A star Indian cricketer's letter to his fans

Hi guys,

Let me take you back to a time when you, the volatile fans, pelted our penthouse, tarred our expensive walls and burnt our effigies whenever we let you down on the field. We'd lie low, in safe havens abroad, and return only after the all-clear had been sounded. 

And then you grew up. 

Or stones, tar and effigies were no longer affordable. Either way, you grew better at digesting defeats and we took it as a sign of your maturity.

But, sorry to say, I've started doubting that of late and I'll tell you why.

While the world got busy with the IPL, the wrestlers hit the street with their protest. It's unfortunate, as well as unwise, they chose that time of the year to demonstrate. You can't compete with IPL for eyeballs, it's a no-brainer.

Many of you have demanded why we, the country's highest-paid athletes, have been silent on this. Since you asked this, you better listen to the answer.

Firstly, and this should be the clincher, stop having unreasonable expectations from us. We are here to play cricket, and not to champion YOUR causes. 

I mean, first you put us on a pedestal, and then you want us to descend from there and dirty our feet. You call that maturity?

It's not that we are not moved by what happens around us. But it better be chic and lit and safe. Black Lives Matter (BLM)? Count us in, even though we openly had a racial slur for Daren Sammy. Global warming? Hell, yes! Even though we want an expanded IPL, where every match emits 10,000 tonnes of CO2 equivalent. Dwindling wildlife? Bring it on! Even though we don't really care about wildlife rules.

But we draw the line when it comes to taking a stand on any issue that can potentially upset the authorities.

Man maybe a political animal but we are demigods, for Tendulkar's sake! We are clearly under no such compulsion! We are proudly apolitical, because that makes us compatible to authority of all hues -- democrat or despot, janta or junta. Our ideology is the sheer lack of it. So, take a chill pill and outrage elsewhere.

Honestly, most of us aren't even aware of these wrestlers, let alone their problems. How can we comment on something we don't know? Ignorant? Maybe. Selfish? No!

Besides, we have our own battles to fight.

For instance, my Insta follower count hasn't grown beyond 2 millions since last month. Also, I was recently this close to signing two endorsement deals both of which have now gone to an upcoming talent. Can you fathom my agony?

Worse, my wife has been flying practically everyday since last month and still hasn't had her nailed-the-airport-look photo even once in any Page 3! Can you even imagine the trauma she is going through?

With so much on our plate, it's rather unfortunate that people expect us to be up to speed with what's happening with the wrestlers of this country. I doubt if any of these wrestlers even has a 100k-plus follower count on Twitter.

So let me recap this. Gym photos? No problem. Exotic holiday snaps? Done. Motivational quotes? Sure. But real issues about real people and their real problems is a strictly no-go area for us.

So dear fans, and I love you all, kindly adjust your expectations.

And before I sign off, buy this dodgy herbal product, it's good.

I haven't used it obviously, because medics warned, and several countries have banned it. But maybe you'd like it?

Muah

A top cricketer

Pix: iStockphoto

ওরা, আমরা এবং মার্কসবাদ

আমাকে সচরাচর দু’ধরনের লোক ফোন করে: প্রথমত টেলিকলাররা, যারা আমাকে নিঃশর্ত লোন দিয়ে ধোনির চেয়েও ধনী বানাতে বদ্ধপরিকর; আর দ্বিতীয়ত. ওলা-উবার ড্রাইভাররা, “ওদিকে যাবো না” বলে রাইড ক্যান্সেল করতে। আমার সন্দেহ ওই টেলিকলারদের থেকে লোন নিয়েই এই ড্রাইভারদের এত পয়সা যে টাইমপাস করতে ট্যাক্সি চালায়, যার খুশি তার রাইড ক্যান্সেল করে দেয়।

তো সেই আমার কাছেই সেদিন সক্কাল-সক্কাল ফোনের বন্যা। একের পর এক বন্ধু। সকলের গলা গম্ভীর, কারুর হাতেই সময় নেই। প্রায় সাঙ্কেতিক বাক্যে কথা।

প্রথমেই শোভনের ফোন। ওর সঙ্গে শেষ দেখা তাম্র যুগে, চাকা আবিষ্কারের মাসখানেক আগে। বিয়েতে নেমন্তন্ন করে নি। ওর যে ছেলে আছে সেটাই আমার কাছে নিউজ।

শোভন বললঃ “হ্যালো...শোন...আমার ছেলের... ৯৮.৫ রে। খুব চিন্তায় আছি।“

আজকাল বাবা-মায়েদের সবেতেই বাড়াবাড়ি। ৯৮.৫ কোন জ্বরই না। স্কুলে পড়েছিলাম মানবশরীরের গড় উষ্ণতা ৯৮.৬ ডিগ্রী। সেটাই ঝেড়ে দিলামঃ ”৯৮.৫, এতে ঘাবড়াচ্ছিস কেন? ৯৮.৬ তো নর্মাল। এ তো তার চেয়েও কম।“

“জানি,” শোভন যেন একটু চটেই গেল। “জানি আমার ছেলের গড়পরতা ৯৮.৬ এর চেয়ে কম। সেই জন্যই চিন্তা। যাই হোক, অনেককে ফোন করতে হবে। আজ রাখছি।“

একটু বাদেই জয়ন্তর ফোন। বিয়েতে ডেকেছিল, মেয়ের অন্নপ্রাশনেও খাইয়েছিল। মোলায়েম গলায় বল্লামঃ “হ্যালো, ক্যামন আছিস? মেয়ের খবর কি?”

