Pulling at the chords of my heart

First of all, my apologies for not following up on my previous post "Aye maalik tere bande hum". I have many songs that I want to post here and share with you - so it is not for lack of intent that nothing has been forthcoming from me for almost two weeks now.

Today I will be sharing two songs with you. Both these songs have one thing in common. They immediately go to my heart. Every single time I hear them. I can listen to them time and time again without ever getting bored or tired of them.

I cannot put a finger on what I find particularly heart-rending about these songs. I suspect it is not just one aspect of these songs. Not just the melody or the music or the lyrics. It is a combination of them all.

Listen to them and judge for yourself.

Dil Ne Phir Yaad Kiya - Dil Ne Phir Yaad Kiya (1966)

I first heard of Sonik Omi (the nephew-uncle combo) as a young boy. In the midst of the RD Burmans, Kalyanji Anandjis and Laxmikant Pyarelals who were beginning to crowd that generation’s music space, Sonik Omi as music composers managed one fleeting shot at fame. Their song “Kaan mein jhumka” from Saawan Bhadon was a tapori superhit.

I would however like to remember them for this classic from DNPYK.

As far as I know, this was the film where Sonik Omi made their debut as independent music composers. Till then, Omi had composed as music assistant to Roshan for such superhits as Taj Mahal and Dil Hi To Hai. DNPYK was his first independent venture – and straightawy he hit the jackpot !

What a fantastic composition this is ! Everything about it is just perfect. The soft music actually accentuates the effect of the voices of Mohammad Rafi, Suman Kalyanpur and Mukesh.

And the picturisation is to kill for. Nature at its most beautiful. And Dharmendra rowing a boat with Nutan and Rehman. I have not seen the film and therefore cannot comment on it but this song is enough paisa vasool for me for the whole movie.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T2v0QEiYRyE


Lakhon Taare Aasmaan Mein - Hariyali Aur Raasta (1962)

I remember seeing this movie as a young boy. And, since I love old movies, I caught up with it again a few years ago.

I loved it – from beginning to end.

There is something about old movies that I find very endearing. Maybe it is that they transport me to a time so different from today that I actually feel that I have escaped reality for those two or three hours. True, the stories are hackneyed, the dialogues could have been written by you in your sleep – and often they are in black-and-white. Inspite of all this, I love them.

And nothing gives me more pleasure while watching an old movie than waiting for that song to come. You know the song, you are guessing when it is going to come – and as the situation in the movie develops, you can almost “feel” it. When the song finally hits you, it is totally in context – and the feeling is exhilarating. (There is only one feeling to beat this one – the feeling of hearing a song that you did not even know belonged to this movie. You go like “wow….this is from THIS movie ?”).

As usual, I have digressed considerably and must get back on track.

HAR (sorry, too much influence of today’s generation :-) ) has a soundtrack that can hold its own against any other. All-time classics (ATCs :-) ) like “Ye Hariyali Aur Ye Raasta”, “Bol Meri Taqdeer Mein Kya Hai”, “Itbidaaye Ishq Mein Hum”, “Teri Yaad Dil Se Bhulaane Chala Hoon”…and the song I am presenting here “Laakhon Taare Aasman Mein”.

There is a lot about this song that I love. First of all, like I have already mentioned, it pulls at the strings of my heart. By his own very high standards of soulful songs, Mukesh should be proud of this particular song. And, amazingly matching him outcry-for-outcry, is Lata Mangeshkar here. The combination makes for enthralling listening.

Which is precisely what I did on that train journey in 1982. I was travelling from Delhi to Kolkata (then Calcutta). It was my first journey on this route - and most importantly, I was travelling by the Rajdhani Express, then the pride of Indian trains.

It was a pleasant though not particularly eventful journey.

As the train left Mughalsarai station, I heard some music. I thought somebody had got a transistor with him but it was, I believe, part of the "service pack". Music played on that train for the benefit of passengers.

I was not used to all this "luxury" at that time - being more used to second-class compartments where you try not to keep your feet on the floor or, even your luggage, for fear of suddenly discovering that somehow, miraculously, water has managed to find its way exactly where your feet are.

Anyway, I heard some music. And then I heard this song "lakhon taare...". I was mesmerised. It was early morning. At the risk of the bhajan-types frowning at me for drinking in film songs so early in the day, I will admit that I thoroughly enjoyed it and craved for more. A few more songs followed - but they were neither of the same quality nor were they clear. Maybe the audio system in the train had conked. Maybe it had not been working all the way till Mughalsarai - somebody had fixed it for a few minutes before it conked again. Whatever it was, that one song was total paisa vasool for the trip. I would have been happy to listen to that song again and again for the whole duration of my journey.

The other things about this song. It has simple, but emotionally rich, lyrics from Hasrat Jaipuri. And the music - somewhat typical of their style - but in no sense meant derogatorily is from the reigning music badshahs of the time, Shankar Jaikishen.

The picturisation is on Manoj Kumar and Mala Sinha. I like watching Manoj Kumar’s mannerisms (there is something about them :-) ) and in this particular song, Mala Sinha is not bad either.

All in all, a classic. Yes, and not just by my definition. :-)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CUh3HKw__w


I hope you listen to these two songs and enjoy them as much as I do.

Warming up with "Aye maalik tere bande hum"

I have often asked myself what sort of songs I like in particular. And I must admit I have never been able to answer that question.

Songs of a particular singer ? No, I like songs of a wide variety of singers. Particular composer, particular lyricist ? No. If I draw up a list of favourites (it would be very difficult to do so, by the way), the variety would be evident at first glance.

