The Loose Vuvuzela: Roger Cohen on Maradona

Editor’s Note: This piece originally appeared in The International Herald Tribune

By Roger Cohen
JOHANNESBURG — They’re calling him the World Cup’s “loose vuvuzela.” They’re swooning as he spreads the love, jumping into his players’ arms like some cuddly bear with diamond earrings and no neck.
They can’t get enough of his deadpan quotes, as when he responds to a question about his kiss-and-hug management style by saying he still prefers women, specifically his girlfriend “Veronica who is blonde and 31.”
At 49, Diego Armando Maradona is neither blonde nor 31. But he is Mr. Unscripted in the age of spin, the Hugo Chávez of global soccer. As coach of an outrageously talented Argentine team, one thrown together in the image of his own extravagant skills, Maradona is having a good World Cup.
To genius much is permitted. And so it should be.
The contrast with some of Maradona’s more pinched rivals, including the French coach Raymond Domenech and the England manager Fabio Capello, could not be more extreme. Domenech wears the expression of a man who’d rather be reading Foucault as “Les Bleus” implode and then take to the barricades in open mutiny.
As for Capello, he’s imposed a regimen so strict that his players, deprived of their WAGs (wives and girlfriends), look vaguely unhinged. Many European prisons allow conjugal visits; not Capello. Wayne Rooney has gone on a walkabout. The body language of the English players suggests dead men walking.
England right now is to football what the vuvuzela is to music: one note going nowhere.
I’ve had my doubts about Capello since he stripped John Terry of the English captaincy earlier this year because he had an affair. For an Italian, that seemed a little rich. Discipline is all very well, but Terry’s a leader and would have led. England doesn’t do the barricades, but insurrection is close.
So here we are, 10 days into the first African World Cup, a power-shift event. And it’s proving a nice illustration of the effectiveness of asymmetrical warfare.
Traditional powers with the big guns are struggling: Italy, France, England — even Germany and Spain. The insurgents — Paraguay, New Zealand, Slovenia, Chile, Uruguay, Mexico — are pulling off deadly ambushes (and for once the gutsy Americans are not targets.) Switzerland, in its 1-0 defeat of Spain, proved unpredictable for the first time in history. The cuckoos lost their clocks.
Even North Korea, with zero fans — Kim Jung-Il would not allow them out of his police state — showed surprising tenacity until their Portuguese debacle. They’ve been using a public gym (“Virgin Active” in Eco Park) to train because they could not afford a facility.
Sorry, they do have 100 “fans,” a platoon of Chinese nationals hired by Pyongyang and not available for interview. In the realm of the bizarre, this outfit runs Maradona close.
But the Argentine coach — who tried more than 100 players during the qualifying rounds — wins. He’s already told Pelé to “go back to the museum.” He’s dismissed the UEFA president, Michel Platini, as a know-all (before mumbling an apology).
In shiny suit and shiny brogues, he prowls the demarcated pitch-side area during matches, kicking imaginary balls, looking every inch the caged coach. When it’s over he plants a kiss on each player. No Foucault for him, no training manual, no teleprompter, no quote masseur. He’ll go with the wisdom of the Buenos Aires shanties.
I said genius. Maradona had it. His “goal of the century” in the 1986 quarter-final against England, when he weaved past six players, lives in memory, as does his “Hand of God” effort in the same game. Both were outrageous. His battles against drugs and obesity since retirement have been as public as they were painful. Like his country, which has every gift but often squandered them as it meandered through the 20th century, he’s veered this way and that.
But passion never left him. Maradona knows there’s no ballet without a prima ballerina.
In the age of the smothering midfield — using not one but two defensive midfield players is the new, new thing here — Maradona is having none of it. He’s playing a winger of silky skills, Angel Di María, the rampaging Carlos Tévez, and that clinical poacher, Gonzalo Higuaín. Above all, in his own No. 10 shirt, he has a fellow genius, and fellow little guy (at all of 5-foot-7), the 22-year-old Lionel Messi.
Messi’s destruction of South Korea in Argentina’s 4-1 victory did not include a goal of his own (Higuaín got three) but included everything else in a footballer’s repertoire: dinked passes of breathtaking subtlety, mazy dribbles, swerving crosses, staggering ball control at speed, and 360-degree vision of the pitch. Maradona has rightly told Messi to play wherever he likes.
The beautiful game has traditionally been Brazil’s preserve. But Dunga, the Brazilian coach, is one of those two-holding-midfielder guys. He’s Mr. Dour to Argentina’s Mr. Drama. Still, Brazil must samba and in Robinho and the awakening Kaká, there have been flashes. An epic battle looms. Brazil may have the discipline Argentina lacks in the breach.
For now, however, the loose vuvuzela approach has trumped WAG control. Score one for the little guys and for unscripted living.

