And then there was two weeks ago. The Tata Sky HD box appeared, as if right on cue. I wondered why. The West Indies test series — the one that I was vehemently in denial over — was to begin the next day. ‘Ha!’, I remarked, to myself. What a farce.

I was opposed to this series. I do not know what I am using the past tense here. I still am opposed to this series. Actually, I am not so sure now. When this series was announced, I genuinely was pissed off. Not so much that there was this dummy-obligatory-Sri-Lanka-esque series that was being held but more that the South Africa series — one that I had, after a very long time — actually been looking forward to, was being shortened.

I, as I am sure countless others, was really looking forward to seeing how this new Indian team actually handled themselves when properly tested. Bah! At any rate, I was not really ticked off by fact that this whole new series was being created so that Sachin could play his 200th in Mumbai. That was alright. After all, he deserves that much, at least.

What really really irked me was that he announced his retirement close on the heels of the announcement of this series. Now, this was pathetic. It really was. No, not because this whole farce of a series was being scheduled to commemorate him but because my only thought was that he was, surely, beyond this. Wasn’t he? Sigh.

I was angrier that he opted to play these two tests. Let me make one thing clear — I still think Sachin can cut it in South Africa. I still think Sachin is needed. Just his presence makes a difference. It really does. So when this is the case, I was so god damn angry that he decided to retire after Mumbai. I mean, this was, almost admission of the fact that he was not good enough. Really? Sachin, you’re not good enough? Your body has really had that much that you cannot play two tests in South Africa? I refuse to believe that.

That is the reason that I believe that this retirement and all the hoopla that surrounds it is not his choice. I think that it is being forced onto him. I really do. Yes, he has not been the Sachin of old and maybe he should’ve retired a while ago but this, surely, is not right. No, not in my eyes.

So all this being said, I decided to ignore all before me. As far as I was concerned, this test series was like the moon landing. It never happened. I did not read any tribute. I had the Cricinfo Sachin page open as a tab for two weeks but did not once read anything in it. Why did I not just close the tab then? Honestly, how could I?

The party rolled in to Kolkata. India bowled. Predictably, West Indies failed miserably. India began batting. A couple of wickets fell. Sachin came in to bat. I wanted to watch. No, I did not. Yes, I did. I’m fickle that way. In any case, I did not. Not even a replay. I heard that the LBW decision was a dodgy one. I did not care. Or so I thought. I watched one stray replay of that LBW — in real time, not in slo-mo — on a news channel. I knew that it was not out. I did not care. Only, not.

The only two moments I witnessed of that entire first test were Rohit Sharma bringing up his century and then Ashwin bringing up his. India would win. Of that, I had no doubt. Hence, I did not care. I learnt from somewhere that they were planning all sorts of things with 199. Someone told me that it was 199 million rose petals or something of the sort. I knew that that would never happen but this is India and in India, and when it comes to going over the top, one cannot discount anything. Ever. (Later on, I learnt that the plan was some 199 kg of rose petals which, if still absurd, was a lot more plausible.)

And so the lull in between the two tests. We now, of course, had two extra days of ‘Sachiiiiiiiiiin…… Sachin’ and the whatnot to bear on TV. To compound that, there was no football either, so nothing else on TV. I really did not want to watch any of those tributes and stories and histories. I really did not. Bloody hell, man! Why should I? Inevitably, however, I did end up watching a stroke when flipping through the channels. Of course, when I was on channel 202 on Tata Sky, surely, I could comfortably skip past 403,404,405,406,413 and the whatnot that showed the Sachin shows. Of course, I could just keep pressing the right arrow for when I did, I would still remain on 202 but would know precisely what was coming on the other channels and hence could avoid ‘inadvertently’ watching those shows. And yet, I ended up putting on one of those shows. For no more than a couple of seconds. But those couple of seconds would yield one stroke. Just the one. I could bear to watch no more. I scanned the other channels for anything else. There was nothing else that I wanted to watch. I still would not let myself tune into those channels. I’d rather switch the TV off. I did.

The second test approached. There were even fewer tickets for the public in Mumbai that in Kolkata. This was another of my several reasons for hating the very idea of this series. I was determined to boycott the test. This was just wrong. And then the test became ever closer. The tab still lay open. Chrome installed some update. The browser restarted. With it, refreshed all the tabs. The Cricinfo20 tab that lay dormant was now updated. I had to steal a glance. I did. I saw the range on the page. I read the Osman piece on Tendulkar vs Pakistan. Secretly, I outraged. I read another couple. Something stirred. I was embarrassed with myself. I was a hypocrite. No question, now. The strange thing, however, is that I simply did not care any longer. I am a hypocrite. So be it.

And so, it slowly dawned. Sachin was really going. That part of me, that non-hypocritical one, still asked the most fundamental of questions — so what? And so, the test started. Dhoni won the toss. He chose to bowl. Good. Or not. I did not care. The West Indies started well. That was good. I always have had a soft spot for them. I really hoped that they put up a fight. It looked like they would. And then the inevitable happened. They collapsed. I walked by the TV on my way to pick up some coffee. The only ball I saw of that West Indies innings was the second ball that Sammy faced. That was enough to disgust me no end. Walk away.

And then India started batting. Vijay and Dhawan were going along quite well. I saw one straight drive that Dhawan played. It went straight to the fielder but it was a thing of beauty. He then punched one brilliantly through the covers. Vijay then came on strike. A couple of outstanding shots. Good. The pair would bat through the day, I hoped and went back to my seat. Even the Cricinfo match tab that is usually open was closed. I had no access to the score. I couldn’t care less.

There was, suddenly, this noise building up next to the TV. Maybe one of these chaps had reached a fifty. No. it was not that. It was not a noise of applause. It was not one of appreciation. There was something else in the air. It was anticipation. I quickly opened the Cricinfo tab. It said that India were two down. Sachin was heading down the stairs. I rose from the chair. I sat down again. These moments, literally, were excruciating. Sachin. Mumbai. One last time. Me. Hypocrisy. The sham of the series. My pride. All those pent up feelings. I could not let myself down. Sachin. One last time. Mumbai. Adidas. MRF. Power. Whites. Helmet. Crotch adjustment. Looking up at the sun.

I was in front of the television. There are some things that are bigger than you or your ego. Sachin is one of them. I looked around. There was a smile on so many faces. I looked at the TV. He was taking guard. They cut to the guard of honour that the Windies had formed. What was that feeling inside? Emotion? Sentiment? No. Pride. Yes, that’s what it was. How was it that I could take any pride in his success, I wondered later on, on reflection. I did not have an answer. I still don’t. however, I did take pride. Immense pride.

