch close to the 20^th over. And then again, asked to bowl in the last overs. Each time he outdid his previous performance. Morne’s wicket celebration are marked by a single hand raise and an effervescent smile. But that hides the steel within. He showed all of it today during the fascinating 39^th over of the innings. Bowling to Anderson, holder of the record of the fastest century till a few months back, who was sitting pretty on 50+ and looking to smash the ball out of the park, he bowled an over to which the batsman had no answer. Indeed, he hardly allowed Anderson to touch the ball. And before finishing, had him back in the hut. It takes a special effort to bowl this kind of over knowing fully well that there is a better chance of losing than winning. That effort flowed out on to the grass a few minutes later when the last ball was bowled. Of all the tears that were shed on the ground, his cut the hardest.

This South African team is full of some extra-ordinary individuals. They raised the game to a new level today.

AB, do not worry, your countrymen and everyone around is immensely proud of your team.

Haider- A beautiful movie

Every year, there are a few movies made that take your breath away. Haider was one of those. I had the privilege of watching Haider in the 1^st week of its release. It was an extremely well made movie sure to get good numbers in revenues too. A rare combination these days. Hence, I was taken aback when I started reading about the vehement criticism that followed soon after. In hindsight, I should have guessed it. Anything related to religion touches our nerve, doesn't it?

I would like to describe what I saw in the movie. I saw a doctor trying to assist some terrorists. I saw the army take him away and make him “disappear”. I saw a pained boy, biased by his love for his father, fight all the elements of the society, first for his safe release and then to avenge him. I saw a mother, torn apart between the love for her son and her latent feelings for her husband’s brother, trying to make a ruined family work. It was a beautiful story regarding the conflicting human emotions. Oh, and it was a Muslim family and the story was set in Kashmir.

The last point had our pseudo patriots pointing their daggers towards the director of the movie. How could he show the army in bad light? How could his movies be sympathetic towards Muslims? Does he not recognize that he is trying to show Indian Army in bad light? How can he be allowed to do this?

The point which everyone conveniently ignores is the fact that Indian army is not even shown in bad light. The father was a supporting the terrorists. He is clearly the bad guy in the movie. The Indian army does the right thing by taking him away. As viewers, we know what he did was wrong. And he got punished for his actions. As the CIA revelations have shown, when it is a matter of terrorism which is a national security threat, sometimes even the innocent suffer the darkest of fate. And in our movie, it is clearly shown that the father is wrong. And so, I repeat, Indian army was right to take him away. Where then is the problem?

The problem is that the movie is shown through the eyes of his son. He simply cannot accept the fact that his father has been involved in terrorist activities. Again, a very realistic assumption. We all worship our dad’s, don’t we? And so, in his view, what happened was not correct. And so he goes about killing everyone who he thinks is responsible for the death. And mind you, even then the movie does not show that he has any agenda against the army. The hatred is directed towards his uncle, and no-one else.

Many a Haider have been born whose fathers have been innocent too. I personally would not mind a movie made on that theme too.

I hear that the critics question that why has Vishal Bhardwaj not shown the other side of the story too. The story of our great Indian army. But we already got those in the form of Border et al. In any case, as a creative movie maker, it is not his responsibility that he shows you the full spectrum of Kashmir. He showed you the one side that no movie beforehand had shown.

Not that I cared about any of it. For me, as I said before, the movie was about the complex interplay of emotions

And obviously, the breathtaking beauty of Kashmir.

The American lessons

The year 2014 has been kind to me. I have had the best of times. Two things have been knocked off my bucket list. One- To go on a trip with friends to a nice place. Second- To watch the divine magic of God on a tennis court with my own eyes!

And then, there was that trip to the USA. From the west coast to the east coast, it was one month full of unimaginable fun. Looking back and savoring those moments of pure joy, I consider myself to be very lucky to have such a great set of people around me. Five people will stand out for me in this trip- my ingratiating maama , my  gracious maami, my impish little cousin Aruj, my cool elder brother Ankit and my charming friend Aastha. These people made this once in a lifetime experience for me. When I had set out for airport on the 6th of March, I could not have imagined what overwhelmingly delightful times that awaited me. Neither could I have imagined that there was a whole set of new learning that this grand trip was going to give me. I am going to jot down few random things that I learned from my visit to Uncle Sam.