Songs of a particular genre ? Period ? Raag ? Again, no, no and no. (Raag ? I have no clue of the raag of a song, so this is most definitely not a criterion).

One criterion I can possibly think of is the lyrics in general. I am a big fan of lyrics, so a song with very good lyrics is likely to hold my interest. I like shaayari (I am not good at it) , I like good dialogues in movies – so I think good lyrics could be considered a criterion.

Good lyrics does not necessarily mean heavy-duty language. Or, for that matter, classy Urdu words. Of course, these would help to get me interested enough to start looking for translations (I learnt the Urdu word "tawajju" a few months ago :-) ) but I also find that I am just as happy with simple lyrics that combine well in a song to express an emotion.

For example, I find a song like “tujh sang preet lagayi sajna” , with reasonably simple lyrics, very nicely “threaded” into a beautiful expression of love. Compare this with “baith ja, baith gayi, khadi ho ja, khadi ho gayi, jhoom ja, jhoom gayi, ghoom ja, ghoom gayi, ghoom ja, ghoom gayi gayi gayi gayi gayi gayi gayi gayi..”…I think you get the point.

So, good lyrics, yes. Or, at the very least, not bad lyrics.

Another thing I tend to like is a sense of involvement in and with a song. I get involved with songs I listen to. They can be happy songs or sad songs but if I find myself singing along naturally - or not wanting to be disturbed while listening to the song - then yes, it has got me.

A third criterion (if you can call it such) is that the song should have caught my interest the first time itself. I know some songs can “grow” on people but I do not think I am that type. I need a sort of “love at first sight” or rather “love at first listening” feeling. Thankfully, there are many, many songs with which I have this sort of relationship. Especially amongst old Hindi songs.

I cannot think of other criteria at the moment. Nor do I intend to analyse this any more. Some songs click in my mind, some do not. And, like I have said before, they cut across singer, music director, lyricist, picturisation, genre and era. Since I am often not even aware of some of these details while listening to a song the first time, it is safe to say that the song comes first – the details come later.

I think I have talked enough. It is now time to move on to sharing some of my songs with you.

All the songs I have in mind satisfy all the above criteria for me. These are songs that held me captive the first time I heard them. So it was definitely a case of "love at first listening". Even now, when I listen to them, I get totally involved.

Given the number of songs that I love, my list will be a long one. It will contain happy songs and sad songs. Obviously I cannot include them all in this one post.

I will therefore start with just a couple of songs. You could see this as a "teaser" - with more to follow.

Being a start to this series, I thought it apt to start with two songs which are prayers rather than typical Hindi songs. I was mesmerised when I heard them the first time. And, even today, when I listen to them, I am totally lost in them. Just listen to them and judge for yourself.

Here is the opening song...from the Nightingale of India, Lata Mangeshkar...

It is a song from one of my favourite films "Do Aankhen Barah Haath" (1957). One of V. Shantaram's classic films (featuring Sandhya of course !), it made a huge impression on me when I first saw it as a little boy. When I saw it years later, it made just as much of an impression on me. A very good movie. Apart from a very good storyline, it has some pleasant songs (like sainya choron ka bada sartaaj nikla). But this one from Lata is a masterpiece. Written by Bharat Vyas and composed by Vasant Desai.

"Aye Maalik Tere Bande Hum"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m2CJZiP4_Sc

Lata, having brilliantly opened the innings here, hers is a very tough act to follow. But I think Manna Dey does not do a particularly bad job here. In this song from Seema (1955), watch Nutan in an agitated state of mind as Balraj Sahni appeals to a higher force. Shailendra's lyrics and Shankar Jaikishen's music.

"Tu Pyar Ka Sagar Hai"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QM8ohMGneY


That's it for this post. Just a "jhalki". For all you "jhalak dikhla ja...jhalak dikhla ja" guys. :-)

Adios ! Till the next time.

More than cricket - a passion for old songs

Many of my posts until now have been about cricket. It may give the impression that cricket is my all-consuming interest.

Well, not really.

Yes, cricket is one of my biggest passions. I can spend hours watching it, discussing it, reading about it, checking scores and statistics. And I do. I have spent many nights just following cricket scores on the internet. And not just weekend nights. Many a sleep-deprived messy work-day morning has my cricket passion to blame entirely for it.

But there is one other interest of mine that beats even cricket. It may not seem possible but yes, there is. It is my interest in old hindi songs and movies.

I have intentionally been very specific and said "old hindi songs". Instead of saying "old hindi music" - and appearing to know more about music than I do.

I have absolutely no claims to knowing anything about music. I have never learnt music, never played a musical instrument, never learnt singing.I will almost certainly fail to recognise an instrument nine out of ten times, a raag ninety-nine out of hundred times.

So I know nothing about music. What I do know is that one does not need to know about music to be able to enjoy it. There is something natural about music that seems to get into one's psyche. It cuts across age, sex, race, every type of barrier.

Of course, tastes are different. Thankfully. If everybody liked only one type of music, other types would not exist at all. Life would be so monotonous. The different tastes allow different types of music to get created. And to flourish.

I would also like to clarify another point. My interest in "old hindi songs" is not in any way a criticism of other songs. Of other languages or generations. It is just that I have been exposed much more to these songs and they have found a special place in my heart.

Maybe I should make an effort to listen to other types of songs. Maybe I will. I am sure there are plenty of new songs out there that are just as melodious as old ones. And plenty in other languages too. The few English songs I know, I actually like. I happen to hear Spanish songs every now and then. And find that, even without understanding a word of the lyrics, they are quite catchy. Understanding the lyrics would probably enhance an appreciation of the music.