I looked at the scene. There were, perhaps, 50 people there. There were 3 chairs, only one occupied. All the others had just come to watch Sachin bat for a ball, maybe an over. And then they had to get back. After all, the world does not really stop for Sachin, although, briefly, it did. So there was no one on those chairs. In retrospect, more of the standing, I think, was the tension. I believe that people could not bear to sit. I know that I could not. And then there was that first ball.

A wild slog. Under edge. A single. No duck. A huge sigh of relief. I could feel the tension lifting all around me. As for me, no. I did not breathe a sigh of relief. I smiled. I knew what that was. It was a release. It was evident. The first one was out of the way. It was a signal. This was not going to be a builder’s innings. This was going to be an innings that was Sachin’s alone. It was for Sachin. This was an innings that was less for the country and more for him. It was for everyone who ever mattered to him. It was for everyone who did not matter to him. It was an innings. That’s all it was.

He was off the mark. People started going back to work. I did not really have work to do but then the righteous self that was still a small part of me wanted me to go for I could, maybe, still claim some moral high ground later on. I decided to watch for a few balls. I still stood. I stood more in fear of sitting for, sitting would mean not getting up; not until Sachin got out. So I stood.

And so I watched. Nine sedate balls. And then the tenth. Shillingford bowls. Off the pads. No chance. Tendulkar takes guard again. Short. Back foot. Point. Four. This was excruciating. Last ball of the over. Pitched up. Driven past mid off. Four. I sat down.

Then Gabriel bowled. Sachin leant into it. Cover drive. Four. South Africa popped into the head. India were 36 for 5. Or so I think. It was Azhar and it was Tendulkar. It was Donald and then it was Pollock. Or so I think. I usually am above average at remembering these things but maybe I’m just growing old. I do remember a Tendulkar century. I remember a cover drive that was an echo of this shot. I don’t remember how much Azhar got that day; I don’t remember how much Sachin got. I don’t remember how much he struggled. I don’t remember when he played that cover drive. I don’t even remember if it was the same one. However, the cover drive brought back memories. It just did.

Sedateness. Singles. Dots. More singles. Samuels fires it in. Down the leg side. It is helped on by that oh so deft turn of the writs, the bat and the whole being. Fine leg. Four. A lap sweep. That’s what came into the head. Not one. The many. I could not remember the bowler or the opposition. All I remembered were all those sweeps.

Another punch through point. Another four. More memories. Bowlers of much more calibre — not offence meant to Samuels — being dispatched. Simply. With the minimum of fuss. Rocking back onto the back foot and the ball sailing past point. Sydney. The lack of the cover drive. Contrapuntal.

And then it came. It had to. Sammy bowled. A poor delivery. An immaculate on drive. Sharjah. Desert storm. Only, not. Captain’s trophy. That’s what. Captain’s trophy was Jaga’s invention. A two wicket tournament that pitted the captains of countries against each other in a world cup format. Each captain was, of course, given two chances. India’s captain at the time was Ganguly. Only, in Jaga’s book, and in mine, it was Sachin. It always was. Captain’s trophy was the T20 of book cricket, so to speak.

Jaga was the most amazing cricket fan that I knew at the time. Age has mellowed him but I do not have a greater cricketing friend than him. He had this cricket book. In fact, he had many. Every game of every tournament was neatly detailed. Whole hosts of cricket world cups were played. Every game had a page of its own. The page was neatly divided down the middle. We used small notebooks, for the sole reason that carrying a 15cm ruler was much less cumbersome than a 30cm one. Each side had the opposing squads. All the names, including the initials (for the space crunch meant that the whole name could not be fit) and then empty space next to them to write down the score. Only once all this was done did the game really start.

Captain’s trophy had only the captains competing but it was properly and meticulously detailed. Sachin was the only one who could captain India. Of course all sense of fairness and propriety went out of the window. It had to be Sachin. It just had to be. And so, I shamelessly copied Jaga and played captain’s trophy after captain’s trophy. And I shamelessly cheated when Sachin got out. Those of you familiar with book cricket will know that if a page open was such that a page came loose in your hand, it did not count (we even counted them as no-balls and awarded runs, well it is a batsman’s game, what?) and, more importantly, a batsman would not be out if that happened on a ‘0’ page. I do not know how but Sachin had the uncanny knack of getting out off no-balls. More than any other batsman. I wonder if I had anything to do with that. On second thought, perhaps not. Of course I believe that. Ha!

That one on-drive reminded me of that one on-drive took me back to class 5 and class 6. Of all those atrocities committed in his name. When it came to Sachin, fair play did not exist. In my book. Literally. I even remember how, when playing India games, if a wicket fell and Sachin came in (he was always at 2 down for me for the fear of him getting out too soon and the team losing morale as a result) and the resulting page open resulted in a ‘0’, Sachin would be neatly side stepped and the next batsman would have a 0 nicely written against his name. Sachin, it was said, came in at three down in that game. I really wish Jaga has one of his many many cricket books with him. It really would make for interesting reading. Unfortunately, I do not have a single one of mine. Sigh.

Stumps. 38 not out. I waited until he was safely back in the dressing room lest someone run him out or do something of the sort. Of course that is not possible for the rules of the game don’t allow it but this was the last innings. One could not afford not to be too careful.

The next day’s play started. I was in office early. This time, I took my seat. I was, however, full of dread. We have the daily call with the person on-site at 10 AM. Sachin survived a couple of overs. When I say survived, I mean negotiated with relative ease. This was not going well. I was going to miss the action. And then whatsapp — god bless that! Tanay, the chap who is at the client’s end and with who we have the call everyday pinged me. ‘Let’s have the call at lunch. Or after Sachin is out.’ God bless Tanay.

And so it continued. 39 not out. Four. Four. Just like that, 47 not out. Single. Dot. Dot. Something. Didn’t matter. And then, four. Straight drive. Apt. Nothing else. Just apt. everyone around me clapped. I could not. No. I could not allow myself to. My heart, however, did skip a few beats.

And then it continued. Another couple of fours. It was becoming routine. Tino did his Best to try and ruffle Sachin with short ones. He glared at him. Sachin playfully brushed him away. The mind went back. Caddick. That six. Shoaib. That four. McGrath. All those hits. Olonga. Ha! What happened on the field with Tino was nothing. What happened in the mind with history was something else.