1.     Smile- Small things in life can make a huge difference to your day. And nowhere was it more evident than at the airport of India and US. In India, while leaving as well as coming back, I had to cross the immigration. The people sitting there give you such insinuating looks as if they have pronounced you guilty even before you hand them your passport. Their sour tones leave a bad taste in your mouth. In USA, as I approached the official, his first remark was-" Hi! How was your flight?”. It is a basic greeting, and yet coupled along with a nice smile, this gesture makes you feel welcomed. The brilliant words of Charlie Chaplin come to my mind- "You'll find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile.”

2.     Enthusiasm- I did a hike of about 30km at the Grand Canyon, Arizona. We went down 6000ft. and came back up in about nine hours. In the morning, my maama was not sure about it. It was going to be physically taxing and we had to reach back before it got dark and cold. On top of that, we were late in leaving too. While following the trail, we discussed the possibility of taking a short cut. I was vehemently opposed to it, but my pragmatic maama had more sense. But on our way, we met this rather nice man, who was walking much slower than us and yet he told us he was going to come back up the same day. Looking at his pace, I was sure he was not going to make it up by the evening. But he said that now they had set out, he had no choice and he would eventually complete it. He was supremely confident about completing the trek in time. When he asked us about our plans, we said we were not sure. The nearly 50 year old guy laughed and said that we would definitely be able to complete it as we were younger and fitter. The ray of enthusiasm that he conjured also changed our minds and we decided to go for the full trek. Fortunately, we made it back on time!

My whole point is that it is heartening to see the spirit of the people there. Whilst we were trekking, we came across people of all age groups, some as old as 70. Imagine a 70 yr old doing that trek! Ladies with new born kids were at it also despite the arduous task of carrying the kids on their shoulder. It is heartwarming to see such people and their attitude rubs onto you in some way or the other.

3.     Greetings- Everywhere and anywhere I went, the first thing that people do is greet each other. At the supermarket, at the ticket counters, at the restaurants, in the elevator, people always greet each other. While walking down the road, if someone is coming from the opposite side, you don’t look up and then pretend that he/she doesn’t exist, instead you greet them which most of the times leads to a conversation. While travelling across the western coast with maama, people at counters always asked us where we were from and once we told that we came from San Antonio, the conversation would inadvertently lead to San Antonio Spurs, the basketball team of the city who were in a splendid form this season and who just today crushed the Miami Heat to win the NBA. They would sometimes tell about themselves too. It may appear bagatelle, but listening to them musing about their past and their struggles is, in its own way, poignant. Not to forget that when you greet, you smile which reinforces my first point. I firmly believe that this small activity has a latent positive effect on all present and in a life where we are always under stress, this habit is worth its weight in gold

4.     Productivity- It is impressive to see how much can be done in a single day if backed by proper resources. On an average day, I saw that after coming from office, you had more than 5 hours wherein you could complete your daily chores, go out for a movie, visit the local club, and have a nice dinner before returning home. All of this, without compromising on any sleep. How is this achieved? The foremost necessity is having good infrastructure. We never realize the amount of man hours wasted on roads while driving. If somehow we could cut down on that, how much more could we do in a single day! While on the west coast, we drove about 2500 km in one week and yet we had so much time to enjoy the places we visited. On no day was the drive time more than 7 hours and it was nil on a couple of days. It would have been possible nowhere but USA. This happened simply because of the good roads and connectivity. I see myself and my friends spending hours in travelling. Hours that could be utilized in a much better way. A realm of possibility open up if we somehow manage to save that time.

5.     Value of Human Life- While at Indian Wells, I heard a distant sound of police siren whilst we were driving around the city. Immediately, all the cars on BOTH SIDE OF ROAD moved to the last lane. I was surprised seeing that the police car was from the opposite side. I was told that when a police, ambulance or a fire brigade siren is on, the cars on both sides of road have to make way, else there is legal action. This is to ensure that the emergency car has an alternative route in case one side of road is jammed. On another occasion, I was standing in the parking trying to pull something out of the car when my maama told me to move aside and close the gate of the car. Looking back, I saw a young man was waiting patiently to park his car. I was surprised, as there was a huge space behind me, despite my door being open. But the explanation was that the driver of the other car would never try to enter whilst I was standing because if by any chance I was hurt, he would be liable for that.

What I learnt from these instances was that human life has a value there. You are not just any resource that is expendable and of no worth. There is respect for you and your life. It makes you feel secure, confident and thankful to your country.

I could definitely add a few more points to the list, but if I have to recollect the five things that had the most impact on me, it would be these. It has been a great experience visiting the country and I hope I get another chance to travel there again.