Another clarification. When I say "old hindi songs", I am talking about songs of upto the 1970s or early 1980s. I feel that somewhere in the mid-80s, there was this gap. It was as if all the good music directors and lyricists had decided to take a sabbatical at the same time. They returned in 1989-90 (QSQT, Aashiqui et al) and once again songs took centrestage in Hindi films.

I have been very much out of touch with Hindi songs since that sabbatical. I know some songs of the 1990s. But this century has completely passed me by. I can count on my fingers the number of songs I know of the current decade. And I have absolutely no clue about the composer, singer, lyricist, film.

So I think it is best to stick with what I know. I will stick with "old hindi songs". Mostly film songs but the odd song that I recall may be a non-filmi song. Like a non-filmi ghazal.

In discussing songs here, my approach is going to be very simple. This is MY blog - and I can discuss whatever songs I like. Whether anybody has heard of them or not. Or finds them interesting or not.

No, that is not exactly the attitude I am going to adopt. Yes, I do want to personalise my song presentation with my comments about the songs, any experiences associated with the songs, maybe some background information about the songs.

But I do not want this to be all MY show. There is no greater joy than sharing. Sharing experiences, sharing interests. Educating one another.

THAT is going to be something I hope to achieve here. I will be presenting some songs - not necessarily the most popular ones. In fact, most likely they will not be the best-known songs around.

I can almost visualise my niece Nandu, and my nephew Chikki, smiling. I have forced my choice of songs on them a number of times. They jokingly refer to these songs as ATCs (all-time classics). The main qualification of such songs for them is that they would NEVER have heard the song before had it not been for me.

Well, N & C, you are my prime target audience for this blog. And others of your generation.
You like old songs, you know a number of old songs. But there are so many old songs out there (yes, ATCs :-) ) that you do not know about. Maybe the combination of the song, the lyrics, the music, the visuals - you may just find yourself enjoying the song.

Or maybe not. In any case, I would just request all you youngsters out there to have an open mind about old songs. One man's food is another's poison. To each his own, I always say. If you like the songs, fine. If you don't, that is just fine too. (I have even listened and tapped to "jhalak dikhla ja" to try to understand the taste of today's generation. :-). And believe me, I do like catchy songs like "oonchi hai building". :-)).

Since nowadays many songs are available on youtube, I plan to use this where possible. It is fantastic to be able to present the song in its entirety - song, music, lyrics and visuals.

That is how and why I plan to go about presenting my songs. This is an outlet for myself - to share my songs (well, not my songs but my choice of songs) with the world. Anybody who wants to join in and comment, is most welcome to do so.

Watch this space.

It must be me

This is not about work. I try to keep work and life outside work, including blogging, separate. For my own sanity.

This is about what happened to me after work today.

For the last couple of months, I have joined a small group of my office colleagues for evening "running classes". Nothing fancy - we have a trainer with whom we do some exercises and running. It is just once a week - every Wednesday, for about 1 to 1.5 hrs. Like I said, nothing fancy.

A few other observations. Completely irrelevant to the story. But then, relevance has never been my strongest suit. When I expound, I like extravagance. It costs nothing except the patience of the reader. Considering my story today has its share of grief for me, you will understand if I am slightly unsympathetic towards others' suffering today. So, for today, partners in sufferance, I would say. Or, becoming Shakespeare's Shylock for a moment, I would say "bear it with a patient shrug - for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe."

My first observation has to do with my acute awareness of being the oldest person in the group, with some of the others being half my age and having twice my biceps, triceps and all other muscles in the human body.

And I am talking about the female members of the group here. Years of being fed on Gouda, Alkmaar and various other Dutch cheese, not to mention swimming in the womb of their mothers and riding a bicycle the minute they got out of that womb have definitely resulted in giving the Dutch member of the female human species a reasonably muscular, if not necessarily particularly attractive, frame. (To all Dutch readers of this piece, I want to emphasise that I say this in a most endearing sense and mean absolutely no slight on a most wonderful people).

My other observation, more like a realisation, is that a lifetime of poor housekeeping cannot be undone by a one-hour-a-week attempt at redemption in what, in sporting terms, must be considered a reasonable twilight in one's life. OK, I am not eighty yet, but boy, when I do some of those stretches, I feel like each one of my muscles is getting back at me, with a vengeance, for years of abuse. As realisations come, there are not very many morale-shattering ones challenging this one. Coupled with the experience of finding that in a running group, after ninety seconds, when you look behind you there is no one - not one pathetic mammal - looking back at you, you can be excused for adding to your miseries the additional realisation that it must have been a momentary seizure of madness that made you embark on this physically stretched and mentally wretched experience.

It happens to me every time I go out there - and yet, for somebody who has a remarkable record of not making an effort in anything and just hoping that everything comes to him by itself - I have hung in there so far. I am not sure how much longer I will be able to carry on with this but so far, so good.

The group is talking enthusiastically about taking part in a 4-mile or 6-mile run soon. Just the talk makes me sick in the stomach - as if I did not have enough misery to cope with already. Guys, can we just take it one meter at a time, please ? When I drive, the kilometers on the counter tick along nicely and quickly. When I run, why is it that every meter seems to take ages, much like a tortured Rahul Dravid innings, not moving at all. (Sorry Rahul, just kidding !)