আমাদের হাসিখুশি জয়ন্ত ফোঁস করে একটা নিশ্বাস ফেলে গলাটা কমল মিত্রর মত করে বললঃ “সেই জন্যই তোকে ফোন করা। মেয়ের খবর মোটামুটি রে, ৯৯.২। মামনি তো বিছানা নিয়েছে।”

আমি ভাবলাম শহরে নিশ্চয়ই নতুন flu এসেছে। আজকাল কাগজ কিনি না, কারন ফিকশন লেখে; টিভি দেখি না, কারন IQ কমে আর BP বেড়ে যায়। ফলে জানতেও পারি নি কি হচ্ছে।

বল্লামঃ “গা ব্যথা-ট্যাথা নেই তো?”

“না না, আমরা গায়ে হাত তোলায় বিশ্বাস করি না। ব্যথা মনে। যাই হোক, সবাইকে ফোন করতে হবে। এখন রাখি।“

সবাইকে বলতে হবে কেন বুঝলাম না। মেয়ের জ্বর তো আর অস্কার পুরস্কার না যে জনে-জনে জানাতে হবে।

ব্যাপারটা খোলসা হল যখন বিশু ফোন করে জানালো ওর ছেলের ৯৭.৬। বুঝলাম ৯৮.৫, ৯৯.২, ৯৭.৬ এগুলো জ্বরের টেম্পারেচার নয়, ওদের মার্কসের পারসেন্টেজ!

দোষ আমারও নয়। আমি মার্কামারা মফস্বলের ছেলে। মধ্যশিক্ষা পর্ষদের গন্ধ গা দিয়ে এখনো ভুরভুর করে বেরোয়। "All the perfumes of Arabia..." দিয়েও যাবার নয়। আমরা অবশ্য মধ্যশিক্ষা পর্ষদ বলতাম না, বলতাম মদ্য-শিক্ষা পর্ষদ। তার ওপর ছিলাম ব্যাকবেঞ্চার। যেখানে শিক্ষা সিলেবাসের ক্ষুদ্র পরিসর ছাপিয়ে শিক্ষকদের মুদ্রাদোষ, পালিয়ে বিয়ে করার সামাজিক প্রয়োজনীয়তা, বান্ধবীহীনতা আশীর্বাদ না অভিশাপ, শ্বশুরের পয়সায় জীবনযাপনের নৈতিকতা ইত্যাদি গুরুগম্ভীর বিষয়ে চুলচেরা বিশ্লেষণ হতো। শুধু সিলেবাস কাভার করে নাম্বার পাওয়াকে আমরা কাপুরুষতা মনে করতাম। নাম্বারের পেছনে আমরা কখনো ছুটি নি। আরে আমরা তো আর কম্যুনিস্ট নই যে মার্কসের পেছনে ছুটবো! অন্নদাশঙ্করের ছড়া মনে নেই? “যেখানে যা কিছু ঘটে অনিষ্টি/সকলের মূলে কমিউনিষ্টি।“

মার্কস আমরা মার্কশিটে নয়, শরীরে বহন করেছি। স্যারেদের বেতের মার্কস এখনো পিঠে দু’একটা রয়ে গেছে। কেউ জিজ্ঞাসা করলে বলি ‘অরগ্যানিক ট্যাটু’। বেঞ্চে বসে-বসে পেছনে মার্কস পড়ে গেছিল। ওটাই ছিল আমাদের বেঞ্চমার্ক। আজকালকার ছেলেমেয়েরা আর তাদের অভিভাবকরা হচ্ছে আদ্যন্ত মার্কসবাদী। আমরা কিন্তু মার্কশিটের ক্ষুদে বক্সে নাম্বার ভরার কথা ভাবি নি। তখন থেকেই আমাদের চিন্তা ছিল যাকে আজকাল বলে আউট-অফ-দ্য-বক্স। আমাদের মেজাজ ছিল রবীন্দ্রনাথের ভাষায় “ইহার চেয়ে হতাম যদি আরব বেদুইন, বইয়ের থেকে মুছে দিতাম বেবাক ডারউইন…”

তো আমরা তো ছিলাম মদ্য-শিক্ষা, মানে মধ্যশিক্ষা পর্ষদের ছাত্র। CBSE খায়, না মাথায় দেয়, জানতাম না। শিবু, যে এখন নৌকো চালায় আর তরমুজ চাষ করে, বিজ্ঞের মত বলল “সি বি আই-এর ছেলেমেয়েরা ওইসব স্কুলে পড়ে, ওদের সাথে পাঙ্গা না নেওয়াই ভালো।“ জগা গরমের ছুটিতে হাওড়ার জগাছা গেছিল, ফিরেই জানালো আরেক ধরনের বোর্ড হয়, যার নাম ICSE। শিবু, যে এখন নৌকো চালায় আর তরমুজ বেচে, বলল “পুলিশের আই সি হয় শুনেছি, হয়তো ওদের বাচ্চাদের জন্য আলাদা বোর্ড।“ জগা বলল অন্য ঘরের বাচ্চারাও যায়। শিবু বলল “তুই বেশি জানিস?” এই নিয়ে দু’জনের ধুন্ধুমার বেঁধে গেল।

