Domain Maximus

Dearest Readers and other people who often flame this blog,

Yesterday I was travelling between Parel and Andheri, running from one prospective employer appointment to the other in a cab. The traffic was average to bad and I sat back and began to ponder many thoughts. Amidst the trip the cab-wallah stopped at a CNG pump to top up his car. The rain, which arrived briefly and then departed not unlike Mohammad Kaif, remained merely an intermittent dark streak on the smoking roads.

So here are some moral dilemmas (dilemmae?) that river-danced in my head for several intriguing moments.

Dilemma Number One: Is there, at a very basic level, any difference between a religious zealot who is prepared to kill and die for his religion and a member of the armed forces? Both have picked up causes they were born into with little choice. (You normally don’t choose your country and also accept the religion you were born into. Both with little question.)

Both possibly consider their respective causes essential to their safe existence. (And in several places in this country people of a religion stay together because the law simply cannot protect them.) They follow orders blindly even if they know they are protecting or fighting for a country/religion which may be committing moral/humanitarian evils. (Nazi soldiers for instance. But one must still obey if one is a soldier.)

So then why is one portrayed so heroically while the other is a heinous criminal?

Dilemma Number Two: Why are there so many anonymous commenters who leave single-line terse messages that are invariably critical. For example: “You are a stupid blogger”. “This blog sucks.” “Why don’ t you put your d!@# in a mad dog’s mouth and hope he does a favour to you.” and of course the all too common comment: “You are a North Indian bigot who is trying to slander South Indians and get away with it.”

These are actual examples of correspondence I have shared with diligent feedback-givers out there. Why would they do something like that? What actually runs through their minds when they do this?

Is this online graffiti? If you are an anonymous “mad dog sex life advocate” please enlighten me.

Dilemma Number Three: Why do they make passengers step out of the cab when they are filling it with CNG at one of those pumps? Is it because the car might, in a sudden fit of gassy emotion, blow up? This makes little sense as, after getting out, I am still standing very very near the bloody death machine. I would be indistinguishable from the upholstery, Pierre Balmain brass fittings and electric blue tube light shards if something were to happen.

Or is it because a load in the back could tilt the taxi ever so slightly so that it does not fill up properly? But then this means our taxi cabs are perfectly suspended on springs otherwise. To which I would say: HAHAHAHA.

So then why? I need to know this.

Dilemma Number Four: Does that guy called Pirlo who plays for Italy looks surprisingly like that Razak Khan fellow? He is the actor from Kya Kool Hai Hum. Yes the tailor fellow. (Admit it. You laughed.) I once saw Razak Khan at that Mocha on Hill Road. He was wearing a pair of woollen pyjamas and dragging on a hookah. This was sometime in May.

This dilemma, you will admit, was much shallower than the other ones. But it did intrigue me.

Four dilemmas will do for now.

In other news this blog is undergoing a little bit of housekeeping. You will notice three new categories of links on the right side. The first one called “Links” (duh) leads you off to interesting places with many nice things to read. The second called “Must Reads” are interesting articles of lasting significance you might want to peruse. The third one is “Recently Noted”. This is a dynamic list of things I have been reading recently and found worth a reco.

And finally there is “Miscellaneous FatCat”. A collection of non-blog yet online writing from yours truly. Me.

Also I have ported all my ‘Bloglet’ email subscribers to ‘Feedblitz’. Excuse the hassles of confirmation emails. But FB is muchos better and more stable. There is also a slightly more comprehensive means to get the XML feed for this blog right at the bottom of the sidebar. Subscribe with glee I always say.

And to close proceedings a little exercise for all of you who have read my dilemmas and are fascinated by them and want to do something more dilemma-related. Say the words “D’mello’s Dilemmas” very fast repeatedly for several minutes. Do this in your office loudly while standing up. Spread the joy.

Adios people. And yes I need enlightenment on all those issues. Comment away!

The rhyme now has a reason!!!

I was thoroughly overjoyed to read recently that we have liberated our little little (nanhe munhe) children from the tyranny of western influence. Or at least the Madhya Pradesh government has. I hope this is just the beginning of a long series of reforms in our education system. The time is undoubtedly right; for too long we have stuck to the age old norms of reading writing and arithmetic. Today we know that this alone is insufficient to guarantee success in our society. In fact this is not even important in the larger scheme of things.

I encourage each and every reader of this blog to applaud this move. But this alone is not enough. We Indians tend to give our MORAL support to each and every cause but actually do little to further the cause or even help the champions of the cause to make any money. This is abominable.