For all this, I keep hearing things like "no pain, no gain". So I feel the pain, will somebody please tell me when I am going to feel the gain ? There better be some gain otherwise this would be the biggest lie since the US claimed that the Apollo mission successfully landed man on the moon in 1969 (kidding again, of course !). Actually, I can think of more recent lies but I want to avoid politics in this piece.

Ok, that's enough of self-pity. Even I am beginning to forget what the purpose of this whole piece - apart from self-pity of course - is.

Coming finally to the point. Or at least closer to it.

The way the Wednesday process works is as follow. The class starts at 6.00 p.m. Which means till 5.45 p.m I am undecided, searching for some reason to skip it this one time (I will certainly catch up next time ! Yeah, right - like THAT is going to happen). I think of reasons, feel guilty - and then at 5.55, after seeing some of my co-runners getting out of the office, my guilt wins and I decide that another evening of torture was probably ordained in my stars.

I then rush to this sports center very near my office where we assemble as a group. We use this sports center to change into our running gear, leave our stuff in our cars and then head out onto the running tracks.

Today, I did nothing different. 5.45 happened, 5.55 happened. And the rest too. Yes, all of the rest. Including the turning back and not finding another pathetic soul.

So I get back home at about 8.15 and just as I turn the key in the front door I realise something. Yes, this piece is all about realisations but this one is more mundane.

I realise that, during my gear-change process at the sports center, I have actually left behind my work shoes. I had, as usual, hurried through the changing process in order not to delay the rest of the group. And, as a result, had left my black pair of shoes behind at the center. My favourite pair actually.

Now, the sports center is a fair distance from my home. And I could actually have picked it up the next day on the way to work. If I really wanted to be sure the pair was still there and kept in safe custody I could probably even have called up the sports center and told them to keep my shoes safely.

I weighed all this and decided I was kidding myself. How would I communicate to a busy sports center that they had to look for a particular black pair of shoes amongst all the stuff they have in their changing room (it is always busy) and keep it aside for me ? Why would they do this at all, anyway ? I don't even actually use their sports facilities - I use only their changing room.

The idea of picking it up the next day on the way to work is great in theory but I know myself. Considering I barely make it to work within one hour of office opening hours (avoiding eye-contact as much as possible with colleagues, I might add), my first priority would be to get to work. Then, going to this sports center would become a project. Yes, I know this sounds ridiculously silly but that is how some things become for some people.

So I decided that I had to sort this out rightaway. I step into my car and drive back all the way. I feel proud of myself when I walk out of the center, shoes in tow.

I am still proud of myself as I am driving on the long road leading to the highway. It is pretty deserted at this time of evening and I am actually in a good mood. I am listening to the radio - and, for a couple of minutes, in a different world.

The camera flashes - and I just realise (yes, another realisation) that I was well over the speed limit !

Come on. The only reason there is a camera there is that there is a school nearby. Totally understandably, the idea is to deter drivers from exceeding the speed limit of 50 km during school hours.

But this was past 8.30 p.m. Surely there is no reason to expect children to be at school at this time of day ? (Some teachers would argue that you are lucky if you find certain children in school at any time of day but I will not go there - I have had enough digression for one evening. No, there is more to come in this piece - at a more literal level).

So the camera flashes, I sigh, curse and drive on. I get on the highway - and for five minutes it is like highway driving at 8.45 p.m. Easy, no traffic.

And then, it changes dramatically, much like my mood after the camera incident.

It becomes like highway driving when an accident has just happened. That is what has just happened. I spare a thought for the victims, hoping it is only vehicle damage. As for myself, I can do nothing but just add to the sea of cars inching along. Where is that camera now, I wonder ? I am allowed to drive 120 but I am not able to drive more than 5. So do I get any money back ?

The radio is playing Abba's "Voulez Vous". I can only think "No, this is not what I want". I try to be smart. I get off the highway one exit before my usual one. Ok, it would be another ten-minute drive but better that than the inching along.

I should have known. When it is not your day, it is really not your day. I find diversion signs from my usual route. There is some road construction activity happening. The diversions are well sign-posted (I will give the Dutch that), but it means I will have to digress quite a bit from my usual route, encountering a fair number of traffic lights along the way. Some of them would not be operational at this time of night but some of them make you see red, literally and figuratively.

Anyway, I do the circuitous bit - very mindful this time of my speed since I realise (yes, another realisation) that there are a couple of cameras on this route. I am not going to allow myself to be ripped off twice in one evening !

So I get home with no further damage - a bit tired from it all. I have had my usual post-run shower and I must admit I am feeling much better now.

But I cannot help wondering - why does an evening have to be so complicated ?

Is it normal or is it just me ?

And now the final realisation - and possibly the most damning of them all. I realise it is just me.

The "R" word

This post is about a very sensitive subject - racism. In general, people stay away from this subject. But I have no qualms discussing it. A case of "Fools rush in where angels fear to tread" ?

I am sure I will be raising plenty of eyebrows with this post. If people think I am racist because of some of the things I say here - then, frankly, I don't give a damn. I know what I am and I do not need others to tell me whether I am racist or not.

We have just seen an Indian cricketer being hauled up for racist comment. At the same time, we have seen cheating on a cricket ground, or at the very least, the game not being played in the true spirit of sport. As expected, everybody the world over will go "OMG" about the racist comment. The cheating will be accepted as another of those "what's the game coming to nowadays ?" and people will move on.

Harbhajan Singh will have to live the rest of his life with the stigma of having been banned from a few cricket matches because of his "racist" comment. This is no small matter - being called a racist in today's world. Which is why I am writing this piece.