দু’বছর পর কলকাতা এক মাসির বাড়ি বেড়াতে গিয়ে প্রথম CBSE আর ICSE ছাত্র-ছাত্রী দেখলাম। সত্যি বলতে আলিপুরে সিংহ দেখেও এত মোহিত হই নি। প্রহ্লাদ যে দৃষ্টিতে বিষ্ণুকে, মীরা যে দৃষ্টিতে কৃষ্ণকে, আর ছিঁচকে চোর যে দৃষ্টিতে বীরাপ্পনকে দেখে, আমিও সেই ভক্তি-মেশানো মুগ্ধতা নিয়ে ওদের দিকে তাকিয়ে ছিলাম। বঙ্কিমি ভাষায় “আহা কি দেখিলাম, জন্মজন্মান্তরেও ভুলিব না।“

আমাদের স্কুলেও ইউনিফর্ম ছিল, আমরা অবশ্য বলতাম “ড্রেস”। থাকলেই যে পরতে হবে মাথার দিব্যি ছিল না। কোমরে কাঁঠালপাতা জড়িয়ে গেলেও চলত, যদিও ছাগলের ভয়ে সেটা সত্যিকারের অপশন ছিল না। বড়জোর কোনো স্যার সস্নেহে কানটা মুলে দিয়ে বলতেন “গাড়ল, আইজ ড্রেস পরশ নাই ক্যান?” বুধবারে ইউনিফর্ম পরতে হতো না, আমরা বলতাম “আজ আনড্রেস”। CBSE/ICSE ছাত্রদের পায়ে পালিশ করা শু; আর আমরা পরতাম মোটা সোলের হাওয়াই, যেটা হাতে গলিয়ে টিফিন পিরিয়ডে ডেস্কে পিং-পং খেলা হতো। ওদের গলায় মা কালির লকলকে জিহ্বার মত টাই, ধবধবে শার্ট, ইস্ত্রি করা প্যান্ট। মুখ ওটিতে-ঢোকার-আগে সার্জনের মত গম্ভীর। দেখেই মনে হয় কোনো গুরুত্বপূর্ণ কাজে যাচ্ছে। হয়তো UN হেডকোয়ার্টারস বা হোয়াইট হাউস। হয়তো সেসময়কার কুয়েত যুদ্ধ নিয়ে জরুরি মিটিং আছে।

ওদের নামগুলোও তেমনি। সিদ্ধার্থ, অরুণোদয়, শ্লোক… শুনলেই শ্রদ্ধা হয়। আর আমরা? শিবু, দেবু, বাপ্পা, জগদীশ। আমরা আবার ছড়াও কাটতাম "জগদীশ, কাঁচাকলা সেদ্ধ দিস, তুই না খাইলে বাপরে দিস..." মুরোদ ছিল অরুণোদয় নিয়ে এরকম ছড়া লেখার? অন্ত্যমিলই পেতাম না! ওদের ইস্ত্রি করা শার্ট, বুক পকেটের ওপর স্কুলের ইনসিগনিয়া। আমাদের শার্টের সবকটা বোতামই থাকতো না। শেষমুহুর্তে মা চুড়ির থেকে একটা সেফটিপিন খুলে লাগিয়ে দিত। আমাদের বেশিরভাগের আবার শার্টের কলার চেবানোর অভ্যেস ছিল। কলারের প্রান্তটা ছিবড়ে হয়ে ঝুলতো। গরমে আবার একটু নোনতা-নোনতা লাগতো। অনেক সময় সেলাই ছিঁড়ে ভেতরের বক্রম পর্যন্ত বেরিয়ে আসত। এর নিউট্রিশনাল ভ্যালু কি ছিল জানি না; এতে কনসেনট্রেশন ক্ষমতা বাড়ে এমন বৈজ্ঞানিক প্রমাণও হয়তো নেই। কিন্তু স্কুলজীবনের কঠিন লড়াইগুলো আমরা লড়েছি দাঁতে দাঁত চেপে, মাঝখানে শার্টের কলার ফেলে।

স্কুলে মাধ্যাকর্ষণের চেয়ে খাদ্যাকর্ষণ বেশি অনুভব করতাম। সেখানেও আমরা-ওরা। কলকাতায় দেখলাম ওরা টিফিনের জন্য স্যান্ডুইচ নিয়ে যায়। আমি মফঃস্বলের ছেলে। আমার ধারনা ছিল স্যানডুইচ খেতে পাসপোর্ট লাগে। আমাদের পাসপোর্ট ছিল না, র‍্যাশন কার্ড ছিল। আমরা টিফিনে খেতাম বুনোকুল, কামরাঙ্গা, মুড়ি-বাদাম। কখনো ভেতরে কলা জড়িয়ে বাসি রুটি। বিশু একদিন বাসিরুটিতে সর মাখিয়ে এনেছিল। আমরা ওর বিষাক্ত বুর্জোয়া সঙ্গ ত্যাগ করবো ধমকি দিয়ে ওর সরমাখা রুটি বাজেয়াপ্ত করেছিলাম।