And then there was another on-drive. Again, one from the past. Perhaps one for the past. At that time, I did not know it; no one did. It was to be the last.

And then it came. Big stroke. Slip. Gone. Silence. Sammy could scarcely believe what he had done. And just like that, it was over. I wish I could describe the feeling but saying anything at all will be disgracing it. That, ladies and gentlemen, was that.

Everyone on the ground applauded. I could not bring myself to. Upon reflection, I now see myself. Sitting, slumped on that chair, grasping both ends tightly for support. I saw that entire walk all the way into the dressing room. Someone walked into bat. I think it was Virat Kohli. The mind did not really register. It cut to the picture of Sachin condemning himself and practicing that stroke over again.

I looked around me. Some people had left. There were still about 5 people around the TV. They had that look of anticipation on their faces. They were genuinely excited to see Virat bat. They wanted to see Pujara reach a century and then go beyond. They were genuinely looking forward to an Indian cricketing future — a future sans Tendulkar. The times, they are a changing. I got up and walked to my seat. I couldn’t help but think that if I were watching at home, I would’ve switched the TV off. Somethings, I believe, never change.

And so I went back to my desk and sat there. I did not know what to make of it all. I took out my phone and sent a text to Jaga, ‘What happens now, da?’ ‘Don’t know machi. Still dazed… not able to think about what next,’ was the reply.

I’m in a terrible rut. I have not been able to write — even by my very mediocre standards — anything at all for a few months now. A few bits of a 140 characters but even those, few and far between. Jaga has been too. He hasn’t written much over the past couple of years himself. We made a pact. I would write one on Tendulkar. He would write one on Tendulkar. This rather rambling, long-winded and pointless account is my end of the deal. I do hope he fulfils his end of the deal for that will make for some fantastic reading. I promise you that.

I did not watch a single ball of the match after that. India would win, I knew. Tendulkar would not bat again. I knew. I saw the score sporadically on Saturday morning. 5 down. 8 down. All out. India had won. Post match presentation.

Ravi Shastri’s booming voice, ‘… India have won but, more importantly, a great career has come to an end.’ That one line encapsulated all that I found wrong with the series. I was angry once again. I did not care who the god damn man of the match was. I did not care what Dhoni said or what Sammy did. I walked away into the kitchen to look at something that I had left on the stove. And then Shastri announced that Sachin would now talk. All that anger, all that pissed-off-ness was gone. The crowd went beserk and then Sachin started talking. I sat down on the floor. And then I listened; listened as he thanked his father; his mother; his sister; his brothers; his wife; his children. And then the power went off.

Anger. Frustration. Pure and raw emotion. A couple of swear words. The power did not come on. I went back into the kitchen. I was numb. And then the power came back, 15 minutes later. And then Sachin came on the TV. He was still talking. I could not listen. I did not want to. I decided to catch the entire thing online at some point in the future. I still have not watched it.

In retrospect, I think that that speech represented my Sachin; my personal Tendulkar. At first, I watched, riveted to the screen just as I had done as a lad. And then as I grew older, football replaced cricket and I began ignoring cricket (though I always did see Tendulkar bat whenever I could but not with the fervour of yore) and then as the years rolled on and bowlers who had no right to get him out began to do just that, it became too excruciating to watch.

The speech ended. I missed a good deal of it. Sachin was standing there and talking to a motley crew. And then they carried him on that lap of honour. And then he again stood there, all the time guarded by a security detail. And then he shed that detail. He walked. He walked towards that Wankhede pitch. He reached it. I thought that they were showing a replay of him inspecting the pitch before the start of play. He reached that pitch and then he bent down. I still thought it was a shot of how committed he was until his last day. And then he touched the crease and then got back up again, doing a ritual reserved for a temple. A lump formed in the throat. That, was it. That, right there, that little gesture, was, is, and will always be Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. Cricketer.

Epilogue:

In about 70 years time, in a post apocalyptical world, long after the Earth and all Earthlings are long gone, an alien race will, by some chance, happen to land on Earth. They will scan the planet for signs of life. They will find none. They will, by chance, stumble upon a computer terminal. Miraculously, that terminal will be connected to what we know today as the internet. In that terminal, the Google homepage will be open. The cursor will be on ‘I’m feeling Lucky.’ The alien clicks on that cursor. A page of google results (all 4 billion pages) of Sachin will be thrown up. The aliens carefully read every one of those pages.

They read about his batsmanship — not that they understand what that is — , his humility, his grace, his elegance and how he gave hope to an entire country, an entire race, and how he became more than just a human being, how he became a demi-god and then a God.

They read all this and then they come to the inescapable conclusion — Sachin Tendulkar is an urban myth. It was a myth that was concocted by the oppressed world to give it hope. No one, they — the aliens — believe could be this good. No one man could mean this much to these many. It simply is impossible. It was a myth. It had to be. The aliens leave. In denial. Many of us live today. In denial.

Elvis might have left the building. Sachin has not. I don’t think he ever will.

4152 words. was originally published in yechh on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The spokesperson, Mr. Guna, said, ‘The whole thing is one big hoax perpetrated by Mr. Kamal Haasan to keep his fans happy. It is a universal hoax; a grand larceny even.’ He continued, ‘see, the thing is quite clear, actually. We first heard of this mega movie of Mr. Haasan, Vishwaroopam, some time a couple of years ago. This came hot on the heels of two big mega movies called Marudhanayagam and Marmayogi that never were, as well. So, we here at the The Grand Hoax Slayers Organization were naturally piqued.

‘Upon digging deeper, we found that perhaps our fears were unfounded as we saw Vishwaroopam posters periodically but then again, this being Mr. Haasan, we were still very ginger. Then came the trailer with all the dancing and the bullets and we really thought that a corner had been turned. We saw trailer 2 and more and more of our fears were allayed.

‘However, then came the whole skype-based trailer. That jump at the beginning of the video itself set all alarm bells ringing. That, along with the familiar thooya-tamil-in-New-Jersey-accent claims of Auro 3-D really set the cat amongst the pigeons for us. Then came the video of the making of the trailer. Very soon, there was one trailer of making as well.

“Once all this business was over, he then came up with this whole DTH business where he ruffled more than a few feathers. In retrospect, looking at how it played out, we believe that is was all stage-managed. There was no tie-up with DTH or anyone else. Once that had dies down, the first proposed release date had come and gone.

