Aham Brahmasmi

If they ever tell my story, let them say I beheld one man obliterating the best fast bowler in the world for 25 runs in an over in a World Cup Semi-Final. Let them say I witnessed the moment when a captain gave his fast bowler three slips, a gully and a point in the 21 st  over of an ODI match. Let them say I breathed in the aura of a man who could attack, swing, crash, burn, dazzle, exult, deceive, soar, collapse with the same roguish grin on his face. Let them say I had tears in my eyes when a warrior looked into the camera and said “ This is the greatest time of our lives ” like he truly meant it. Let them say I lived in the time of McCullum.

Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.  We all know – have read about or heard of i.e. – this famous quote that is most often attributed to Einstein. But there’s something in it, isn’t there? The hoping against hope, the doomed foreknowledge and yet the vehement willing oneself on against the imminent inevitability. Over the last couple of seasons, I’ve often wondered if that’s the reason I still tune in to Federer’s matches towards the business end of major tournaments. There is something deep inside me – as it almost indubitably is in all of his fans – that warns of the fatal-stumble-at-the-very-end that has become an almost unavoidable part of Federer’s tournament progresses. And yet, I hope. And yet, Shaunak da hopes. And yet, Saibal da hopes. After yet another defeat, yet another heartbreak, we tell one another that we won’t get so involved again, that we’ll start out on the process of accepting that another Slam is too much to hope...

“Dravid didn’t fit into the rudimentary templates that the great art of coarse cricket writing has invented for batsmen. Here a sound technique always implies “compact defence”. Well, Dravid’s defence wasn’t compact: it was extravagant. His wrists twirled, his bat looped before the fall was disciplined into the ground.   Dravid was a great batsman who could do everything: he hooked, pulled, cut, swept, flicked and drove, but his entire technique was centred on the need to make sure the ball hit the ground first.” -     Mukul Kesavan, ‘ Extravagantly sound ’

Every morning, when my eyes open for the first time, when my brain wakes up to the inescapable reality of the today, when my lungs tell me that they’ve kept up the tiring work of keeping me alive, when the tips of my fingers are still tingling with the evanescence of dreams I had subconsciously reached out for, my heart goes thump-thump-thump, screaming into my ears that without you, every waking up is an exercise in predestined futility. And every night, just before my eyes close for the last time, when the gap between my toes has accumulated the imperceptible dust of the shattered day, when the waves of deliverance have touched the roots of my hair for the briefest of seconds, when the riotous desires from the omnipresent halls of collective humanity have lived and died in my sweat and blood, my heart goes thump-thump-thump, whispering into my disintegrating cognizance that without you, every going to sleep is a scream into the nothingness of oblivion.

“ Appearances to the mind are of four kinds. Things either are what they appear to be; or they neither are, nor appear to be; or they are, and do not appear to be; or they are not, and yet appear to be. ” – Epictetus Joydeep Ray-Bhattacharya’s The Storyteller of Marrakesh  begins with the proposition that there is no truth, only opinions and their diversity. Hassan, the story-teller and the first person in his narrative, states as much when he ploclaims – “ Truth is that which inevitably contradicts itself. Perhaps that is what is borne out by my story in the end. That might explain why, instead of the truth, I offer you a greater consolation: a dream. ” This Hassan is more than a mere narrator – he is a guide, a witness, a showman, a chronicler of Moroccan legend and folklore. His stage is the central square of Marrakesh, Djemaa el Fna, where the myriad wonders of this great city surround and inspire him. “ All around me the city spreads out its wares — its many nar...

If you’re in love with BBC’s jetsetting series Sherlock primarily because of its state-of-the-art adaptation and set design, or Benedict Cumberbatch for that matter, perhaps this movie may not be for you. But if you’re willing to be taken back to the Holmes’ heydays, the days of yore complete with breathtaking shots of the countryside, this movie is for you. Watson may have embellished his accomplishments, but this elderly Sherlock is as adorable as he is accomplished. Flawless acting from the ageless Ian McKellen and a refreshingly different modus operandi of storytelling, this movie is one for keeps.

I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. I understand that you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. And if our paths cross, let’s hope I can bring a smile and you can bring a tear. After all, what’s life without a dose of nostalgia?