কলকাতার মাসির এক ছেলে। চোর না হয়েও আমরা মাসতুতো ভাই। তো সেই মাসতুতো দাদা কলেজে পড়ে, আর আমার গাঁইয়া কাণ্ডকারখানা দেখে মজা পায়। ওদের পাশের বাড়ির একটি মেয়ে রোজ স্কুলে যায়, আমি জানলা দিয়ে রোজ দেখি। একদিন শার্টে নেমপ্লেটের মত একটা জিনিস দেখে মনটা খারাপ হয়ে গেল। দাদাকে বিজ্ঞের মত বললাম, “মেয়েটার ডিফেক্ট আছে।“ দাদা চমকে বলল “কে বলল তোকে?” বললাম “বুকের ব্যাজে লেখা আছে।“ দাদা একটু থমকে-টমকে গিয়ে তারপর চাঁটি মেরে বলল “’ডিফেক্ট’ নয়, ‘প্রিফেক্ট’ লেখা ছিল হাঁদারাম। ও পড়াশুনায় খুব ভালো।“ এও বলল ওখানে স্কুলে টিচাররা ছাত্র-ছাত্রীদের গায়ে হাত দেয় না। আমি অবাক হয়ে বললাম “তার মানে পড়াশুনা হয় না?” না প্যাঁদালে যে পড়াশুনা সম্ভব নয়, এ বিষয়ে আমি ও বন্ধুরা নিঃসন্দেহ ছিলাম। স্টকহোম সিনড্রোমের এর চেয়ে শক্তিশালী উদাহরন সম্ভব নয়।

আমরা-ওরা ব্যাপারটা আরও প্রকট হল যখন আমাদের মফস্বলেও সাড়া জাগিয়ে একদিন একটি CBSE স্কুল খুলল। ওদের স্কুলে প্রিন্সিপাল, আমাদের স্কুলে ‘হাতে চক-ডাস্টার, বোকা হেডমাস্টার’। আমরা ভেবেই আকুল “প্রিন্সিপাল” কেন বলে। বোদ্ধা শিবু, যে এখন নৌকো চালায় আর তরমুজ বেচে, ব্যাখ্যা দিলঃ “ছাত্র-ছাত্রীগুলো দেখতে প্রিন্স আর প্রিন্সেস এর মত তাই।“ জগা বলল “এটাও বল, এত টাইটেল থাকতে শেষে ‘পাল’ কেন?” বিড়ি সবে শিবুকে ধরেছে। তারই একটার মুখাগ্নি করে বলল, “উনি ওদের পালন করেন, তাই পাল।“ ওরা স্কুলে ঢুকত সৈন্যের মত, আমরা ঢুকতাম ঢিল-পড়া-চাকের বোলতার মত।

অবশেষে একদিন ধ্বসে পড়লো ওরা-আমরার এই বার্লিন প্রাচীর। প্রথমে ওদের একজনের সাথে বন্ধুত্ব হোল। সে হল আমাদের ‘রিং মাস্টার’, অর্থাৎ সিগারেটের ধোঁয়া দিয়ে রিং বানাতে শেখাল। বুঝলাম জাতভাই। ধীরে ধীরে জুটলো আরও অনেকে। দেখলাম বেশিরভাগই আমাদের মতই ফাঁকিবাজ, বখাটে, উচ্ছন্নগামী। আমাদের যে শুধু হীনমন্যতাই কেটে গেল তা নয়, এদ্দিন ভাই বলে বুকে টেনে নিই নি জন্য আক্ষেপও হল। তারপর আমরাও বড় হলাম, আমাদের অনেকেরই ছেলেপুলে বুট-টাই পরে, টিফিন বাক্সে স্যান্ডুইচ পুরে CBSE/ICSE স্কুলে যায়। বছর শেষে ঝুড়িভর্তি মার্কস নিয়ে ফেরে। পাক্কা মার্কসবাদী সব।

@babumoshoy (আমার নাম 'সংগৃহীত' নয়। শেয়ার করলে নামসহ করবেন প্লিজ)

Pix

Why Kohli's exit is a tragedy test cricket didn't deserve

 

Contrary to popular perception, test cricket is not doing great, and I'm not even looking beyond the 'Big Three' because it's too dark out there. 

The latest edition of test cricket's hottest property, the Ashes, proved a damp squib, and if England escaped a whitewash, it was solely because of Pat Cummins' inexperience as test captain, particularly the declaration aspect of the job. 

The timing naturally could not have been worse for test cricket's most charismatic leader to step aside after his futile feud with the men in charge of Indian cricket. And, for lack of clarity, we can only surmise who, between the two main antagonists, would have come out of a lie-detector test with his reputation intact. 

The lament is how circumstances, for want of a better word, robbed test cricket of its biggest champion. Cricket's longest format needed Kohli the captain more than Kohli the batsman. A batter can raise the batsmanship bar; a captain can rejuvenate an entire format. Kohli did both, but at least we still have Kohli the batsman. 

Test cricket's main ailment is it often lacks drama despite being the drama-friendliest format and Kohli leading India was a compelling theatre. Think Bangalore (2017), Jo'burg, Nottingham and Adelaide (2018), and Lord's (2021). 