An evening on Delhi roads

Delhi, I have been told, has one of the best public transport system in the country. I haven't been around the major metropolitan cities of this country to vindicate or refute this opinion. But I did set out to test it today late evening. I did not have my beloved Firebolt (that's my car) with me at my college campus this week. Hence, I would have to use public transport to get home. By early evening, I was free from my classes and could have left for my home. However, knowing the peak hour rush, I decided to be smart and leave late. So at about 8.45 pm, I slung my laptop bag over my shoulder, picked up the other rather heavy bag that I needed to carry home, and left from college.

As I walked towards the main road, I realized my first mistake. I had forgotten to carry substantial change with me. Which meant that I could only take a bus to get to the metro station. Cursing under my breath, I reached the bus stop. I sat down to wait, a wait that lasted a very long time owing to the poor service of bus at that time. I saw two-three auto wallahs come to the bus stop and drive past them at a very slow speed in anticipation that patience may have run out of the waiting passengers and they may be willing to use their vehicles instead of bus. The sheer expectation with which they looked up at every bystander made me want to take one. But due to the above mentioned reason, I was unable to. Then again, there was one guy who did get tired of waiting and finally asked the passing auto wallah to drop him to some place in Sheikh Sarai. This auto wallah was not even looking for a passenger and was driving past us without slowing down. I thought of the auto wallahs who had so wanted to find a passenger amongst the group which was sitting there, but could not. Luck, as they call it.

My luck, it seemed had run out. 10 minutes gone, and yet no sign of any bus. On some other day, four would have passed by. After waiting a while, one did come. It was the old DTC bus and obviously was very full. I climbed in, since I did not want to take a chance of waiting for the next one. One bag on the shoulder, the other one in my hand, I just about managed to squeeze myself in a corner somewhere. The bus soon reached a red light. Staring outside the window, I saw a man standing on the divider making signals to, umm, himself! As I observed on, I saw that he was actually trying to signal the traffic in different directions to move and stop as and when the lights changed. Not that anybody looked at him, but he was probably in his own world where he was the policeman manning the red light. As the car in front of me moved a little, I was startled to see that he did not have a leg. He was standing on one leg only. On the divider itself, there were sheets and quilts, and somewhere in the middle of it, lay a plastic bag, presumably containing some food. I looked back at the man. He was not making any effort to ask for money and alms. His eyes were now focussed on our red light because it was about to turn green. About a second before it turned green, the man gave his hands an almighty heave and egged the traffic of our side to move on. Try as I might, I failed to find any source of helplessness or sadness in those eyes. Not for a moment had he looked at any car driver with the expectation of any help. He was too happy in his own make believe world I guess, a world which was far better than the one in which he lived.

In about half an hour, I was in metro. It was full, so my smartness had come to nothing. I would have found the same rush an hour earlier too. Too tired of carrying the bags, I put them down in a corner, plugged in my earphones, and looked about aimlessly. I have travelled in metro frequently over the years and nothing about it seems to change. I saw an old poor couple sitting on their seats, not talking, staring around as pointlessly as me. I saw a middle aged man, screaming into his phone, so that the whole compartment knew that a shipment that he was supposed to receive some day ago  had not been received yet. All in very fluent Punjabi. There was the usual set of young teenagers or college going crowd in the mix, some on their phones, some reading their books, some listening to songs(like me!). Then, there were the  perfect stranger uncles, who were discussing how full the metro was, and how people did not know how to enter and exit the metro compartment ( always pushing, they rightly complained. Though I am sure they would have done the same while entering!). The topic of conversation veered from this to politics to sports. I saw a young couple dragging a suitcase in the metro, and then dragging it out at Chandani Chowk station. I saw an uncle wearing suit and with a suitcase right next to him,  playing some game on his Samsung phone. A little away, there was a small labourer crowd, their "gamcha" hanging on their shoulders, chatting merrily as the thought of reaching home kept up their spirits. All these under one roof. The metro definitely brings people from all parts, walks and stages of life under one common roof.

Speaking for myself, I felt very tired. It had been a journey longer than expected. But staring around, I realized that most of the people here had had a much tougher day than me. Some were middle aged man, and to return at past 10 pm to their family sounds so sad. I thought of the labourers, how despite being more tired than me, they were happily waiting to get home. I thought of the stranger uncles, how travelling like this with no space at all had become a part of their lives. I could use a car whenever I wanted. I thought of the college going crowd, how they were trying to make their future, studying even in metro so that they can get a good start to their career. Each and every person I saw during my journey seemed to be on an adventure of their own, and as I thought, most of them had a life tougher than mine.