When Process Was Given A Red Card

By John Cheeran

Joachim Loew’s Germany may still go on to win the 2010 World Cup in Johannesburg on July 11 but that story can wait for now.

In a match that could well define this World Cup, Serbia delivered a killer blow to a young Germany that had unleashed a new brand of attacking football with a steely touch of precision in their first match against Australia.

On Friday it was not merely a goal that separated Germany from Serbia and victory. It was a cataclysmic breakdown of the renowned process that upset Germany and their multitudinous fans across galleries, living and board rooms.

For, many inside and outside of football world had admired and raved about the process that Germany had set up and made a part of the lives of their footballers. It was much more than about practices, it was about a culture of getting and doing things right.

It was that process that the faceless footballers from a war-ravaged Serbia shred into tatters in Port Elizabeth. The much vaunted process was given a red card when Miroslav Klose was sent off the field for his second yellow card of the match. May be no process offers a shield against referees such as the Spaniard Alberto Undiano who could have let off the German. It also helped one to scratch beneath the beautiful façade of attacking instincts that Germany showcased against Australians the other day.

I’m sure those who had made a fetish out of the German process were left speechless when Lukas Podolski failed to convert the second half penalty kick. Process, after all, is about getting your basics right without being riotously carefree.

That Germany could not score not even once against Serbia who were hustled by Ghana in their opening match is hard to fathom for their fans. The youth, of course, has its own advantages but when pushed against the wall this German side lacked the grit and tenacity of a Karl Heinz-Rummenigge, Rudi Voeller and Lothar Mathaus.

And one cannot ignore the most important lesson after 90 minutes of wasted opportunities and bravado. Grand theories such as processes come apart beyond a point. Theories are fine but humans are yet to write an equation that erases all ‘human’ errors from the board of manoeuvres.

When Spain was stabbed by the Swiss knife the other day not many were alarmed since they were considered as chokers and underachievers when it comes to a theatre as big as the World Cup though they are the reigning European champions. Friday afternoon was different. It (Germany) was all about explaining success and achievement in terms that could be quantified and replicated elsewhere.

To win and succeed you need head as well as heart. It helps if you have the flair of Brazil, process of Germany, sheer talent of Argentina, doggedness of England, humility of Koreans, tactical nous of Italy and a large slice of luck.
Keep watching.

The Art of Choosing by Sheena Iyengar: A Review

By John Cheeran
Beggars cannot be choosers. Sheena Iyengar, a professor at the Columbia Business School, has come up with various case studies on how people arrive at their choices in her The Art of Choosing, but there is nothing in the book that makes one reconsider the opening statement.
The art of choosing is a difficult science to master is the message that Iyengar offers to her readers. She starts with some survival stories and points out how decisions to fight on despite slim chances of making it made all the difference in those people’s lives. Making an informed or inspired choice can make all the difference in your life story.
Iyengar, however, has not succeeded in arriving at a unifying principle that allows anyone to make his or her choices easier. Situations such as Sophie’s Choice will pop up in your life. Iyengar, remember, does not have any tips for Sophie. That being the case, there are some interesting aspects that have been put through the rigours of research such as the famous Jam Study conducted by the author. It tells us that having too many options to choose from is not necessarily a good thing as when customers in a US supermarket were bewildered by the sheer number of choices before them and stayed away from making one. So now many pundits believe that the more is less when it comes to making choices. Some choices are not choices at all. For some of us having to choose is a dilemma bordering on fear.
Culture is an important factor in shaping our ideas about who or what exercises control in a specific situation. There is a marked difference in the way individualist and collectivist cultures go about making their choices. Multiple choices demand that you superthink through the offerings and make your choice. Iyengar’s failure is that her book does not offer any insights while you attempt to superthink through the buffet of choices.