Thrust into the role, Kohli burned with passion as if it was the only thing he knew. Test cricket would transform from funereal to frenetic with him orchestrating it. Kohli the captain was box office. 

He made test cricket 'cool', lending it a glamour that brash T20 leagues consider their birthright and modest ODIs can expect only during the World Cups. 

The extraordinary thing about Kohli's captaincy was it guaranteed mass participation of the game's stakeholders. He kept everyone on their toes: team mates, oppositions, umpires, match referees and, SuperSport will vouch for this, even the broadcasters. 

It's hard to imagine a test captain who had so much of influence across the board. 

And then his relentless push for victory. As test captain, Kohli didn't faf around. Draws, like his once-favourite butter chicken, didn't interest him. More than he loved winning, one suspects, he loathed losing. He hated, almost resented, being the first captain called to the presentation ceremony. And it showed. 

For anyone who has followed his career, it's not difficult to understand. You send Kohli to win a battle, not to negotiate a truce. He was that kind of a captain. 

As captain, his biggest contribution, however, was to address the disconnect between test cricket and its dwindling fans. He prevented an exodus of fans, winning them back from the lure of T20 cricket. And he did it by replicating the intensity of T20 cricket. 

Kohli spiced up the usually-bland experience of viewing test cricket. For anyone watching him, neutrality was no more an option. He made you feel it was your duty to do everything a fan of the game could to further his mission or derail it. You were either with him or against him. 

And this in a format often accused, not without reasons, of alienating, even if unwittingly, the cricketing hoi polloi. Test cricket lacks passion, probably even discourages it. While I don't advocate changing the colour, no wonder it mandates the players wear white. 

One always got the impression that Kohli's captaincy was truer to his Delhi roots in the sense there was nothing half-hearted about it. Sehwag's batting once bore it, and it's unmissable in Pant's batting now. 

No wonder Pant is talked about as a future leader. 

Pix courtesy: Virat Kohli's Twitter handle

Salmon Khan

Alternative ICC Awards

ICC Emerging Husband of the Year ~ Virat Kohli

ICC Headline Writers' Delight of the Year ~ Lungi Ngidi

ICC Brawler of the Year ~ Ben Stokes

ICC Materazzi of 22 Yards ~ Jonny Bairstow

ICC Fake Kapil Dev of the Year ~ Hardik Pandya

ICC Best Non-Pregnancy Vomiter of the year ~ Suranga Lakmal

ICC Boomerang Captain of the Year ~ Angelo Mathews

ICC Usain Bolt Between Stumps of the Year ~ Cheteshwar Pujara

ICC Detest Player of the Year ~ Rohit Sharma

ICC Best Partnership of the Year ~ Imran Khan & Bushra Maneka

P.S. In case actual ICC awards interest you, read it here:

Australian Open: Vandeweghe goes bananas, Shapovalov proves poor peeler

The so-called tennis experts will tell you it was an American bloodbath at the Australian Open on Monday.

Well, it was much more.

It was also the day when bananas -- an athlete's best friend -- got their due at the year's first grand slam.

First, the American exodus.

Sloane Stephens, Venus Williams, CoCo Vandeweghe and John Isner exited Melbourne Park as if the US had suddenly issued a travel advisory for Australia, deeming it as unsafe as any, well, banana republic.

Then the bananas.

If you are what you eat, Vandeweghe did not hide what her favourite fruit is as she went understandably bananas during her first round loss to Timea Babos.

Vandeweghe simply refused to take to court until she had consumed the potassium-rich fruit which, much to her dismay, was not kept handy.

"I'm waiting for the bananas," she told the chair umpire with the grumpy seriousness of an army chief fretting over the delay in arrival of an important consignment of weapons.

Unfortunately for her, Babos prevailed in the Hungarian v Hungrymerican clash.

Video here:

CoCo Vandeweghe had gotten her first code violation earlier for time violation/civil disobedience: refusing to take court without eating a banana first. #AusOpen pic.twitter.com/6Opg7xon2N

— Ben Rothenberg (@BenRothenberg) January 15, 2018

Shapovalov had a more fruitful day against Greek newcomer Stefanos Tsitsipas. The only trouble he had was peeling them.

Botanically berry, but the Australian bananas proved tough nuts to crack. Shapovalov wrestled with three of them and yet could not. He then picked the one he had dropped on turf and finally
succeeded, celebrating it with am emphatic fist-pump.

Video here:

This win is bananas, B-A-N-A-N-A-S!#AusOpen @denis_shapo pic.twitter.com/pW3hPnzkmp

— #AusOpen (@AustralianOpen) January 15, 2018

Doosra Annual Awards 2018 (UNESCO certified)

That time of the year again.

Here goes Doosra Annual Awards 2018.

And remember, UNESCO has recognised it as the best set of awards!

Begana Wedding of the Year that had entire India Subcontinent Deewana ~ Virushka.

Kneeanderthal of the Year ~ Priyanka Chopra, for outraging a Sanskari nation by wearing a knee-length dress to a meeting with the PM.

Thesaurus Sale Booster of the Year ~ Shashi Tharoor, for his exasperating farrago of rodomontade and much more.