‘Now, people wanted to see the film and when the next release date loomed, the other controversy came up and now, the release has be re-postponed. Now, once is OK. Twice is acceptable but thrice? We smell a hoax. We believe that Mr. Haasan is strongly yearning for a hat-trick after the successful hoaxes that were Marudanayakam and Marmayogi (that filler — movie where the highlight was the popcorn at the interval — Manmadhan Ambu is not to be counted).

‘Seeing the trailer, we now know that Mr. Haasan is both a hero and a villain and that everyone in the movie has a double role. If you carefully look, the first trailer focussed more on the ‘hero’ Kamal Haasan and the second on the villain. The double role is thus justified. So too, the hero and villain part.

‘Having seen all this conclusive evidence, all we can say that Vishwaroopam is nothing but a trailer and we at The Grand Hoax Slayers Organization have successfully slayed yet another hoax. On top of this, Mr. Haasan says that he has already started work on Vishwaroopam 2 as well. Ha!’

When Mr. Haasan was approached for comment, he said that he was considering renaming the film ‘summa.’

“Vishwaroopam is only a trailer” was originally published in yechh on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I had not, in all honesty, done too much work on my 8 week long internship and well, when it is coming to an end, one must work, what? Unfortunately, yes. That was the premise of why I was working on Saturday.

I had to do some groups as part of the project I was working on; market research and all that. I made my way to this house which was the venue. I entered and there was a large sitting room, a dining room, a kitchen and a couple of rooms on one side. There was one small passageway leading into a huge drawing room on the other. I went into the drawing room and instinctively looked up.

There were bookshelves everywhere! Wow! There were old leather-bound volumes of encyclopedias and whatnot. Immediately, my eyes that have been so attuned to the single minded pursuit of one thing and one thing only, started the scan. And what I found led to the old jaw dropping. Oh good God! Sir Pelham Grenville Wodehouse, in all his glory. There were about forty titles, some of them I had never heard of let alone seen anywhere at all.

I had some initial set-up work to do and this, I did hurriedly. Now, I did not really know if it was right to go and talk to the people who owned the house for we were only there on a temporary basis and I did not really know what the protocol was re interacting with the house owners. I peeped from the hall. I looked at the books again. I did not dare touch the books. I peeped again. Still unsure of whether I ought to go ask the owner about it, I mustered up the courage, so to speak.

He was putting on his shoes, evidently to go out.

‘Excuse me sir but would you mind if I took a look at those books? There are some there that are out of print and are absolutely treasures and I would like to see them.’

You have read that? Now imagine taping that and playing it back at 1.5x speed. That was how fast I was talking.

He looked at me, perplexed. Fortunately, his wife seemed to understand what I said and said, ‘yes. No problem. But only seeing, eh?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

I hurried off and slid the glass door and started looking. Well, if you could ever use the word ogle with books, well, I was pretty much doing just that. And then he came in.

‘What are you looking at?’ he asked.

‘Wodehouse, sir.’

[caption id=”attachment_751" align=”aligncenter” width=”497"]

Notice who holds the copyright in 1970.[/caption]

‘Oh! You like Wodehouse, is it? I have 72 out of the ninety odd titles.’

Words did not really come out but I think I managed an ‘oh!’

[caption id=”attachment_756" align=”aligncenter” width=”595"]

An edition I did not know existed and a title I had never seen in print[/caption]

‘Have you read other English authors as well? Because my collection is predominantly English.’

‘Like Tom Sharpe, sir?’

‘Bah!’ In that one word, he dismissed him. Easy as that. He reeled off another few names but I had not really heard of any of them. ‘Yes, I have the Herbert-Jenkins collection as well,’ he said. I had no idea what he was talking about. He pointed to the shelf. If one’s eyes can grow bigger that one could possibly imagine, it would not be wrong to say that mine did.

There was a whole row of neatly stacked, almost nondescript, hardbound editions with no paper jackets on them. They had the Herbert-Jenkins crest on then and lettering in gold that was faded over time but what must have been brilliant and lustrous once upon a time. The lettering was, of course, the name of the titles.

[caption id=”attachment_753" align=”aligncenter” width=”653"]

Herbert Jenkins edition. Bought in 1950.[/caption]

I picked one up, almost too scared to damage it, however slightly. The book was in fantastic condition; well, as fantastic as a book that was 62 years old can be. I was mesmerized. He looked at me and decided that the time had come to go off on the errand he was running until I interrupted him.

[caption id=”attachment_754" align=”aligncenter” width=”671"]

The inside of the book.[/caption]

So as the day wore on, I stole time away between sessions of work and even during sessions to go talk to sir and ma’am. He is an utterly fascinating man and to write about all that we talked about would be rambling on a little too much.

One incident, however, I must quote. He was telling me about his grandfather being the Diwan of Mysore and from there it veered into Indian history and somehow I brought up Ram Guha.

‘One of my favourite authors is a Bangalorean, sir; Ramachandra Guha.’

‘Ah! Of course, Ram Guha.’

‘If you’re interested in cricket…’

‘What do you mean, by are you interested in cricket? I played for Karnataka. I still draw a pension from them.’ There was no scorn. It was only a kids-these-days look.

‘I… I did not know, sir,’ I bumbled, most apologetically and red-faced.

He smiled and walked off. I thought I had ticked him off. Apparently, it was nothing of the sort. He just went to do some work. He did come back after a while and said, ‘you were saying something about Guha?’

‘Yes sir. He wrote a wonderful book on Indian cricket. You must read it.’

‘Yes. He is primarily a cricket historian.’

‘Well, sir, I met him once and he said that he would not really write too much about cricket any more. He said that there were more interesting things to write about.’

He laughed.

I did talk to him and his wife about a whole lot of stuff and it was very very fascinating, to say the least. There was an old TV in the sitting room. Apparently, the TV was bought before the 1983 world cup and they have watched the 1983 and the 2011 final on the same TV. Whatay!

Among the other treasures, there is also a whole set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica published in the year 1911. A set of books that are a hundred and one years old. Holy cow!

[caption id=”attachment_755" align=”aligncenter” width=”403"]

The encyclopedia Britannica. 1911.[/caption]

And so, it was time to go. I went to say goodbye. Mr. Sadashivan was out. I spoke to ma’am.

‘Thank you for everything ma’am. I have taken pictures and I am sure I am going to be the envy of a few people. Thanks for the coffee as well.’

I turned to leave and then turned back.

‘If you ever ever decide to give those books away, please do let me know first.’

‘Hahaha! As long as he is there, he will never let even a paper go out of the house.’