I have decided to openly support this noble (Nobel?) initiative of the MP government by kick-starting the process of scripting nice, ek dum desi, and patriotic nursery rhymes. I encourage all readers of this blog to add to this short list with their own educative yet home-grown examples of nursery-ready lyric.

Rhyme Number 1: (Baa baa black sheep)
Aaa Aaa Arjun
Have you any a seat?
First you tell me
Your community!

22.5% for SC/ST
27% for OBC
And the rest for the forwards
Who will soon live on the street.

Rhyme Number 2: (Johnny Johnny)
Mika Mika
Yes papa
Hosting party?
No papa
Kissing item girl?
No papa!
I saw it on TOI cover
Ha ha ha

Rhyme Number 3: (Rain rain)
Rain, rain go away
Come again another day
Johnny Josesph wants to play

Rhyme Number 4: (Mary had a little lamb)
Rahul had a little coke
A little speed, a little hash
Rahul had a little coke, the stuff was white as snow
And everywhere that Rahul went
Rahul went, Rahul went
And everywhere that Rahul went, Sahil was sure to blow

Rhyme Number 5: (Row row row)
Sing, sing, sing through your nose
And wear a stupid cap
All the autos play your stuff
But you mostly sound like crap

Rhyme Number 6: (Jack and Jill)
My Chennai aunty always stood in line
To fetch a pail of water
She hoped things would change post-election
Instead of water she got free television

As you can see there is infinite potential to make nice bharateeya poetry for our young ones to learn in school. I encourage all of you readers to generously contribute to this just cause and help in the betterment of our education system. Please leave your nation-changing poetry in the comments… this is your chance to make a difference…

The best contributions will be published in Hafta to much… er… fanfare…

10th July. 02:33 A.M. IST

Brazil 2 – England 2

You are sitting cross legged on the mat in front of the television. You started the match on the sofa set. But as the match progressed, and first Rooney and then Beckham rattled the Brazilian crossbar, you slowly crawled towards the TV.

The air conditioning is roaring on full… has been for the last two and a half hours. Outside the Bombay monsoon is raging. Your windows rattle and shudder every few minutes when a gust of rain-laden wind crash into your building.

You, however, are still cooking. Your palms are cold and pale. You can actually feel your chest pounding. Your eyes the size of saucers, your lips crushed together into thin lines. Your jaws bite and relax every few minutes. The rest of your body is perfectly still. Next to you Fungus lays stomach down corpse-like on the floor, his chin on the cold mosaic flooring.

Fungus has his palms across his face. He looks at the TV screen through the gaps between his fingers. He too is still and silent.

The video signal is perfect. There is too much ambient stadium noise in the audio. Whistling, chants, drums. Heart beat. The commentators try to maintain a semblance of sanity in their modulation. But it is getting a bit too much for everyone. Especially you.

Both teams have been overly cautious since extra-time began. But still England have the slight upper hand. That amazing burst of offensive football in the last ten minutes of regular time to come back from two goals down seems to have given new life to all eleven players.

The Brazilians still seem to be reeling under the shock of seeing sure victory being stolen from them at the death. But it takes more than mere intimidation to beat the gold and blue.

The doorbell rings. And rings again when there is no reponse. Your room mate walks in from the bed room.

“Bastards open the door no? Do you have to watch the match without missing a moment?”
Fungus replies without looking away from the TV screen. “Shut up cricket bitch.”

Your roommate opens the door and pays for the food. The delivery boy asks if he can step in and watch the TV for a couple of minutes. Roommate shrugs his shoulders. “Ok”.

Robinson kicks the ball down the pitch. Lampard jumps up into the air and wins the ball. It falls to the Beckham’s feet. He picks up the ball races down the wing. Head bent down in determination. Fungus sits up. Out of the corner of your eye you see the clock on the TV.

God! One more minute. God please please please…

The Beckham sprint runs into a wall of gold and yellow near the corner flag. The Brazilians are throwing everything into defence. Samba flair is useless if you came second. Beckham looks around desperately for support. Every moment he spends scouting for options another Brazilian runs back to lock down the penalty area.

And then suddenly he sees his opening. Beckham turns around and races down the line DOWN the pitch!

“F!@#! What is he doing?” you utter.
“Rooney” fungus says.

Beckham snaps the ball into Wayne Rooney who fell back to create an opening for himself. Wayne Rooney has some space. He uses the pace on the ball and runs back into the centre of the pitch. The Brazilians scramble back.

Wayne Rooney looks up at the Brazilian goal only for the merest fraction of a second. And in that one moment you know something is going to happen. Did his eyes just gleam?