Let me start by making one thing clear. Racism has no place in any sport. Not in sport, not in life. But before making this United Nations-like diplomatic declaration of condemnation of racism, we need to get it clearly defined.

Because according to me, sadly, there is no universal definition of racism. Maybe there is something in textbooks and in law, but there is no universal definition of racism available to the common man on the street in every country.

And therein lies a huge problem when one tries to apply racism-related laws and rules across cultures which do not necessarily share the same definition of the term.

Why run away from the subject ? Let's face it. It is a fact that there are many races in this world. And each race has its identity and origin. Each person belongs to a particular race. Whether we bring the race into our discussion or not (I know in the West, it is a studiously avoided subject), it just cannot be denied. So why not accept it and deal with it in a mature fashion ?

In my opinion, where racism is clearly an issue is when it is divisive or discriminatory. For example, when opportunities are based on race, and not on merit. Or, when a "colored" MK Gandhi was thrown out of a "whites only" train in Pietermaritzburg, that was about as clear a case of racism as one can get. This sort of discrimination / deprivation based on race is what Martin Luther King fought for, all his life. The apartheid regime in South Africa had racism written blatantly all over it.

I could not agree more with the evils of racism, if THIS is its definition.

But no - what we as a global society have managed to do is to complicate day-to-day life by making anything and everything a "racist" issue. To the extent that people of different races feel uncomfortable talking to each other about something that is pretty basic and undeniable. And why ? Because if you say something to another of a different race, you could be hauled up for being a racist.

Utterly silly. It is time we took off our blinkered glasses, got off our high pedestals and mustered the courage to talk about this from a purely human and not political perspective. Let me give you my own experience. I work in an environment where I have blacks (or should that be African Americans, to be politically correct ?), Caucasian race whites, Chinese and Indians. We need to spend several hours together every day - so we do realise that we better get along with each other. Fortunately, inspite of all our racial differences, we do. In fact, our racial differences are part of the reason we actually get along - we have an opportunity to have a dig at one another or pull each other's leg with, yes, what the whole world would perceive as "racist" comments. Frankly, we could not care less.

Why do we do this ? Because we recognise that each race has its uniqueness - and that is perhaps what makes it charming too. Why pretend otherwise ?

For example, one of the black Americans who works with me was once told by one of my "white" friends - "come on, you don't have a problem if you lose your job - you can always go on the streets and become a rapper. Worst case, you can always play basketball". The Afro-American had a huge laugh about it - and got back with his own "racist" comment.

This is how different races can behave with each other - if they are allowed to behave in this way. But no, we immediately start drawing lines of communication around us and make sure "boundaries are not crossed". This way, we force everybody to become uncomfortable.

I can expect somebody to say "yes, but that is different from calling Symonds a monkey". It may well be but the point is that Symonds has been so indoctrinated into thinking that his being of African-American origin is going to result in him being abused, that he can think of nothing but complaining about this as being the biggest crime ever committed on earth.

Instead, if somebody had just told Symonds long back "Listen Andy, you know what ? thanks or no thanks to your origins, you do resemble a monkey to some extent. People may have a dig at you from time to time about this. It is not your fault - in any case, just forget it, it is no big deal. You are a good guy from the inside - and that is what matters. And even if your face does look like a monkey's, you are good-looking in your own way. So don't worry about these sort of things", things might have been different.

I guess nobody had this chat with Symonds. So he has grown up all along being defensive about his origins. While he has absolutely nothing to be ashamed about, or worried about. Now, as a professional cricketer who has huge talent and can go very far in his career, he is worried about what people comment about his looks ?

The point I am making - and I know I am making it in a very laboured fashion - is that racism is in your mind. Since its definition is anyway not universally consistent, you will have problems of perception more than reality. Yes, if you have been deprived opportunity on the count of race alone, by all means, scream. Use the racist card. But if somebody in another culture has called you a monkey, frankly, if you are mature - you should not give a monkey's. You know what and who you are and no names that anybody else calls you should matter. Not if you are a thorough professional who concentrates on the job at hand.

If we are talking just racist remarks that hurt a person, I don't see it very different from sledging. Sledging is also intended to hurt or disturb the sledgee. In the final analysis, it is the hurt you cause to another that should be the measure of the crime - not whether it was a "racist" comment or not. You can sledge really cheap and dirty (like the disgusting McGrath-Sarwan incident) but not call somebody who looks like a monkey a monkey because, ooooh, that is a "racist" comment ? Come on. If this comment hurt, so did that comment of McGrath to Sarwan. Where do you draw the line ?

Now, my final point - I am tiring a bit. Cheating. Now, there can be no two views about that one. Here the rules can be set much more clearly because this is universal. There is one game (it is not like one person is playing cricket and the other football). There are rules of the game, there is a spirit of the game. Every person who enters the sport is educated on this from day one - so anybody who breaks this is cheating. As simple as that.

Since cheating is done with the primary objective of obtaining an unfair advantage over the other party, there is no doubt about whether there is hurt caused by it or not. There is - and the party cheating has to realise that he has been out of line. He needs to be brought to book. With cheating, there is no scope for misinterpretation.

Cheating in sport, in life whatever. I don't see it as being any less a crime than what I would like to label "pseudo-racism" (as distinct from genuine racism as I have defined above). In fact it is worse.

In my book, Symonds' case is one of pseudo-racism. Very much in fashion. But pseudo-racism, nonetheless.

One day in the future, I hope Symonds looks at himself - and feels proud of his immense abilities. Some of this may even actually be race-related. Instead of feeling defensive about his race, he may even be able to joke about it.

