“Don’t you watch Cricket?” “No, not really. I mean, I’m not that interes–“

For many years now, at whichever part of the country I might be, there is a question that has been posed to me at numerous occasions. The question seemed even more persistent at some of those special days, when the entire country focussed their passion for a game onto an oval ground, with a grassless patch in the centre of the field. I would chance a few glances at the TV that was sure to be carrying the game, but I tried to be as unobtrusive about it as possible. Eventually, someone would always turn to me and ask, “Don’t you watch Cricket?” to which I would gently shrug my shoulders, mumble something about not being interested, and go back to whatever it was that I was doing at that point of time.

India is a country where not following Cricket is considered a sin (something that I have been reminded of, on numerous occasions), and every time I was asked the question and I looked away from the TV set, I was judged. India is a nation that is passionate about this game in a way that they are not for any other game. India is a country where Cricketers are made demigods. India is a country where a cricket match can stop beating hearts, stop strangers walking on roads and crowd around a single TV set in a dilapidated shop. India is a country where even this phenomenon itself was spotted by the Media and immediately cashed in on, with the launch of the latest advertisement for Airtel featuring Shah Rukh Khan posing the perennial question that plagues all Indian minds during a match day – “Score kya hua hai?”

India is passionate about Cricket. Yet, in that overwhelming passion they feel for the game, they forget a few critical aspects. Passion flows both ways – while it makes you love the game and the players with enthusiasm, at the same time it makes you hate the same players with equal vehemence. In that passion that every Indian gets lost, they forget the fine subtleties of the game itself. They get blinded by the adoration for the Indian team, to the extent that they are ready to diss all opposition at every opportunity they get. In that passion to see an Indian victory, they forget the display of skill, the obvious evidence of hard work that goes into a well struck shot over the fence, or into the swift unexpected turn of the ball that gets a wicket, irrespective of which team delivers it. Indians, choked up by that passion, are unable to appreciate that display of skill if it is directed against them.

The recent victory of India over Australia was proof enough for this. Mere minutes after the Indian victory, Facebook was flooded with taunts, retorts and obviously photoshopped images, all of them derogatory in nature, directed against the Australian side. More than anything, it proved that Indian fans are arrogant winners as well as sour losers. But, even if you spare half a minute in an effort to understand it, you’ll find that these derogatory statements and images make sense. They take no effort to understand them, you don’t have to have any knowledge of the game in order to get the joke, and the Indian ego is, of course, entirely satisfied as well.

This is probably the only platform where I would go as far as voicing my opinion regarding the ongoing world cup. As an Indian fan myself, nothing would please me more than seeing an Indian victory in the world cup. However, from the objective point of view, to think that an Indian victory in the world cup would feed the already bloated ego of every Indian fan, the question changes – do the Indian fans really deserve an Indian victory? Judging from the flood of messages, images and polls rampant on Facebook, fans are not charged up by the fact that their team won as much as they are about the fact that their opposition lost. There is a subtle difference between the two, and it’s one of those things that if you understand, only then do you deserve to know it.

Much of the messages and images after the recent Quarter Final victory did not applaud the Indian victory, but were targeted at the loss of the Australian side. Even more specifically, there were a number of images and status updates that were directed at Ricky Ponting, the same man who had, mere hours earlier, played a brilliant knock of 104, and was probably the best batsman in the entire match – any attempt to disagree there or to demean his effort is an insult to the very game of cricket. And yet, mere hours later, all over India, viewers and fans forgot all about his knock. They ridiculed him, they joked about him, and even booed him during the presentation ceremony. They forgot just what an emotional moment it was for him. The typical Indian fan got lost yet again in that passion for winning the cup rather than passion for the game. Is this sportsmanship? Is this how much the real Cricket fan in this country understands the game? Is this how petty we are, that we are unable to acknowledge and appreciate skill, dedication and hard work, irrespective of which side shows it? Is this how the game has become for us now, that only a few numbers at the end of a hard day’s game become of prime importance, rather than the amazing showmanship brought out on to the field by both sides?

To be honest, I don’t want to answer those questions – and in all honesty, neither do the fans of the game. However, in my heart, I know the answer and it chills me. It makes me lose faith in the fans alongside whom I used to watch matches as well once, and cherish the game at its best. It makes me want to hide the fact that inside, I am just as interested in this game as everyone else claims to be. More than anything else, it makes me shy away from the TV set and pretend to get lost in work once more, whenever anyone asks me the question, “Don’t you watch cricket?”

The Hospital

This is a hospital.

Where men sit waiting, not on the benches but on each other's feet.

This is a hospital.

Where the sick don't find a place to sit, as all the seats are broken or taken.

This is a hospital.

Where doctors are two hours late, and that's considered "OK."

This is a hospital.

Where patients with the slightest display of "Do you know who I am?" are given first preference.