His left arm extends as he balances himself. A shot from thirty-five yards! No! His right leg swings up. You draw in your breath, Fungus buries his face in his fingers, he can’t bare to watch. The foot rushes down towards the ball. Wayne Rooney grimaces in determination. His foot crashes into the ball.

Time stands still.

It was an accident really. That time when you saw your first football match. You were browsing between channels looking for cartoons when you caught a broadcast of the old English first division on TV. This was in the late eighties maybe. You barely remember who played in it. Queens Park Rangers and Crystal Palace. Maybe it was West Ham. You are not sure. But you remember there were only a few minutes left to win the match and someone was taking a corner. Why was everyone in such a hurry, your child’s mind wondered. Did they get prizes or something?

Later that day during dinner you sat with dad and told him about the match. He sat and told you all the rules. He was an old club player himself. He was pleased his son was beginning to take to the sport as well.

Time, in your mind, begins to move in small excruciating slices. The shot was good. On target you think. But was it too hard? Rooney is in mid air when the ball launches itself from his foot. It has power. But will it go in? A corner of your mind begins to wonder where Dida, the Brazilian goalkeeper is. If he is in line… no…

You were not particularly good in it at school. But you played your heart out. By class seven you were running through a dozen pairs of uniforms every year. Being a committed defender who dived on your asphalt covered school ground was not easy. Rips and cuts and bruises every day.

Dad shouted at you in front of mom but later called you from your homework to watch Diego Maradona on TV. He is very good you know, dad said, but not as great as Pele. Pele became your god. Maradona the impostor.

Fraction of a second after fraction of a second. The ball sails past an outstretched Brazilian foot. Your eyes register a million tiny details. Dida begins to move to one side. Will he dive? Does he have to? The clock! This could be the last chance… please please…

Then they made you the goal-keeper of the class team. You were ecstatic and, against the wishes of your mother, forced your dad to buy you a pair of Chinese football boots. Canvas uppers and stupid rubber studs that broke off; one stud a week. You saved a penalty in your second match against Section C and became a celebrity for a month.

The ball swerves outwards. Is there too much spin on it? Oh no. These new Teamgeists are simply too responsive. But has Rooney got it right?

By junior college you were a committed football fan. You loved France and England. Anyone but Brazil. They won everything. But you still loved Pele. And you adored Arsenal. And the Premier League.

In 1990 you rooted for the UAE. After all you lived there. Germany thrashed them in the first match but they still managed to get a goal in. Yippee!!!

The ball hurtled through the air. Fatalist thoughts began ricocheting around your head. It could hit the cross bar. It could spin away altogether. Dida could reach it just in time. Maybe there was a Brazilian defender out of eye shot who would lunge in with his feet. Or his head. If he intercepted the ball please let him die of a concussion you pray. The ball… it was almost there…

You were portly in engineering college but they still took you in the team as the reserve goalkeeper. Partly because the main goalie was better at scoring goals than the forwards and often got pushed up after half-time. Partly because you cracked a lot of jokes and was good timepass on tournament trips.

Then one day you went played for the B team and let in 11 goals. Or maybe twelve. You don’t remember. You remember the reception back in college. F!@#.

Dida leapt into the air. His left arm outstretched. The ball zoomed past yet another outstretched boot. Almost there now…

You enjoyed the world cups and always took leave from office to watch the tournaments. At heart you remained an England man. Home of Crystal Palace, Queens Park Rangers and Aston Villa and all the others. Why did England never win?

It clips the very tip of Dida’s outstretched glove. The deflection… it is large enough…

But every four years you waited for the men in white and black to lift the cup. But nothing ever went right for them.

It hits the post…

Maybe this year would be England’s year the media had said. This year England might finally pick up the cup after 1966. But everyone said it boiled down to two things. Will Rooney play? And can England beat Brazil? You prayed day and night, slept on your left side, wore your lucky watch even if it had a crack in the glass. Please please…

Please please… Fungus and you sit like statues in front of TV. Your mouths open in a silent scream…

If England won it would be the ultimate ending to the world cup. They came so close to losing it all so many times this year: last gasper against Sweden, penalties against France, nine men against the Netherlands. It all adds up to this one final match… this moment…

The ball ricochets off the bar and flies…

But Brazil! They have been impeccable in the competition. Strong, fast and cocky. Unbeatable in any pundit’s book. But what did Motson say the other day? Wayne Rooney might mean the difference…

… and smashes into the back netting. The Pizza boy screamed first. He had his arms in the air. Fungus and you hug each other. Wayne Rooney sinks to his knees.