Dhoni's Dharma in the age of IPL parties

By John Cheeran
Defeat is easy to explain when compared to victories. Scoreboard lays bare all your fault lines and anyone is free to cast the first stone. Mahendra Singh Dhoni, till the other day the lucky mascot of Indian cricket and captain ice cool, is finding the rise in temperature a bit too hot to handle after India’s disgraceful exit from the T20 World Cup in West Indies.
Dhoni’s ascent to glory started with a T20 World Cup championship title but it was accentuated by India’s early exit from the World Cup held in West Indies when Rahul Dravid and Greg Chappel were in charge of the team management.
Dhoni, captain of the IPL champions Chennai Super Kings, has hinted at the larger pressures at play in the IPL while looking for answers for India’s recent T20 disaster. How can Dhoni blame the IPL as a tournament and its format? Not only his franchise but the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) would be displeased. So Dhoni says it’s not the problem of IPL but players themselves. They need to be a smarter lot to handle temptations such as IPL Afterhours parties and stuff like that.
While ranting against IPL and its decadent parties, let’s not forget that India has lost matches and tournaments even when there was no IPL to add to the non-stop whirl of international cricket. On those occasions, plainly, our cricketers were not good enough to win. After all India won the World Cup in 1983 and has not won the championship since then. The story remains the same. Despite being the No.1 Test side in international rankings, quality of our cricket is still patchy at its best.
IPL or afterhours parties, what counts is the attitude of our heroes towards their primary task, winning matches for India. If you are carrying an injury, you have no business to be part of the squad. You should have the honesty to let the team management and the national selectors know about it and the best available men take your place in the side.
BCCI, it has been reported that, is not happy with Dhoni criticizing IPL for the T20 debacle. It is even said that Dhoni would be stripped of his captaincy soon. Dhoni, like any losing captain, has made errors of judgment in the T20 World Cup and will have to square up to face the consequences. But it is not Dhoni alone who has erred. What about the national selectors? On what basis was Yuvraj Singh selected for the World Cup despite his listless form throughout the IPL?
Now, to the IPL parties. A news channel reporter who was condemned to hang out outside IPL afterhours parties tells me that cricketers, Indian and foreign, had only on thing on their mind during the IPL -- sex with the Bollywood hotties and other assorted starlets who were part of the Lalit Modi gravy train. Nothing wrong with that, especially after coach Gary Kirsten came out with the thesis on how sex improves your strike rate on the field.
Yes, I know and you know that it’s not morality that counts but runs and wickets. But it’s pathetic that some of our leading batsmen can’t handle the ball when it is pitched short. Bowlers can’t hit the line and length that stifles stroke-making. These are basic flaws. After all, hunger for sex should not be at the cost of the hunger for victories. Dhoni, Yuvraj Singh and Harbhajan Singh have a lesson or two to learn from West Indies skipper Chris Gayle and glamour girl Sherylin Chopra.

Known Turf, Unknown Turf: Annie Zaidi

By John Cheeran
Of course, Annie Zaidi writes about her known turf in Known Turf, a good thing to do if you are a journalist. Deeply made aware of her religious identity by people around her and shaped by the rigours of journalism, Zaidi has put together a few sketches of India where the predictable rules.
The sneering attitude of men towards women dominates the pages though Zaidi starts her book with a lot of promise by venturing to find out why Chambal is such a fertile terrain for dacoits.
Someone, indeed, threw this book at me and having read Known Turf I’m grateful for that assault. Between the lines, I could recognize Zaidi’s silent wish to be another Arundhati Roy. No crime that is. The true tales narrated by Zaidi did not make me shudder or wonder for the fact that one has been quite familiar with such situations. It is a pity that life has not prepared most of the reporters in English language newspapers in India for a class steeplechase; many ordinary moments in urban and rural life are epiphanies for such tribe when they step out for a story. Zaidi, too, is no exception. Her forays into reporting make no fresh ground but issues that she writes about such as dalit resurgence in Punjab, struggles of weavers in Benares and starvation deaths in MP do deserve readers’ pause.
Zaidi’s anxieties and self-doubts on her beat, at a certain level, assail the reader as when she writes “what do you do when a man minus three limbs in a government hospital trauma ward begins to sing?”
Her attempts to answer questions such as ‘what are you’ and ‘where are you from’ in the latter half of the book, however, should have been restricted to blogosphere.