Best Kept Secret of the Year ~ Location of Virushka Wedding.

Worst Kept Secret of the Year ~ Rahul Gandhi's promotion.

The Annual Celeb-Kid-Shoved-Down-Our-Throat ~ Taimur Ali Khan.

Human Sriharikota of the Year ~ Salman Khan, who is launching his brother-in-law in Bollywood.

Neptune of Nepotism of the Year ~ Karan Johar, for launching yet another pair of Bollywood star kids -- Janhvi Kapoor and Ishan Khattar.

Disowned Loose Cannon of the Year ~ Mani Shankar Aiyyar.

Dogman Of the Year ~ Gurmeet Ram Rahim.

Ideal Neighbour of the Year ~ Sri Lanka, for continuing with their India tour even after their cricketers choked in toxic Delhi air and vomited their inside out.

Most Anticipated and Pending Return of the Year ~ A three-way tie featuring Black money from Swiss banks, Vijay Mallya and Lalit Modi.

Titanic Of the Year ~ RBI as its reputation hit the demonetisation iceberg and sank without trace.

Harry Houdini of the YearStudent of the Year ~ Virat Kohli, for successfully dumping 'headmaster' Anil Kumble.

Vincent Maruti Van Gogh of the Year ~ Mamata di, for her paintings like this.

Fickle Friend of the Year ~ Nitish Kumar, for dumping RJD.

Lord Hanuman of the 22 Yards ~ Rohit Sharma, for torching Lanka here and here.

Worst Investors of the Year - 'Padmavati' producers.

7 Alternative Names

1. Punjab ~ Sikhim

2. Queensland ~ Koala Lumpur

3. Mumbai ~ Bollyvia

4. Dhaka ~ Mosque-o

5. Dharavi ~ Shantyniketan

6. Bermuda ~ Knickeragua

7. India ~ Ma Cow

When Tagore shared a train journey with Baba Sehgal

Baba Sehgal: Oye hoye, Santa Claus! Isn’t it August only? Idli dubega sambhar mein/Christmas to December mein!

Tagore: Dustu chhele, it’s me, Gurudev.

Baba Sehgal: Chha gaya Guruuuuu!

Tagore: Come again?

Baba Sehgal: Sorry, that was Sidhu paaji’s line. Jab mian-biwi raazi/muhavra marega Sidhu paaji...

Tagore: Dustu chhele, you speak gibberish...

Baba Sehgal: Coconut matlab nariyal/are you Tagore the Real?

Tagore: What nonsense! Hey, hey, keep your hands off my beard. I shampoo it daily.

Baba Sehgal: Aha! Chamak a gaya shampoo se, GF layi Thimphu se (plays tabla on the food tray).

Tagore: Keep quiet please, will you?

Baba Sehgal: Sure. OK, how much did your national anthem sell?

Tagore: What do you mean?

Baba Sehgal: I’m sure not more than my “Thanda Thanda Paani”?

Tagore: This is surreal! Do you even know the anthem?

Baba Sehgal: Don’t underestimate me Gurudev! (begins playing tabla on tray) “Sa re jahan se achha...”

Tagore: (sighs) Clearly one man’s anthem is another’s anathema...

Baba Sehgal: Achcha Gurudev, did the Bangladeshis pay you for writing their anthem?

Tagore: Are you crazy? Where was Bangladesh then?

Baba Sehgal: In Bangladesh, of course! Gavaskar bhi Sunny, Leone be Sunny/aap Gurudev too much funny. By the way Gurudev, you wrote so many jingles...

Tagore: (massages chest) Poem beta, poems.

Baba Sehgal: Same thing. Which one is your favourite?

Tagore: (cheers up a bit) “Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high…” Do you know when I wrote it?

Baba Sehgal: Dadiji maike jaane ke baad, hain na? hain na? (attempts high-fives and bursts into laughter).

Tagore: (sighs) I have to get down here. They are supposed to send someone with a car.

Baba Sehgal: Can I tag along? Just sing once: "Aaja meri gaadi me baith jaa, aaja meri gaadi me baith jaa..."

Tagore: Sorry, the only song that I feel like singing is one of my own, “Ekla Chalo Re..."(deboards)

A page from Rajinikanth's diary

0615: Woke up the Sun, full three nanoseconds late. Threatened to fire it and replace it with a giant LED. It offered Rajininamaskar though.

0620: Fed eucalyptus leaves to Corny and let it roam in my garden before sending it back to the basement park. Imagine the mayhem if someone sees my pet unicorn.

0645: Went for a walk, the air is so toxic. Breathed in filter mode, knitting my nasal hairs into a thin screen which allows only oxygen in. Sneezed out lumps of crystalised argon. How do ordinary people even breathe?

0715: Had good sparring with Yetim. Five years ago, I absentmindedly climbed Mt Everest and found the orphan Yeti there. Only Anil Kapoor has more hair per inch.

1000: Missed the 9 a.m. pill, so had to time-travel. Memory playing tricks. The other day could not recall the entry on page 456 of Encyclopaedia Britannica Volume 33.

1300: Completed morning shooting. Director was yet to script the climax. I told him to shoot my cigarette stunt and take it backwards from there.

1400: Took a nap. A beautiful dream saw me.