Maybe even joke about it with Harbajan ? It may be a dream but it is worth dreaming. For this, more than anything else, will make a difference to the perception of racism around the world. The more you cry "racist", the more racists you create. As simple as that.

My Experiments with Truth : Black

I was a very simple, "goody-goody" boy growing up in Orissa, completely oblivious of the big, bad real world. I lived a pretty protected life where most things in life were taken care of for me. So my experience in actually DOING things myself in the real world was very limited. I learnt a lot about life only after I left the comfort of my parents' place in Orissa.

One of the things that got taken care of for me was movie tickets. Somebody would always arrange the ticket beforehand, often in advance booking. Or, even if we reached the hall, somebody else would somehow manage to get the tickets. I would just walk in and enjoy the movie. In a sense, I guess I was quite pampered.

The year 1977. Three of my friends and I suddenly got into the mood to see "Hum Kisise Kum Nahin".

It was the last day before school would re-open after the pooja holidays. The movie had been released a couple of months earlier and had become a rage pretty much all over the country. Almost all our friends had already seen the movie (some of them "first day, first show" - which was a HUGE deal in those days. Arrey yaar, first day, first show nahin dekha to kya dekha ? types ("Hey, if you haven't seen it first day, first show, what have you seen?").

Those who had seen it would discuss all the scenes, the songs - and we would just get more and more irritated. The songs (all nine of them) were hits - some of them superhits (like Kya hua tera vaada, yeh ladka hai allah, chand mera dil, bachna aye haseenon). We knew all the songs pretty much by heart.

Feeling like the only boys on the planet who had missed the show - and fearing for the ostracisation by our other friends, we decided enough was enough. We just HAD to see it. And had to see it NOW. After all, it had been playing for many weeks already.

We informed our parents and set off - the four of us.

The film hall was about 25 km from home. But we had a direct bus to take us, so there was no problem. The idea was to see the 6-9 evening show. What we had not reckoned with was that the busdriver was not seeing the 6-9 show. He had absolutely nothing to gain by taking us there in time.

By the time, we got there it was 5.50.

There was pandemonium all over the place, some people were screaming at the counter, others were dejectedly going back.

The reason ?

The most dreaded sign for any Indian movie-goer who lands up to see a movie at a hall was up. "House Full".

We felt very upset. What to do? We could have reached there earlier but for that stupid bus driver! My friends blessed him with some colourful gaalis (abuses) - we then decided that we would somehow try to still get tickets.

We dispersed - each trying his luck.

A guy walked upto me, "Kitna chaahiye?" (How many do you want?)
I : "Chaar" (4).
He : "Chaar ka bees". (20 for 4).
I was thrilled.
I :  "Ticket hai?" (Do you have tickets at all?).
Just to confirm my luck. This sounded too good to be true.

People were desperate to get tickets. And here was a guy who had four tickets, exactly the number I needed, and who was willing to give them to me.

I said "ek minute, abhi aata hoon". (Give me a minute, I'll be right back!).

I raced back to my friends saying "hey, mil gaya, mil gaya". (Got them, got them!).

"Sach?" (Really?)

"Haan yaar, there is this man who has four tickets and he wants to sell them".

"Black?"

"Nahin, yaar...not black!". I recoiled. How could they even THINK I would buy tickets in black ?

"Kitna?" (How much?)

"Twenty Rupees...Five rupees ka ticket hai yaar. Balcony four rupees ka hai na..yeh DC hoga, five rupees ka". (Rs 20. Each ticket is Rs 5. Balcony's normally Rs 4, this must be the Rs 5 DC ticket.).

"Not bad yaar, Raja...chal chal, jaldi kar....usko pakad nahin to ticket chala jaayega". (Not bad, Raja...come on, hurry up, catch the guy before we lose the tickets).

I felt like my chest had swelled a few inches. Never before in my life had I done anything practical like this - I felt like I had saved the day.

As we approached the guy, one of my friends stopped.

"Wo hai kya?" (Is that the guy?)

"Haan". (Yes.)

"Wo black bech raha hai yaar." (I tell you he's selling tickets in black).

"Nahin yaar....tu bhi kya bakwaas kar raha hai..." (No, what rubbish are you talking!)

"Wo kya bola tere ko? Kitna mein bechega?" (What did he say? How much is he selling them for?)

"Arrey twenty rupees yaar...chaar ticket ka twenty...ek ka paanch". (Rs 20...for 4 tickets...that's Rs 5 per ticket).

"Wo kya bola...chaar ka bees?" (What did he say...4 for 20?)

"Haan." (Yes).

"Yaar...tu gadha hai...awwal number ka gadha hai...saala, uska shirt pant dekha...(Man, you're a real dumbo of the highest order...just look at that guy's shirt and pant, for crying out loud!)

Only then did I actually look at the guy a bit closely. Till then I had just been too excited to notice anything. He did look very unkempt...dirty black shirt..first two buttons open, revealing a very ugly hairy chest. A pant that looked like it had never been washed. Unshaven. Hair uncombed).

"Saala, bet laga black mein bech raha hai". (You want to bet he's selling in black?")

I looked at him, pained.

"Yaar Raja, tu bahut bhola hai yaar...chaar ka bees means he is selling one ticket for twenty rupees, samjha?" (Raja, you are just way too naive...4 for 20 means he's selling each ticket for Rs 20).

"Nahin yaar". My chest had deflated at a very unhealthily rapid rate and my "nahin yaar", uttered in a rather low voice, had a clear mix of shame and disappointment in it.