‘I know that, ma’am and I don’t expect to get anything any time soon but if ever, please do let me know.’

‘But how will I contact you?’

My contact details are now safely lodged with them. I will, hopefully, have right of first refusal on those books. Not a bad day’s work, what?

P.S ‘This house is, in your market research parlance, called the book house. It is quite a popular venue for conducting groups/interviews etc.’, she said to me very early on in the day. The name is apt, I think.

The book house was originally published in yechh on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The line up was fantastic. There was Shankar Mahadevan. There was Shrinivas. There was Vikku. There was Ranjit Barot. There was Aditya Kalyanpur. There was, of course, my personal favourite — Selvaganesh. As Jeeves would put it, ‘Capital!’

Now, I must confess that I had not really heard of Aditya Kalyanpur before. I had heard the name Ranjit Barot but had not really heard his music. The concert was scheduled to start at 7. I reached about 10 minutes before that. I took my seat. I waited. The clock struck seven. No sign of the show getting underway. It then became 7 10. Still no sign. An announcement: ‘We apologize for the delay. People are stuck in traffic and hence we are waiting for the audience to come in. We are sorry for the inconvenience but we will be starting shortly.’ The show started 15 minutes hence.

A small thing that I have noticed off late. Too many shows starting late. Not a healthy trend at all. Just a personal remark, that’s all.

So they came on stage. Shankar, Selva, Shrinivas, Aditya and Ranjit. There were 4 ghatams on stage. I was piqued. Vikku, however, abstained. I was disappointed.

My disappointment, however, did not last very long. Shankar took off in Hamsaswani and the piece was quite fantastic. I did, somehow, find the drum to be at odds with every other instrument on stage but after a while, I got used to it. The thing that took me back most about this piece was that there was a very very loud bass beat that ended every rhythm cycle. I thought that the drum kit was louder than necessary. It was only towards the end of the piece that I realized that it was not the drum but Selva on the kanjira. Mind = blown. I could’ve sworn that it was the sound of a drum. I did not really know that a kanjira was capable of sounds thus. More on that later.

The next piece was one in atTAna and was quite beautiful as well. Shankar was, as ever, in his element and the jugalbandi that he and Shrinivas did was something to behold. he, with the swarams, Shrinivas with his mandolin. Brilliant.

Then, at long last, the moment I had been waiting for. Vikku came on stage. He was accompanied by his grandson, Swaminathan, Selva’s son. Incidentally, Swami also plays the kanjira and is quite brilliant himself. I saw him perform in Pune along with Selva, Vikku and Zakir among others and even in that stellar company, he managed to hold his own; so much so that even Zakir was visibly impressed.

Anyway, Swami chanted the Ganapati tAnam and Vikku played it on the ghatam. Ghatams, I should say. There were four of them andhe went on to illustrate the difference in sounds of the four. He then went on an epic solo in which, at one point in time, he was playing all four simultaneously, that it sounded exactly like a jaltarang. Whatay!

Shankar, Selva, Vikku and Aditya then left the stage for Shrinivas and Ranjit to take over. This was, perhaps, the part of the show that I liked the least. Shrinivas was epic, as ever but somehow, I did not care too much for the drumming. Perhaps because I am not really a big fan of the huge drum kits. Perhaps because I prefer a tabla or a mridangam or a kanjira to a Western drum kit. Then again, that’s just my opinion. Judging by the applause, the audience did indeed enjoy the drum solo.

The artistes (barring Vikku) then came back on stage and Shankar sang a beautiful Krishna bhajan. As a prologue, he told the audience the story of how he learnt this bhajan. Many years ago, it was Ranjit who gave Shankar his first break in ad jingles. It was on one such occasion when Shankar was jamming with Ranjit at his house that Ranjit’s aunt, Tara Devi, called Shankar and asked him, ‘gana seekhoge?’ Shankar hesitantly said yes and this was what she taught him. He said that this one bhajan gave him material enough for ten years of performing. Such was the depth.

So we had had a ghatam solo first and then a drum solo. It was time for the tabla. Before Aditya started off, Shankar introduced him thus. ‘Do you people remember the Taj Mahal ad many years ago? The one that Zakir bhai composed? He was there in front of the Taj with a small kid and the both of them were playing the tabla? Well, this is that kid. Of course, he is no longer a kid. He almost has a kid now.’ Interesting bit of trivia there. The tabla solo was brilliant too.

So, what was left then? Of course. Selvaganesh. The kanjira solo. Good god was this epic. I have said this before and I will say it again. The range of sounds that that man produces with that small frame drum is quite unimaginable. This time, he replicated the sound of a train amongst other sounds but the highlight was when he actually mimiced the bass guitar on the kanjira. Mind = blown. Again.

Vikku then came back on stage and there was a piece in kalyani to finish the evening off. The piece was going on when, out of nowhere, it suddenly started sounding extremely familiar, and bang! Out of nowhere, Shankar started off breathless. Accompanied by the kanjira, the mandolin, the tabla, the ghatam and the drum, the superfast rendition of breathless was mesmeric. Absolute genius.

The show ended. The usual ponnAdais were pothified. Parity was restored. They called it a night. An epic night.

P.S Something that I was cribbing about before the Shakti concert, viz, the ticket pricing, these chaps got spot on. The entire balcony was priced at 200 which was very well played, I think.

Samarpan was originally published in yechh on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A culmination of a 3 year dream was upon me. I was to watch Remember Shakti perform live for the first time ever and perhaps the last time ever.

However, it was also the day of the biggest game of the season for Man United. The game against the old enemy — ’em Scousers. The Suarez angle only made it even more intriguing.

Choices. Sigh.

So I made a choice. I went to Music academy well in time. The gates were to open at 6 45. I waited. They opened at 7. I went and sat inside.

Text message from Arun. ‘First half. High drama. Suarez refuses to shake Evra’s hand. De Gea refuses to let go of Suarez’s hand and Rio refuses to shake Suarez’s hand.’

He went on to describe a few more events of the first half and then it was almost 7 15. The show was about to start. Text. ‘The scouser scores.’

‘God damn it’, I reply.

‘The scouser born in Everton scores. :D’ Arun, you ass!!! Well played!

In one second, despair to joy. Rooney had scored. United were in the lead. And before long, United had made it two. Rooney had made it two.

Relief. Joy. Etc.

The phone was to go into flight mode now.

The curtain rose. It was 7 30.