This is a hospital.

Where children lay scattered on the floor, sleeping or weeping, while their mothers console them with empty promises.

This is a hospital.

Where people sidestep the children and move on, without looking down at the pain of the innocents.

This is a hospital.

Where a tired and hungry child cries for milk.

This is a hospital.

Where the famished mouth presses gratefully and suckles happily on it's mother's life-giving teat.

This is a hospital.

Where a young man wearing a suit and tie chances glances at the supple breast of the young mother, leering at the sight.

This is a hospital.

Where the suit-and-tie man cares nothing about the patients or sickness, but on imaginary sales figures that promises to convert into money, but always wants just a little bit more.

This is a hospital.

Where Medical Representatives don't need to take appointments or talk to anyone, but patients are thrown out forcibly right through the door.

This is a hospital.

Where words like 'ethics' and 'morals' and 'duties' are nothing more than words plastered on placards, or painted on white walls turning grey, fading slowly to nothingness over time.

This is a hospital.

Which has been left at the hands of competent doctors and incompetent administrators, as nobody wants to do the societal clean up.

This is a hospital.

Which has seen so many sharp minds get lured away by that financial temptress.

This is not just a hospital.

It is a chilling representation of what our world has become.

Where selfish people look outside their comfortable sedans, tut-tut twice at the deplorable conditions, then roll up their windows and get lost in that momentary glitter that they have mistaken to be real life.

This is real life.

The Man ahead of Time

“There is one single pink rose in my garden that looks desolate and has seemed to have lost its charm.” – Ishani Das

Raju Bhai heard in colours, and he also played the violin in colours. Yet, hardly anyone knew him for the grand painter he was. No one associated Raju Bhai the Violinist to the other name as a painter he went by. Yet, for him, Music was as transient as light, and colours, just as concrete and real. He loved the music that he painted, and the colours that he played on his violin. In this vibrant, colourful, musical world, Raju Bhai the colourful violinist was all alone.

For Raju Bhai, this show was a wonderful opportunity waiting, and yet, the artist’s loneliness haunted him. They called him “ahead of his time”; yet, for him, it was just a fancy way of saying “We don’t understand you yet, but you’re good!” Try as he might, he found that somehow he could never care too much for that. Once he sat down on the stage, nothing but the beautiful world that surrounded him existed. When the quivering bow touched the still, silent strings, and the vibrations reverberated beyond the air, and into his heart, and his soul, then, nothing mattered – his loneliness, the crowd that surrounded him, the daily struggle of human life, the many compromises that he had had to make through the many facets of his life. He painted what he saw in front of him – beyond the crowd, and beyond the stage, the lake stood, stoic and silent. The little ripples on the water caught the last few rays of the sun as they fell on the grateful earth, and the shadows waited patiently for their moment.

An artist freezes time, stops the world from turning, and on the canvas, trapped in those colours, the wonderful moment stays on forever. Music, like that canvas, takes you back to the time where the vibrations were bottled in those notes. Like the colours on the canvas, the notes of the song linger on with the time when they were created magically, by the simple touch of that bow to the strings, or the light touch of the brush on the empty canvas. In a moment that lasts a lifetime, that blank nothingness gets transformed into a living, breathing moment, captured perfectly for all eternity.

Beyond the stage, Raju Bhai could feel the twilight, hear the colours that surrounded him. He saw the vivid orange that the sky was, and the soot black, gnarled branches that looked as though they thrived on that warm, soft fire that fed them through the day. He watched as the setting sun set the water on fire, and the little waves on the surface of the otherwise quiet lake danced as the sun slid slowly beyond the other side, so near yet so far out of reach.

A few final notes, a few more strokes of the brush, and a few wispy stray residual rays were all that was left of the strong, life giving sun. The brush strokes came to a stop, and the quivering bow went motionless. The loneliness returned, and Raju Bhai was back in the world in which he was too ahead of his time.

He suddenly saw the crowd in front of him, in a mad frenzy, applauding him. They loved him, but he just wanted to disappear, now that the art was done, and the music had stopped. The applause was deafening, and he could see his manager coming forth on to the stage. A few brisk steps, and the grand suit-and-tie man grasped his hand and wrung his hand for a full minute in that eager handshake. He waved to the crowd, egging them on to continue with that loud, deafening applause. Now that the music was over, no one cared about the man Raju Bhai was, or his eager loneliness. They wanted to see him, especially because they termed him “ahead of his time.” Meanwhile, Raju Bhai just wanted to slip by unnoticed, never caring much about anything but the beauty that he could see and hear, which went unnoticed by most people, most of whom were too busy making the deafening noise that beat Raju Bhai’s eardrums.

“Can I go home now?” asked Raju Bhai to his suited manager, but over the cries of “Encore!” from the crowd, his little plea went unnoticed.