My friend now took total charge.

"Lagta hai aaj ticket nahin milne waala hai. Tum log ko black dekhna hai?" (It looks like we're not going to get tickets today. You guys want to see it in black?)

My friends immediately nodded. They could not care less.

Yours truly, typical Tamil Iyer, turned red. I could not bring myself to nod. Black was wrong! I could not be doing this.

"Kya bolta hai, Raja ? Ticket to aise nahin milne waala hai. Jaldi bol - picture start hone waala hai. Ho bhi gaya hoga". (What do you say, Raja? We're not going to get tickets any other way. Decide fast - the movie's going to start any moment now. It may already have started actually).

That last bit "ho bhi gaya hoga" (it may have started actually) was enough for me. I hated missing even one minute of the trailers that came before the movie. Even the U certificate for the trailers (with the scrawling of two dates, like 1-11-77 to 1-11-87, on them. You know what I mean).

I said - in a very low voice - "chal dekhte hain". (Ok, let's see it).

In their desperation to see the movie, my friends had already begun negotiating with this guy, completely ignoring my opinion. Thanks for asking my opinion, guys, I thought.

We did not have Rs.80 on us - I think we had about Rs70 or so between the lot of us. That was a decent amount of money in those days, considering the ticket would normally have only cost us Rs 16 for balcony or maximum Rs20 for DC.

My friend negotiated all four tickets for 40 bucks. It was getting to be just over 6 by then and the "black" guy, desperate to make whatever he could would have been happy to get rid of the tickets.

We rushed in - it was already dark. The usher scowled at us, muttering something under his breath. When he went about flashing the torch at our seats - and we made our way, bending so as not to hinder the sight of the guys in the next row - we got a few more abuses coming our way.

But it was all worth it. When Rishi Kapoor sang "Bachna aye haseenon" we forgot all about the world outside the hall. We enjoyed every song (including the 4-song competition) and when we came out of the hall, we felt - yesssssss ! Hum bhi kisi se kum nahin. (We are also as great as anybody).

The next day in school, my three friends told all the other guys in class that we had seen the movie. What they also said was "jaanta hai, ticket bilkul nahin mil raha tha. Raja jaake black mein leke aaya". (You know, we were just not getting tickets. Raja finally got them for us in black).

I tried to look the other way. That was my way of denying it.

All my friends looked at me like "Wow".

It took me a while to realise this but then it struck me.

I had actually grown several feet high in their esteem.

From the quiet boy in the class, I had become a guy who does stuff...who buys tickets in black.

I realised that THIS is what being cool in school is all about. Not being a good student and all that.

"Raja, tu black mein khareeda?" (Raja, you bought the tickets in black?)

"Haan yaar, mil hi nahin raha tha, chaar ka bees bol raha tha..." (Yes, we were just not getting them otherwise, so when he said "4 for 20"...)

A lungi, a movie and a haircut - happy birthday!

Last Friday was my birthday.

Now a birthday is a day that most people use to either reflect or celebrate. Some in India even go to a place of worship or, alternatively, have some sort of prayer session in the privacy of their homes. At the very least, many make it a point to wake up early that day – in the belief (or should that be hope?) that it will set a precedent for the next 364 days.

I must confess that last Friday I belonged to that minority to which none of the above apply. I woke up at 9.00 a.m – and had my mother not wished me a happy birthday, with a look that I had, with years of experience, managed to interpret as suggesting at least mild disapproval, I might well have lazed around in bed for a while longer. Somehow, 9.00 a.m didn't seem too late an hour to wake up.

After breakfast and coffee, I had to work out my schedule for the rest of the morning. I say morning, because the afternoon and evening would be consumed by office work. I was working European hours – which meant my working day would start at 12.30. I had about three hours to kill.

Reading the paper would take up close to an hour. Not that the content deserved this kind of respect, but the realisation that I was travelling to Europe in a couple of days, and that for an extended period of time, suddenly made me want to practically devour the papers, for the smallest bits of news.

I decided to put the remaining time to good use and not just while it away. One’s last few days and hours in India are always precious. There always seems to be so much to do, and so little time to do it in.

Since I was leaving in a couple of days, I decided to have my customary pre-departure haircut that morning. I quite like to support my hyper-local saloon in Bangalore. It's not a particularly sophisticated place – for twenty-five rupees one should not expect Taj-style hairdressing - but the guys who work there do make an effort to keep it clean. And, in all the years that I've been frequenting the place, I've never had any cause for complaint.

Now, the custom – at least where I come from - is to wash one’s clothes thoroughly after a haircut. This, I believe, is for hygienic reasons. Anyway, with Bangalore’s weather at that time being about as sunny as New Jersey in mid-Jan, I decided that any clothes I'd wash that day wouldn't probably make it through a drying - and ironing - experience in time for my return flight on Sunday. And I didn't want to leave any clothes behind in Bangalore.

So I decided to go to the saloon in a lungi (a striped one!) that I was planning to leave in Bangalore anyway. I'd never gone to the saloon in a lungi before – and I must admit I wasn't totally comfortable with the idea. A lungi needs a little more caution than trousers, but it seemed the practical thing to do. So I told myself “what the heck, let’s just do it!” and set off.

It must have been a distance of two to three hundred meters, no more, but it felt like I was swimming the English channel. I saw a number of raised eyebrows – or maybe I was imagining some of them. I was suddenly very conscious of the way I walked, acutely aware that the lungi was all that stood between me and respectability.