Before the concert, I had pictured this scene many times. I secretly wished that the curtain would rise and that there would be a ghatam on stage and Vikku would be sitting on stage as a special guest only for the Chennai show. There was a ghatam. Vikku was indeed sitting. Only, they were at different places. The ghatam was on stage. Vikku was in the first row of the audience. Oh well!

…and so it began. 5 in the morning. 6 in the afternoon. Quite a brilliant start to the evening.

The next piece was Anna. Selvaganesh exchanged the kanjeera for a ghatam and just before the piece started, he looked at his father in the first row and bent his head to get his blessings. Apparently, he did get the blessings for he was smiling after that. I don’t know how many in the audience actually saw that. What a sight.

The stage was slightly empty until now. There was a gap in between John and Shrinivas. This was, of course, to be filled by ‘the voice of Shakti’, as Zakir called him. Shankar Mahadevan came on stage. Giriraja Sudha followed. Need I say more? I think not.

After this, came Ma No Pa. Only, this time, there were lyrics. Shankar experimented with some lyrics at the beginning after which they played something that resembled the original. Brilliance.

After this came a new piece. A fast paced number with prominent vocals, mandolin, guitar and the tabla with subtle mridangam undertones. Zakir said that it was a work in progress and that it was tentatively called seven. It did appear a bit rough ‘round the edges at places and I’d love to hear the final version of it.

‘And now, for a golden oldie-doldie’, Zakir said. ‘And for this golden oldie-doldie, we would like to have a golden oldie-doldie on stage. Vikku-ji please come on stage. We are in Chennai and we could not pass up the opportunity to play with Vikku-ji especially now that he is here.’

Hope is a good thing. Sometimes the best of things — Shawshank Redemption.

And so Vikku proceeded onto the stage, took the mic and said, ‘ this was composed when I was a member of Shakti. I am old now. I don’t know if I can play well. I will try. This is a test for me. I did not know that they were going to call me on stage. Let’s see how it goes.’ Vikku said this in Tamil. The crowd applauded. The applause died down. ‘Now, can you repeat that in Urdu please?’ Zakir. Ever the witty showman. The crowd was in splits.

Bridge of Sighs followed. If you’ve heard the original, you will know that most of the sigh-ing effects were because of Shankar’s violin pieces. With no violin here and with Vikku, it was only sigh in name. It was quite joyous, in reality. Sometimes, wishes do come true. Vikku went on a mini solo too. Eat that other venues. Madras got to see Vikku play. Ha!

The next piece was Sakhi with Shankar in his element. Mesmeric it was.

Zakir then looked at the time and mouthed, ‘it’s getting late, isn’t it?’

I had an inking of what was coming. I was right.

Lotus feet. With just a hint of Shankar’s vocals. Bliss. That is all I can say. Bliss.

I thought it was over but the epicness of the evening had just begun. The last piece was, well, no recognizable piece. It started off in the normal fashion but soon everyone just let go of their instruments, a la laying down their arms. Everyone, that is, except a certain Zakir Hussain. They all turned to him. The crowd turned to him. What he did over the next 15 minutes or so, I don’t think I can describe. I don’t think anyone can. All I can say is that he was just being Zakir Hussain.

Then came Selvaganesh’s solo on the kanjeera and when I looked at the audience, I saw that same expression on people’s faces that I saw during that concert in Pune when he finished his solo. They were quite simply astounded as to how such a small instrument could produce such a wide array of sounds. Breathtaking.

As they say, all good things must come to an end, and so did this show. Unfortunate, yes but such is life. United won 2–1.

Before the show, countless others and I cribbed about the ticket prices in Chennai. While tickets started from Rs. 200 in Mumbai and from 500 in places like Hyderabad, the tickets in Chennai only started from Rs. 2000. I paid 3000 for mine and did my fair share of whining about it. In fact, there were quite a few people cribbing about the prices right before the show began at the Music Academy even.

In the end, though, don’t remember any of that cribbing. Don’t remember any of that whining. Don’t remember anything else. Only Remember Shakti.

The concert was originally published in yechh on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A friend came to me and said, ‘machan! Listen to this da.’

Naturally defensive me. ‘What is it da?’

‘Dai! Listen da!’

Skeptical me. ‘OK.’

I put on a elaborate show of cleaning the ear-buds.

I hit the play button.

There was this most amazing sound with a nasal twinge.

‘What is this da?’

The answer was that it was a morsing.

I did not hear the answer.

Immediately following the morsing was a sound of the ghatam playing. Suddenly, a guitar strum. Suddenly a violin joined in.

I opened my eyes. Five minutes and forty eight had elapsed.

Mind ecology was the piece.

I was hooked.

I looked at my friend. He grinned and said one word. ‘Shakti.’

That was the beginning.

Next, I listened to Peace of mind. I lost track of time. I had heard of music being able to elevate you but I did not believe it. That was the first time I truly felt it.

That was around the time I got an iPod. Unfortunately, I had no access to the internet to download the songs. I contented myself with listening to the few tracks that my friend had on him. In the meanwhile, I did a lot of research about the band, found out the history and found out about Remember Shakti.

I listened to Giriraja Sudha. I then listened to Giriraja Sudha. I then listened to Giriraja Sudha. And then I …. You get the point. Shankar Mahadevan’s epicness with Shakti was a little overwhelming, to say the least.

I then got all the songs and then listened to them over and over and over. ‘Finding the way’ is a very special track. That was when I fell in love with the kanjira. Selvaganesh’s solo just left me mesmerized. I could not believe that such a simple looking instrument could produce such music. Epic is probably the only word. I subsequently even went out and bought a kanjira (a lizard skin one, not a synthetic skin one but that story is perhaps for another day.)

Anyway, I became a huge fanboi, bought the documentary, the way of beauty (I recommend you buy it too. The best 500 odd Rupees I ever spent in life) and generally evangelized Shakti wherever and whenever I could. All this while, I had this one regret. That I would perhaps never watch Shakti live.

Then came February 2011. Being pretty poor when it comes to Hindustani music, I did not really know who Kishori Amonkar was but there was a two day fest celebrating her 80th birthday, Sahela re. The fest was brilliant with some spectacular renditions of the various gharana styles but I will always remember t for the ending. The fest ended with a taalam kuchcheri. It had Zakir (tabla), Vikku (ghtam), Selvaganesh (kanjira), Bhavanishankar (pakhawaj), Swaminathan (Selvaganesh’s son — kanjira) and Sabir Khan(sarangi). I can still remember the energy of that night. I thought that was the closest I would ever come to see Shakti playing. I was wrong.