Just imagine.

p.s. Two posts in one day??!! I know…
p.p.s. To the football buffs out there with excel sheets: if Sweden win their remaining two matches and England beat Trinidad an England-Brazil final is very very possible. (Smug)
p.p.p.s. Second issue of Hafta is out too

And on a Wednesday morning, when I am down with a bad fever and a frustrating head cold, a few random musings, cribs and rants to keep the brain going…

What is it with the media and Brazilian football? Mohanlal and Mamooty may be infallible, but do the media think Brazil too can do no wrong? Here are a smattering of utterances from media include web and TV. Note the double standards:

On tapping it around in mid-field with no idea what do next:
U.S.A.: The team clearly lacks ideas and a sense of adventure
Brazil: See how they were patient and waited for the right opportunity?

On losing possession every once in a while:
Togo: Need to learn to keep the ball and push forward. Lack of big match experience.
Brazil: The thing about Brazil is that they let you play (duh)

On being really lucky to hold on to that one goal lead in second half:
England: The aggression and hunger to score just fizzled out.
Brazil: They were clearly playing a couple of gears below regular. They will pick it up as they go along.

On losing the 2006 World Cup to the Czech Republic:
Czech: They must see that this in no way proves they are the best. Football is a funny game. On the day…
Brazil: See how they conserved energy and talent for South Africa 2010?

My money on the Czech Republic to whip Samba posterior.

Now sports media peoples let us comment and write on what happens on the pitch and not on what could potentially happen and all that jazz. Hmph!

Which sets the stage nicely for a couple of Eastern European jokes.

1. How would you tell an eastern european fellow who works in a bank to check his paperwork thoroughly?
Ans: “Check cheque Czech”

2. But if he is a flirt and spends all his time chatting up the cute girl in HR?
Ans: “Chuck chick, check cheque Czech”

3. And if at that exact moment a car load of sardars from Delhi passed by the bank?
Ans: Dhik Chak “Chuck chick, check cheque Czech” dhik chak

Feel free to add more in the comments please. Right now, SNIFF, I can use all the humour you can give…

And finally I am fascinated about the wide variety of things you are not allowed to carry into many of our excellent commercial establishments and commercial aircraft here in India.

I found this old Inox movie ticket that clearly states on the back that I cannot carry a weapon into the theatre. I did some research into this and, apparently, this particular restriction appeared around the same time as Uday Chopra and whoever is Jeetendra’s son started acting. Hmm… (I’m the Neal, I’m the man, rockstar, super… BLAM! Your own brains spatter across… you get it…)

All along my distinguished career entering and exiting commercial establishments I have been prevented from carrying many things into many places. Food into restaurants, umbrellas into a water park, bananas into a tennis tournament, chess into a wild ass sanctuary and last but not least a butter knife into an airplane. (I use the butterknife to wax my… I mean… hehehe… you know how you might get butter suddenly without warning and need to cut it no? hehehe… Dammit…) Of course when the airline served breakfast they made sure to give each person on board a very sharp little butter knife…

But a few days ago I was at gate 2C at the international airport here in Mumbai and I saw this long blue notice on the wall with a list of things forbidden on board. Now I won’t talk about me but I sincerely hope you are not looking at flying abroad with bull-whips, dynamite, bows and arrows, chilli powder and, this is most intriguing, ‘martial arts’.

No not ‘martial arts equipments’ or ‘martial arts devices’ or even ‘martial arts videos’ but just, simply, ‘martial arts’. Does this mean I will need to set aside my knowledge of Tae-Kwondo gathered down the ages from sages in the lonely jungle-like hills near Kottayam through a correspondence course?

Questions and questions…

Today I will lie about aimlessly pondering on these issues waiting for my fever to subside. All of you people have fun in office. I will probably have to spend all day watching football. And see some random country kick around a ball up and down a pitch and smiling sheepishly because they really cannot do anything with it… or as they said about Brazil last night:

“They may not be scoring anything but at least they are having lots of fun on the pitch!”

Dammit.

Sniff. Wheeze. Sniffle. Cough.

Dear All,

Phew. Gasp. Sigh. YIPEE!!!

Hafta Magazine emerges today with its first issue. Check out the site, read some of the 18 articles put up already and do leave your comments.

There are some familiar names there and some new ones at HaftaMag.

We do have some issues with formatting and forgive us the clunky parts in the interface. Hafta is undergoing constant evolution as we speak.

But there is a lot of excellent, thought provoking content put up already and we aspire to be the latest addition to your list of bookmarks.

www.haftamag.com

Go NOW!