1500: Swallowed some sun-rays. I absolutely mean it when I say light snacks.

1600: Called a press conference and made emphatically ambiguous comments about joining politics. Great fun, watching media, especially those in Delhi, run like a headless chicken.

1700: Signed film against Aaradhya Bachchan. Also tweeted my resolve to fight nepotism in showbiz.

1800: A cat startled me. Activated ultrasonic hearing. Earth positively creaked. Need to check the axis tomorrow.

1900: Spielberg called to offer a Hollywood film. I offered him a Tamil film instead. He’ll get back.

2000: Latha’s birthday, so ordered a personal full moon. Also spared her the kitchen chores. Vegetables cooked themselves.

2100: Had a bout of hiccups. Sheep worldwide counting me to get some sleep. Poor animals. Good night.

Application For The Post Of Team India Head Coach

To
Shri Sachin Tendulkar
Shri Sourav Ganguly
Shri VVS Laxman

Subject: Application for Head Coach, Team India

Dear Sirs,

This is in response to your advertisement for the post of Head Coach, Team India. Kindly convey my sincere thanks to Anil Kumble Sir, for creating a vacancy when the job market is shrinking like hemline in summer.

I don't really know why he quit but can make an educated guess that he paid the price for trying to be the Greg Chappell from Bangalore.

I heard he was determined to bring Virat's meeting with Anushka strictly under the FTP.

Being an ICC Cricket Committee member, he also insisted that Virat mouthed only MCC-approved, gender-neutral expletives. Apparently, he was mortally scared of having to say "Only one team is abusing in the true spirit of the game and it's not India."

A renowned wildlife photographer, he reportedly sought BCCI approval to drop Axar Patel in front of a starving lion in Gir to capture the beast's yawn.

While I don't boast a record like Anil sir, I have none of his eccentricities either.

I think the first attribute of a good coach is vision and mine is 20/20. I'm attaching the ophthalmologist's report corroborating it. Unlike Anil Sir, I can see the writing on the wall.

My biggest strength is that I've never coached any team in my life. I'm attaching endorsement letters from eight clubs confirming they never considered me worthy of the job.

My inexperience means existing ideas have not polluted or confined my views, and that I won't be just recycling the standard coaching practices to justify my salary. No.

As someone with no knowledge of cricket coaching, my ideas are naturally fresh, completely unbiased and potentially revolutionary.

It may shock the players initially but that's how all revolutionary ideas kick in -- with a bang and not whimper.

Unlike Anil Sir, I have a better idea of what the job entails. Trust me, I have no illusion about the job.

Players at this age don't need a coach. What they need is someone who is decent at baby-sitting. For instance, I've noticed players like Shikhar Dhawan tour with the entire family in tow.

I can look after the kids while their dads play and moms shop. I'm attaching endorsement letters from neighbourhood moms who'd vouch for my baby-sitting skills. I don't want to brag but I can change diaper blindfolded and with one arm tied behind my back.

I can even take their wives/girlfriends to shopping, in an "elder-brotherly" manner, if you know what I mean. I'm great at haggling and can get them the best deal anywhere. I'm attaching letters of endorsement from three exasperated shopkeepers to support my claim.

I know bit of cooking as well. So, for instance, if Rohit Sharma wants a bowl of noodles and walks out to bat, I can serve it piping hot when he returns.

I understand the job requires thick skin and I blush to inform that daily hundreds of mosquitoes blunt their precious proboscis trying to suck my blood. I'm attaching a clinical profile of the skin to support my claim.

As for mindset, after a decade of marital bliss, I'm clinically immune to criticism, sarcasm, humiliation and outright insults.

I read Anil Sir was the 'alpha male' in the dressing room. Kindly tell Virat that I'm ready to be the 'omega male' and he should not worry.

Sirs, in keeping with the demand of the job, I'm ready to feel unheeded and unwanted, and ridiculed behind my back.

If I understand it correctly, you are looking for a high-profile good-for-nothing, who should assiduously twiddle his thumb while the captain calls the shots.

I understand as Head Coach, my job would be to front the media after crushing defeats and dust the captain's chair before he addresses news folks post-victory.

Without further testing your presence, I believe I've strongly demonstrated that I have a crystal-clear understanding of the job.

Please find attached my CV. Should you need any further information, just give me a miss call and I'll call you back.


Yours sincerely
A permanently married, temporarily jobless Indian

10 More Books Unlikely To Be Written In India

10 Books Unlikely To Be Written In India

Yama-Yudhisthir Q&A

Yama: Why were sunglasses invented?
Yudhisthir: So that shy men can ogle at women while keeping a clear conscience.

Yama: How to be happy?
Yudhisthir: Fake it. If you can successfully fake happiness, that would sadden your enemies, which in turn would make you genuinely happy.

Yama: Cats apparently have nine lives, but dogs have just one. Why?
Yudhisthir: That's the price you pay for being man's best friend. Nobody likes us you see...

Yama: Why do kids cry first thing after they are born?
Yudhisthir: They know what they are getting into.

Yama: Why do people marry?
Yudhisthir: So that divorce lawyers don't starve.

Yama: Who popularised green tea?
Yudhisthir: Even I'm looking for the idiot.