Anyway, the reason I remember that so much is because of what happened after the show. It was late and people were leaving. A few people went backstage but were not really allowed into the room where the artistes were. I went backstage and waited for the car park was there and the artistes were scheduled to leave soon. I figured that I could talk to someone. I was right. There was a big mob around Zakir while there was hardly anyone with VIkku and Selvaganesh. I spoke a few words to them but I had to talk to Zakir.

The crowd was too much. Zakir’s tabla was loaded into the boot. He was getting into the car. This was the moment.

‘Zakir!!! Will Shakti ever perform again?’ I shouted.

‘Shakti has been performing, man!’, he replied and then drove away.

That was the story of how I had a conversation with Zakir Hussain.

I still did not have any hopes of watching Shakti live. I have since watched Shrinivas and Selvaganes together but I had all but abandoned hope of ever watching Shakti live. That was until December of 2011 when I saw that link on some website. It said something about there being a Remember Shakti tour. I scoured the net and got the details. There were concert tickets on the net for the ones in Hyderabad but nothing for Chennai.

I called up the Shakti foundation office only to find out that the tickets cost 2000, 3000 and 5000. Oh Oh! Trouble. I tried all avenues to see if I could get passes. Alas! No avail. Well, long story short, I am going to the concert on Saturday and my wallet is lighter by INR 3000. My bank balance is at undergrad levels. Oh well!

Wait. The story does not end there. This is where the sad story starts.

Now, naturally, I started plugging it on twitter and spreading the word in class. No one was interested but I keep telling people again and again that a couple of people said they’d go. Now, they had to go to the Shakti foundation office to get the tickets. All’s OK until now. This is where I die. Slowly.

These people not only got the tickets (which they paid for, of course) but also got tee shirts, some other stuff and … and … passes to the after-event dinner at the Taj with all the performers. Imagine. Standing a couple of feet away from Shakti. Imagine. Now imagine sitting at home. The former is what I will not be doing. The latter is what I will be doing.

Of those two people, one knows about music, the other knows the spelling. Perhaps. I can’t be sure.

All I can think of was something that Calvin had thought of and brilliantly articulated.

No good deed goes unpunished. I have irrefutable proof now.

Remember Shakti was originally published in yechh on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

With the Indian team drawing flak from former players, commentators, pundits and armchair twitter pundits alike, support has come in from unexpected quarters. Captains of industry have lauded the Indian team’s performance and have cited it as a major reason for the increase in productivity of employees.

‘We have noticed a remarkable increase in the productivity levels of the employees over the past fortnight. Every time India plats a series down under, we find a lot of cases of employees turning up for work only post lunch time’, said a manager of a leading IT company.

‘In the past, we have had cases of Melbourne morning sickness, boxing day bugs and Sydney sinusitis. All of these health conditions, of course, miraculously vanished after lunch time but since we trust our employees to the hilt, we did not think it was linked to the cricket. In fact, we have even had reported cases of bachelors’ spouses falling violently ill. One employee suffered the tragic loss of several relatives on five consecutive days and one person’s grandfather even died four days in a row. It was most torturous. Bless his soul’

He continued, ‘this time, however, the appalling performance of the Indian team has led to employees coming to the office on time and in many cases, well in time. We have found people coming in at 5 A.M to avoid switching on the television only to see the score and get depressed. Further, we have found that the number of people logging on to websites to check the score during office hours has reduced drastically. Even water cooler conversations about cricket are barely heard. I would like to express my heart-felt thanks to the Indian cricket team.’

Support has also come in from a lot of Indian fans who have traveled to Australia to watch the cricket. ‘Thanks to the woeful performance of the team, I have been able to explore much more of Melbourne and Sydney. I thought I would be hard pressed for time between the first two tests but the team duly obliged by finishing up the first test in three days and a half,’ said one fan. ‘ My wife, who was constantly complaining about me putting cricket ahead of her, was most thankful to the team for we got so much more time to go sight-seeing and shopping ’, quipped another.

A young fan said, ‘I thought that test cricket was going to bore me out of my wits but thankfully, I now have so much more time to watch the Australian IPL. I won’t lie, I love watching Sachin and Dravid bat and even my coach sir asks me to observe their batting closely. (Sir, if you are reading this, I did study their batting very closely but I think Zaheer is better; he at least hits sixes) But by getting to watch Gayle and McCullum and Afridi and Hayden, I got a lot more entertainment than I bargained for. Thank you, India! Jai Ho!’

Buoyed by this unexpected level of support, team India is now hoping to continue its excellent showing by wrapping up tests quickly. Just Well-In-Time match completion methods are now being offered as electives in the National Cricket Academy. The team is also reportedly working on publications like middle disorder and No joy in the morning and a blockbuster movie How to lose a test in three days.

India Inc. bats for team India was originally published in yechh on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

However, I moved to Pune in 2009 and I went to meet my aunt. This was the first time I was ever going to see her. She is my mom’s cousin and truth be told, I learnt of her existence only a few days before I went to Pune. So, not that close an aunt, as you can imagine.

I went to her place on a Saturday morning and sat down with a cup of coffee. (Filter coffee after a bloody long time. Bliss, already) I started talking to my aunt (who I grew very fond of and who often let me treat her home, and her amazing library, as my own, and who I visited many many times during my stay in Pune) and she was asking me the usual questions of where I studied etc. Out of the blue, she said, ‘your grandfather was a very fine man.’ I was quite taken aback.

A little bit of family history here. My aunt is actually my mom’s mom’s cousin’s daughter. So, my mom’s second cousin from her mom’s side. And here she was talking about my grandfather, who I did not know how many times she had even met. My aunt’s dad (or my grand uncle) moved to Pune well before my aunt was even born and my aunt has been to Madras but only on vacations.

She went on and told me that every time she went to Madras, she used to go to my mum’s place and sit and talk to my grandfather. She said, ‘you know, he was such a cultured man. He used to make us sit around and he spoke to us in such a way that we felt as if we were equals.’

And then I met my grand-uncle (aunt’s dad) and he too said some glowing things about thatha. After that, I started asking my mother for more stories about my thatha and grew ever more fascinated by the man.

I went on a trip to Kerala with my parents and my mama (amma’s brother). My mum grew up in Kerala and we went to Quilon, where she lived for a few years. We met one of her old old friends (one she hadn’t seen for about 40 years!). Quite a reunion that. He had some wonderful things to say about my grandfather as well.