I had never thought that travelling on the Delhi roads for a couple of hours could be so humbling!

The Human Farm

Little Jay had just joined the new school. Having moved to a different city, the 10 year old kid had just got admission into the school. Jay was a shy kid who normally kept to himself. Behind the veil of this shyness, however, was a very intelligent and well read boy with remarkable observation powers. He was naturally intuitive and had matured faster than most kids of his age.

Jay was a voracious reader. As a present for his just gone by birthday, his parents had gifted him "Animal Farm", a classic by George Orwell. He had received his present on the eve of his first day at school.

During the first few days, the observant Jay clearly noticed that the principal of school was not very involved in the running of school. It was not that he worked things to his own advantage, but that he was ignorant and did not really care about the students. Within a few days, a new Bengali principal was appointed. He was supposed to be very enthusiastic about running the school, even though he had no prior experience of managing any institution. Aged and nearing retirement, his arrogance, dominating nature and high handedness had been construed for enthusiasm. In the Animal Farm, the Rebellion has taken place and the animals had overthrown Mr. Jones. Jay read on....

As more and more days passed, Jay observes a growing friction between some of the administration and the principal. Even though both proclaimed that they are working towards the betterment of the school, they seem to be heading towards a face off. A few days later, the vice principal of the school was replaced. Some of the faculty members were also unhappy with the running of the school, but there is not much they could do in the face of growing powers that the principal was vesting in himself. In the Animal Farm, Napoleon had become the undisputed leader after expelling Snowball from the farm. Jay read on...

Jay passed class-5 with flying colours. As he entered the new class, a shock awaited him. The number of subjects and the school working hours had been increased. This, the principal explained in the morning assembly, would enable the students to get a better understanding of the topics and make them a more intelligent and knowledgeable.  In the assembly, one of the kids asked about the dilapidated conditions of the playing ground. The new vice principal replied by saying that the students would now have so much work, it would be a wonder if they would have time to play. The principal also added that the school appointments room on the top floor of the academic building-1 would now be taken back and be used to make a lounge for any visiting teacher/guest. In Animal Farm, the work on windmill had started again as Napoleon and other pigs convinced the other animals that this was for their own good. The working hours had been increased and the ration reduced. Moreover, the Sunday meetings had been called off and only pigs had the power to pass decisions as all other animals lost the power to express their opinion. Jay read on...

One fine day, Jay went to visit the administrative bock of the school as he had work there. He crossed the second floor, which had the principal's office. What he saw left him in a shock. The floors had been redone and now boasted of white shiny tiles. The doors had been changed and replaced with new ones. From where he was standing, he saw that the principal's office had doubled in size and contained a 52 inch television. Jay vaguely remembered that the fees of the school had been increased by 10% this year. During the previous meeting, the students had been told that for each subject, the cap on the price of the book was Rs 500. The school was also not setting up a computer terminal saying it was cash strapped. In the Animal Farm, the pigs had moved into the house of Mr. Jones. They always had plenty to eat and drink even as the other animals starved. Jay read on...

Once, to pay the quarter  fees, Jay entered the administrative block. He saw a vacant lift and proceeded towards it. However, the guard stopped him saying that the principal was on his way and the lift had been stopped for him. Poor Jay climbed 10 floors and while on his way back down after depositing the fees, a good 15 mins after he had entered the block, he saw the principal's car approaching. Meanwhile, a new rule had been passed in the school. It said that after school hours, the students, when they were outside their hostels, would have to be properly dressed up. Even to go as far as the mess, they had to be in a proper attire. In the Animal Farm, Napoleon had shifted to an exclusive room, and had his meals alone in a separate quarter waited by two dogs. He had given himself new titles. Jay read on...

Years had passed. Jay had reached class-12. He would pass out this year. The school had lost its name and fame. The fees had remained high even as the facilities and services level fell. The only thing that had grown was the waist size of the principal and the number of cars he had.

On the final result day, Jay found out that he had been given the President's medal. He went up to the stage to collect the certificate and gift. As he looked at his recently earned  gift which he had received from the principal, he was surprised to see that it was the same book- Animal Farm. The cover page contained the picture of Napoleon. As he looked up from the picture to wards the smiling face of the principal, he saw no difference. He felt a sense of Déjà-vu as his mind raced to understand the significance of his latest observation. Then it hit him.