I was relieved when I reached the saloon in one piece. The guy greeted me with his usual warm nod. I nodded back, hopefully as warmly. Despite several encounters over the years, our communication had not progressed beyond this nod. This guy was Telugu. Probably all Telugu guys who do not end up as software engineers or doctors in the US - or real estate agents in India from the Reddy community - end up opening hairdressing saloons.

Anyway this guy’s domain expertise was in Telugu and Kannada, mine is English, Hindi and some Tamil. The Telugu I know does not go beyond “Reddy garu, cheppandi”, “randi”, “ikkade petko” and “manch neeru kavaali” – none of which, those of you who know Telugu will agree, are particularly useful expressions to be deployed in a hairdressing saloon.

I noticed that the saloon had upgraded itself since my last visit some months ago. I found that the wash basin area had been renovated, the furniture had been replaced - heck, even the Filmfare edition was of July 2007 (Very disappointing. I was hoping to read some 2005 news. Where do I go now? Maybe I should try the dentist, I thought).

As usual, the TV was set at its loudest possible volume. And as usual, it was playing a Telugu movie. The hero was reasonably rotund with a round face, big moustache and curly hair. The heroine was reasonably rotund with a round face. No big moustache or curly hair but she had more make-up on, than Lakme can produce in a day. I thought their faces looked familiar, but in the South Indian film industry you could spend your lifetime using these descriptions to try to identify the specific hero or heroine.

I gave up trying to do so. Instead, since I was waiting anyway, I thought I'd try to follow the story. (I had lost interest in the available issue of the Filmfare magazine as soon as I discovered it was a July 2007 edition. I'd have much rather read the 2005 issue, if only to derive pleasure from seeing how wrong predictions turned out in the two years since. How this movie, which was supposed to be “different”, bombed so badly that nobody recalls the name anymore. How relationships of 2005, projected as lifetime relationships, have come a cropper in 2007. I know it sounds mean but when one is waiting, at the hairdresser’s or at the dentist’s, one can be excused such perverse pleasures).

Back to the point. Or rather the movie. So this rr and r-faced hero and the rr and r-faced heroine (with massive m-u) go around trees singing a song, and making all sorts of lovey-dovey sounds at each other. The song wasn't a particularly bad one - I quite liked the tune though I did not understand the lyrics. Then the hero comes to the heroine’s home to request the heroine’s father for his daughter’s hand. The father is wearing a long, silken, flowing gown (?) – the type that Rahman has worn in countless Hindi movies of the 60s and 70s. I could make out that the hero came from a poor background. Without understanding a word of the dialogue, I could make out that the father insults the hero, the hero pledges his love for the heroine, the father isn't convinced he offers the hero some money, the hero refuses it and walks away. He then sings a sad song as he kicks the earth under his feet. Back in her plush bungalow, the heroine weeps inconsolably. The father is unmoved.

Memories of a 1960s/70s Hindi film that I'd seen not so long ago came to mind. The father offering the hero a suitcase full of cash, and the hero walking away. This formula has been played out in so many Indian movies, whether with cash or with a "blank" cheque, probably in every Indian language, that I cannot imagine this storyline being of any help to anybody here to try to now identify the movie. Especially since the descriptions of the hero and heroine were not particularly zoom-worthy either.

Anyway, my turn came and I sat in the hot seat. The hero now burst into another Telugu song. This seemed to be a happy song – which seemed a bit odd. That the hero should be singing happy songs so soon when film-making protocol demands that that the suffering/pining phase should last at least one hour , was unusual. Maybe, in this day and age, even film-making has gone T20, I thought. Nobody can sit through one hour of pining anymore.

These thoughts were rudely disturbed by the realization that my man had decided to animatedly join in. I must admit that it was a pretty catchy song. It must have been a big hit amongst knowledgeable audiences (which obviously included one Telugu hairdresser in Bangalore).

That his voice would not exactly win him any Sa Re Ga Ma awards was immediately obvious to me, even if it wasn't to him. But I could live with that. After all I have to live with the likes of Himesh Reshammiya too in today’s world. No, this realization was not panic-worthy enough as much as the realization that I had a razor, almost grazing my ear, being waved around like an orchestra composer’s wand to the tune of some admittedly catchy music.

Ears are not the most respected of organs and with Reshammiya and his ilk dominating the music scene in India at the moment, the respect for ears must have fallen in recent times. Having said that, I had expected to be one year more on my birthday, not one ear less.

After what seemed like eternity, the song ended – and the razor thankfully returned to a more static position. My man had been completely oblivious to my condition. He now continued to work on the rest of my hair, clicking his scissors with an uneasy exuberance - uneasy for me, I mean. I prayed that another animated song would not break out any moment – and thankfully for the rest of my hot seat experience, except for some angry dialogues between father and prospective son-in-law, some more sobbing from the heroine (I wonder whether the m-u got wiped out in all that sobbing) and some fight scenes where the hero took on twenty men at one time, there was no reason for my man to wave that razor around. After fifteen-odd minutes, it was done. I offered him his twenty-five. He said thirty, I gave him thirty-five. He nodded warmly, I nodded (I hope as warmly). I wondered - did he notice the sweat on my forehead? I should thank him for that!

I made my way back home, holding on to my lungi, avoiding gazes from all and sundry and went straight for a hot bath. With the tune of that Telugu song still ringing in my ears. Boy, was it catchy!

So friends, that is how I spent my birthday morning.

And yes, one more thing. Before my next trip to the guy, I have to brush up on my Telugu. This is just getting too dangerous to be funny anymore.