Two suns in the sunset

Can I tell you how it feels to have two very deserving heroes at the helm of Indian cricket? It feels wonderful. Not that the Indian selectors have won any of my sympathies after the recent Dravid Debacle, but here it is. By hook, crook and other monsters, two smoking barrels is what we finally have to offer.


Nevermind the argument that Kumble is perhaps past his prime. (Have you met Mr. Ganguly? Senile, bare-chested and proud of it.)Nevermind, even, that it was the Pakistan team that he sent packing at Ferozeshah Kotla in 1999, with that ten-wicket haul that launched a thousand traffic jams at Anil Kumble Circle. Let's just admit that, for a cricketer who did wonders for a team not known at the time for its bowling prowess, and for a man with undeniable leadership skills, the time has come to prove a point.

Which brings me directly to the other man. You know, the one I love.


A classic controlled sensible middle-order batsman, saving the asses and faces of an increasingly Prozac-induced (thanks for that term, Gangs) opening line-up. He does it in the middle, he does it behind the stumps, and in a very 16-year-old-crush way, he does it for me. And all this from a man who made his debut in the Indian side not more than 2.5-3 years back.

Mr. Vengasarkar still has plenty to kick himself about (although I suppose Sharad Pawar will do that for him with a CC to Niranjan Shah), Ganguly should still- more than ever- get over himself and retire gracefully-ish, and the team still has a lot to prove. But with Mr. Kumble heading the Test side, and Mahendra in the sky with diamonds, we've got a good thing going.

Memorise My Number

Yet another blog. By me. Again.

This blog, here, comprises of my first collection of poems. Go read.

My prodigal sons

You never came back. And now I hate coming home. Everything went wrong after you went away. I'm thinking about you guys all the time. Remember how you ripped apart the plants? Moronboys! Much love.




Bonzo, our nonchalant goose cat


Joey, the biggest scaredy cat ever


The loves of my life- Saab and Bonzo in my favourite family moment

Magical Mister

I can't even begin to imagine what sort of eulogy to write. Barely three days after his brother died, Bonzo did too. Suddenly, in the middle of heated Johnson Market activity, I feel rootless. And I have nothing to say now, that will explain what this loss means to me. In Cooke Town, where I hated my house and my life and everything that I had allowed myself to become, Bonzo was, towards the end, the only thing that I went home to.

When The Saab had moved out, and my deep distaste for my neighbours was becoming evident, this was the Goose that kept me going. For a couple of months, he was all I had, and vice versa. And after three days of looking for him, posters around the neighbourhood, and everyone in the vicinity being unbelieveably helpful, we heard from someone that they had found his body.

I will hate coming back to this house devoid of little chiming bells and loud presumptuous meaows. And I truly hope that The Saab and I learn to remember both cats at their bizarre best, rather than as mental pictures of death.

I promise to write a better eulogy to a cat who no doubt deserves it, when I am better equipped to do so. Till then, I will endeavour to help The Saab, Sushma and myself on whatever road to a semblance of recovery, that we can afford.

Bonzo, you were my main man. And thank God you have the wit and sophistication to understand that fully. God knows, I don't.

Here's a grumpy Bonzo, till I can access all my other pictures.

Love, and more.

The end of an era

The Saab's farewell post to Inzy made me realise I can't ignore it for much longer. Inzamam ul-Haq, premier Pakistani batsman, captain and reluctant-runner-between-wickets bade his final farewell to Test cricket, at South Africa last Friday. I am sure far more worthy critics than I have many things to say, and I will allow them the honour.

I will, instead, recount my favourite Inzy moment. One that embodies his humility and wristy throwing of caution to the winds, as regards his manner of speech. Screw you, you English pundits, and listen to what I have to say.

After a particularly dogging spell of bad form during the 2003 World Cup, Inzy came gambolling back into form, captaining his side rather successfully, notwithstanding stray controversies. I think the speech I'm referring to was one he made during this time, after Pakistan beat New Zealand at a Test series. But I could be wrong. Inzamam was named Man of the Series, and Ravi Shastri at his debonair best, asked Inzy how it felt to be back in form. Inzy's enormous reply: "Yes, yes.So par I'm not got the pores and sixes. But this time I hawe been succexful." As the Queen's English took a shiner in it's left eye, and Ravi Shastri looked away wistfully into the grammatical distance, Inzy won all my love.

To end, a lovely picture of my hero and body-type style guru. And a tear marking the end of an era. I feel so all alone.

Where have all the flowers gone?

To the Guardian Quick Crossword. That's where.

The Guardian Quick courtesy The Hindu Metro Plus has been my time-filler between home and work for many months now. I used to spend many validating minutes figuring out really easy clues and feeling unbelieveably intelligent. And now? They've gone potty. Over the past fortnight, every second clue has to do with flowers and plants. And I am not (ellipsis) horticultural.

Today for example:
ACROSS
1 Indoor flowering plant (7,6)
8,18 Flower closing in the afternoon (7,5)
9 Large daisy (5)
13,23 Autumnal flower (9)
22 Moorland flower

DOWN
18 See 8
23 See 13

I am assuming '8,18' is 'morning glory'. But that was a single inspired flash of agronomical genius. I was elated. I am aware of 'rose', 'lily', 'lotus' and 'carnation'. That, I'm afraid, is where my knowledge of petal-rearing ends. And don't even get me started on plumage.

I'm waiting another week for this heavy-petal madness to end. If it doesn't, I will go back to Travel-Pastime No. 1: Serenading the Auto Driver.

Joey

Our little Joey died yesterday, again, in the jaws of hungry canines. I love dogs passionately, but I love them a little less now. Joey was only six months old- as old as Foucault, the last cat who also died under similar circumstances. I feel very responsible for Joey's death. In retrospect, I could have done a bunch of things that I didn't do. And I feel awful. But Joey is gone. And I am grateful, now, for at least having known him. Here are some pictures of our lovely baby, who loved food and loved women. And a good long snooze on Sushma's stomach. And fish. And his older brother Bonzo. I miss you, Joey.

Images courtesy Preetam Koilpillai.