The school had been his very own Animal Farm.

PS- Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental!

Confessions of a former "believer"

Caveat: You might find this very boring, illogical, insane and stupid!

India, they say is a country of festivals. Among these festivals, if you had to find one that was the most 'important', at-least in the part of the country where I live, it has to be Diwali. The festival of lights lies right in the middle of the festive season with Navratras, Durga Puja preceding it and Bhai Dooj and Guru Nanak Jayanti to follow.

I have personally never been too big a fan of the festival . However, I do appreciate its importance in context of socializing. The great part about Diwali, as far as I am concerned, is that you get to meet so many people in such a short span of time. Every year, I, along with my dad and my brother, go about distributing gifts to friends and relatives. Now, I am not one of those that gets bored while elders are talking. In-fact, their conversations are sometimes so much fun to listen to. The phenomenon started when I was young, and I was asked to go along so that I could be kept off mischief. The incentive offered to me was cold drinks and juices (yeah, they used work with me, they still do!). Over the years, it has become a sort of tradition and I have enjoyed every bit of it. Catching up with people, meeting old friends, listening to their stories, this all makes Diwali great.

However, this is where it ends for me. Diwali, at the end of the day, is a religious festival. And that is where my apprehensions start.

When I was young, like every boy of my age, I believed in God, I believed in the stories of Rama and Krishna, of Vishnu and Mahesh. Every Sunday, I used to get up at 9 am ( I could not get up early even then) to watch Krishna on the National channel. I hero worshipped him, I used to miss playing and go to temple every day with my grand mother for prayers. I had learnt all the aarti's by heart and could recite them even in my sleep. As I entered middle school, I was still the same, a devout follower.

However, that is where things started to change. I don't know how exactly it happened, but I started questioning myself regarding my beliefs. As I read about the various communal tensions across our country, I was forced to ask-" Is this really what religion is about?". In particular, I remember my thoughts after reading about Babri Masjid demolition. I failed to understand how can people fight with each other in the name of God. Since early days, I had believed God to be a source of power and inspiration, not of hatred and violence. It felt stunned and amazed. I used to look into the television, where hordes of religious fanatic speakers would be talking about religion as if they knew everything about it. The question in front of me was how could these killers understand about a thing about a thing as pure as God. The guys preaching us to fight with fellow human beings for our God, surely they cannot be the right people to follow! After all, weren't we supposed to be the son of one God? Then how can we fight with each other in his name? This all left me very, very intrigued.

As I grew, I found a set of people around me who did not believe in any of this. Every phenomenon, according to them could be understood with a rationale. There was a logic to everything that happened in this world. I am not very sure why, but to me this could not be a fact. There are some things beyond our understanding. I did not agree with atheists either.

And so I developed my own theory about how the human mind works. I am sure someone else would also have said this before. The human mind, as per my understanding is inherently fearful and curious. We all are afraid of things we can't explain. We need to find a reason for every action around us. I don't think every thing can be explained by science and logic. This is where the clever mind developed a mythological power called God. It could be used to explain everything that we did not comprehend. It was a proxy for every unexplained answer. Even though there was still no logic for some of our actions, but by passing the bucket to God, we were able to breathe a sigh of relief and point to something definitive. Same thing happens to me also. I studied hard for an exam, could not get the desired result, and hence I would pass on the blame to God. I am sure a lot of people, if they think, would be able to come up with similar stories. Gradually, we started putting so much emphasis on him and giving him so much power that we started believing he could change our lives with his magical powers. And if he could change our lives, that means if we prayed to him, he would become happy and grant us our wishes. This is what "God" says in Bruce Almighty-" People can take charge, but they want to pass on all their work to me", or something to this effect. To show our loyalty to God, we started doing all kinds of weird things, hence the rituals that every religion has. Fighting with our brothers to show whose God is superior became another symbol of loyalty. And hence we ended up in the world where we are.

Where did this leave me? I have stopped believing in "Moorti Puja". I am no longer a devout temple visitor. I don't follow any religious practice with zeal.

Yet, I have faith. I still believe in a power that the human mind can never fathom. But I do not give a name to it. I do not give a shape to it. That nameless shapeless faith is my God. The particles that conspire in helping me achieve my goal when I really want something is my God. The song/book or anything that helps me during my tough times is my God. That luck that helped me pass when I had not worked and failed me when I had worked is my God. About six months back, I had written about a monastery that I had found very peaceful, that is my God.