Yama: Finally...why did Katappa kill Bahubali?
Yudhisthir: (Sighs)...In the long run we are all dead.


* More Yama-Yudhisthir Q&A here and here

Why poor students topping exams is not news

* JEE Mains 2017: Son of Udaipur compounder tops exam
* Farmer's son tops Chhattisgarh Board Class 12 exam
* Autorickshaw driver’s daughter tops CA exams

This has become a mindless ritual in the hopelessly lazy world of news media.

Every time some exam results are out, newspapers and TV channels religiously serve gooey, boilerplate stories about some poor kids who scored heavily in whatever tests they took.

I'm tired of this sentimental tosh. What is novel about it?

With fewer, if at all, distractions to ruin their study, isn't it precisely what they are supposed to do?

I'd consider it news if a kid from an affluent family tops an exam. For a moment, shed your prejudices and consider the predicament of being a rich boy.

The poor kid has so many things screaming for his time and attention -- gadgets, girls, booze, automobiles, recreational drugs, splitting parents, dysfunctional families, Messi's injury, Ronaldo's mistresses -- the list just goes on.

Now where do you slot study in this crazy schedule?

Topping exams is the easiest thing when you have none of these distractions, which is why I don't get teary-eyed when I read about a rickshaw-puller's son cracking IIM or a daily labourer's daughter acing IIT.

The truth is, these poor kids have an unfair advantage over their rich cousins in terms of motivation.

They have the greatest motivation to succeed, for the result can potentially alter the standard of their life beyond their wildest imagination.

In contrast, a billionaire' s son enters the exam hall knowing fully well that education can't really lift his lifestyle. There is simply no incentive for him, just no motivation at all.

That they still take the pain to reach the hall and write paper is, you'd agree, utterly commendable.

So dear poor kids who just topped an exam, I'm not impressed.

The unpleasant truth is - the game of exam is blatantly rigged in your favour and your success, sorry to say, is pre-ordained.

In fact I'd go to the extent of saying that poor kids have no excuse for failure, as simple as that.

As for me, my heart bleeds for the rich kid who is mourning his low grade by smoking weed in a friend's place, befittingly rolling the stuff in his mark sheet and watching it burn.

If state transport buses had something like in-flight announcement

Dear passengers, we welcome you on board, on rooftop and on footboard of this State Transport Corporation bus.

Today your driver is Mahadev Singh, who spat gutkha juice out of the window and is currently exchanging expletives with the person he smeared with the jet.

I'm your conductor Bhola Singh, with a rolled hanky under the collar. Please tender exact fare.

We will complete this 20 KM journey in about one hour and 45 minutes, provided we survive detours, demonstrations, breakdowns, road rages, accidents and arson by agitators.

We may also reach the final destination in flat 15 minutes, provided we have a bus of the same route number hot on our heels.

In that case, you may have to get down at a destination of our choice, kindly cooperate. Also, chances are we might have to offload you bang in the middle of the road. Make sure you don't get run over by traffic from behind, just to give us a bad name.

This vehicle, which was serviced last in the 15th century, has one front door and there's another at the back. In case of emergency, the resulting stampede is likely to take you near the door. Again, try not to fall and get trampled on by fellow passengers just to give us a bad name.

In case the air inside gets fetid, kindly look at everyone suspiciously and accusingly even if you're the culprit.

Those standing, kindly hold on to the strap overhead. If you're vertically challenged, you can also grab someone's bag straps, and anything for that matter, to maintain balance. Everything is fair in love, war and state transport buses.

Remember inside the bus, you can get away with anything by just saying 'sorry'. So, if you have just crushed someone under your feet, be nice and say 'sorry'.

Also remember, getting toes squashed is commonplace, so kindly don't blow it out of proportion.

For those lucky enough to get seat, remember there will never be a consensus on how much the window should be kept open. Views will differ, so wait until the other guy has dozed off before you can quietly adjust the window to your liking.

Remember, buying ticket is not optional, though your conductor Bhola Singh, with a rolled hanky under my collar, is open to negotiations.

Currently we're moving at a break-neck speed of 500 cm/hour, which is roughly the speed of an arthritic snail which has just undergone a knee cap replacement. This is due to a marriage procession ahead of us. You'd probably be tempted to slap the groom on horse once he's under your window but we advise utmost caution.

For those sitting on the right, the view may not rival the grandeur of pyramids in Egypt but you can look out of your window and marvel at the splendid pile of municipal garbage. If you feel like puking, kindly stick your head out but make sure you don’t get your head smashed by an overtaking bus. It would give us a bad name.

Those on the left need not despair. Thanks to the jam, you’re strategically positioned to appreciate the overflowing public convenience just outside your window. If you feel like fainting, do intimate the fellow passengers.

Meanwhile, our checkers will soon begin ticket inspection. If you haven’t bought your tickets yet, you may end up paying double the money as bribe to get away from their clutches. I can give you a better deal, so contact your conductor Bhola Singh, with a rolled hanky under the collar.

Ladies and gentlemen, we’re finally about to reach the destination. We appreciate you had many choices but you still decided to suffer at our hands.

On behalf of driver Mahadev Singh and conductor Bhola Singh with a rolled hanky under collar, we hope to serve you again.

(Pix)