And then my mom told me that in those days, the import of rice into Kerala was not allowed. And in those days, it was almost impossible to get white rice. It was predominantly the par-boiled rice. So my thatha did something quite brilliant. He had an old FIAT. He hollowed the back seat and put rice into it and drove across the border. With my mum and uncle as kids sitting on the seat, no one even bothered to look.

He used to love driving and every trip was fun. Apparently, he was the epitome of the saying that it is the journey that is the point of the journey and not the destination. He used to stop all along the way whenever he saw fresh fruits along the side of the road or when he saw some cashew nuts or dried fruits. Every year, he used to drive to Tirunalvelli (where my uncle was studying in a boarding school), pick up my uncle and then drive on for a holiday somewhere, finishing the trip in Madras before going back to Kerala.

I also learnt some remarkable things about him. I learnt that from 1958 to 1982, he kept a record of the expenses of every single month, right up to the annas and paisas. I learnt that he wrote a diary every single day. I remember seeing him write. He had this wonderful scrawny little font and he wrote every single day, unerringly.

This was a story that will forever stay with me. My mother was born in the end of July. Since everyone thought it was the end of July, her date of birth was entered officially as 31st July. Then, many years later (I think when she was in class ten), an uncle of hers (who was an astrologer) got a doubt. Apparently, another niece of his was born on the 1st of August and she was of another Nakshatram(star). ‘There cannot be a gap of two nakshatrams in one day’, he said. And he was sure that his other niece was born on the first of August.

They checked it in my thatha’s diary and sure enough, the entry for the 30th of July read thus,

‘Am in Bangalore. Have come here for a conference. Got the news. A healthy baby girl was delivered today…’

A remarkable man, my grandfather was; one of those very few people who can truly be called that. He died in 1996. I was barely 9. I wish I had known him better. It’s his birthday today. He would’ve been 89.

Happy birthday thatha.

Uncommon man was originally published in yechh on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

‘Right. Welcome, boys. I have been called upon to ‘demystify’ Tendulkar and I intend to do just that. First, you must have all read my book Fierce Focus available for only AUD 7.99 from all leading book stores. You haven’t? Shame on you. You really ought to have. Tell you what, I am going to extend this into a two-day session and your assignment for tonight is to go buy the book and read the Tendulkar-related sections in it. There will be a quiz tomorrow and that will contribute toward your selection for the first XI. Don’t think of cheating for I will get to know when I get my royalty check.’

‘Now that that is cleared up… Pup! Stop kidding around. You’re captain, for crying out loud! Punter, come off it; you’re not the captain any more. Deal with it. Don’t make that PontingFace again. There are enough memes on the internet as it is. Warner, put down those dumbbells. We’re finding it hard to make shirts for you as it is. Yes, Mike. The four hundred and sixty fifth run you scored was indeed a drive through the covers. Now stop it. Fierce Focus, people. Fierce focus.’

‘Now, Sachin. Hmm. Yes. Sachin. Good lad, that. Plays well and all that. A good player indeed but certainly not as good as me of course. But then again, who is? Ha! Anyway, yes. Sachin. McGrath, Warnie, Brett Lee and all those other bowlers tried and failed. You know why? Because they did not bowl to a plan. Fierce focus, people. Fierce focus.’

‘OK. Let’s do an analysis. First off, he is terrific off the front foot. So don’t bowl it pitched up on or just outside the off-stump. Next, he is brilliant off his hips. So don’t bowl it on his pads. Short of a length is most definitely a no-go for he will just punch it through the covers. Hmm. So that does pose a problem, what? Never fear. I do have a solution after all.’

‘As we Aussies say, “when it doubt, pitch it short.” OK, I just made that up but nevertheless, it’s true. So that’s an area you ought to be looking at. Now again, there is a problem here. He is all of 5 foot 4. So pitch it too short and he is happily going to let it go and don’t pitch it short enough and he’s gonna wallop you through mid-wicket. So you ought to pitch it just about short. Remember, not too short. Not too not-short. Simple, no?’

‘Oh yes. Spinners. Do we even have those? Oh yes. I’m sorry Nathan, I forgot you were here. And while we’re on the subject, if you really want people to call you a lion, you really ought not to confuse people with that spelling of your surname. I’m sorry, pup. You can whine all you want but I’m still not calling you a spinner. But I will call you skipper, so cheer up.’

‘Ah yes. Spin. That lad is quite good playing spin, I must admit. However, there is a way to entrap him. There always is. The offie ought to pitch the ball just outside off and spin it inwards while the ball maintains its trajectory and goes on straight. He will perhaps think that the ball will spin(and you probably thought so as well) but it will hold its line and go straight on. You’ll be as confused as he is. I’ll have a chat with the curator. The leggie? Well, try not to sleep at night. Warnie had nightmares. Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.’

‘Ah yes. I think that’s the end of my chat. I’m pretty sure I’ve demystified Tendulkar for you. There’s nothing to it, really. Just bowl in the right areas, get the ball to nip, cut, swing, spin and seam. All at the same time, of course. And, let me see. What did I leave out? Hmmm. Ah yes! Of course. Of course. Get the ball to do all those things and in the meanwhile, get the lads to do one more thing. Pray. But not to the cricket Gods of course. For if cricket is religion, then surely you’re praying to the wrong God for the wrong reason.’

Guru Greg ‘demystifies’ Tendulkar was originally published in yechh on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

In the midst of one giant water body, there is a mass of land. An island. There is no connectivity to it. I look around. A few meters into the closest land mass, there is a human settlement; farmers, perhaps. But on this island, nothing. Just the island. Detached.

The island looks deserted. I see no vegetation. Perhaps there are shrubs and there is undergrowth on the sandy tracts but there is no significant vegetation. I am sure. Or so I perceive from high up.

So I see this island and am unable to take my eyes off it. I don’t know why, but somehow, it is gripping. Why would no one venture onto it? Has someone tried? Has anyone ever tried? Did they give up? Is there no point to it?

Perhaps life is like that island. An isolated landmass which in itself is, well, alone. Yet, it is part of something bigger; a country, or the world or the universe perhaps. At the crux of it, though, it is alone. It stands alone; it lives alone; it dies alone.

What larger purpose does it serve? Why is it there? The point is that it is there, whether it likes it or not. What does it mean? What does it signify? I don’t know. What is it that attracted me to it? Perhaps just that. That I don’t know. And that perhaps I never will. Perhaps it symbolizes something. Perhaps not.

I seek it out for answers. I see it no more. The plane has moved.

The Island was originally published in yechh on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.