Make Shashi Tharoor IPL Commissioner

By John Cheeran
If I were the President of Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI), my man to clean up the IPL mess would have been Shashi Tharoor.
I understand that the BCCI is all set to strip Lalit Modi of the IPL Commissioner’s post, come Monday. Is there anyone better qualified to replace Modi other than Tharoor?
Tharoor loves cricket even though he has other mature loves in his life. He now knows what’s exactly wrong with IPL and cricket administration in India. He, of course, knows to tweet as well as Modi and may be he knows to outbid a few others within the boundaries of the rulebook.
And most importantly, Tharoor does not have a full time job, so can devote his considerable energy to the job at hand. Now that Sunanda Pushkar has given away her sweat equity in the Kochi IPL franchise there is no longer a conflict of interest!
I hope Shashank Manohar and Arun Jaitley read this blog post before Monday.

Why my blood boils when I hear of Tharoor, Sunanda, IPL and Lalit Modi

By John Cheeran
Former minister of state for external affairs Shashi Tharoor invoked poet Vallathol Narayana Menon’s famous lines
Bharathamennu Kettal Abhimana Poorithamakanam Antharangam
Keralamennu kettalo thilakkanam namukku chora njarambukalil in Parliament on Tuesday to lend substance to his mentoring of the Kochi IPL franchise.
The nationalist poet had urged Malayalis to swell with pride in their minds when they heard the word Bharath but when they heard the word Keralam blood should boil in your veins.
It has been a tumultuous week for Shashi Tharoor, Sunanda Pushkar and Lalit Modi since April 11 when Modi’s tweet set off a chain of events of which the last is not heard of yet.
It would have been foolhardy on my part to comment on the issue without understanding the facts related to the Kochi IPL franchise. Information about what transpired in the stratosphere of IPL and BCCI is still hard to come by but it is quite evident that a lot is not right with the secret society of BCCI and the uber secret society that is Indian Premier League.
It is now quite clear that Shashi Tharoor made a grave error of judgement when he more than mentored the Kochi IPL franchise. Tharoor has made a fervent appeal to the sentiments of Malayalis when caught in the silly point of sweat equity thanks to the Modi tweet and it is hard even for me to buy into that argument.
Yes, the world of cricket and high politics is not an easy party to gate crash either in New Delhi or Mumbai and racism of different colours are in operation in such elitist places.
But had there been no sweat equity for Sunanda Pushkar, Tharoor could have been justified in his batting for Kerala as an MP from Thiruvananthapuram.
The lesson is that you should not mix your love with your work. You can love your work but cannot work your love. Not that Tharoor does not know this. He, of course, has had much diverse encounters in life than I can ever aspire. But still he was foolish to push for Pushkar’s cause.
Tharoor’s crime was this he forgot that Lalit Modi was the other half of his profile. It did not take much time for Tharoor to figure it out that IPL and Indian cricket is a secret society where players and politicians guard each others facts and figures. You could slough off your morality and integrity and have to be accountable only within that charmed circle. Well, his understanding was quite right but then he would not have bargained for the kind of compromises that you are supposed to make to remain in that secret society. Tharoor made the mistake of becoming one among the cabal even for a short duration and the kind of pacts that are signed and sealed within the 22 yards of IPL would have emboldened him to close his eyes towards the sweat equity provisions to his friend, possibly at the behest of the motely crew of the nascent Kochi IPL franchise.
Tharoor did that and has paid a huge price for the sweat equity worth Rs70 crore.
Having said that I want to reiterate that Tharoor’s decision to mentor the Kochi IPL was a bold move but he should have worked it out without seeking the management brand building expertise of Pushkar. The Union minister for external affairs pushed the boundaries of the imagination for an average MP from Thiruvananthapuram. But what me and others like me were not prepared was the involvement of aunty Pushkar.
I have no qualms with Tharoor’s choice of friends. Let him marry Sunanda Pushkar and do whatever that pleases him.
At 56, Tharoor remains a romantic and that gladdens my heart. Before him Shah Rukh Khan is an inferior monkey. I admire his written words and Tharoor’s The Great Indian Novel is one of the finest works in English produced by an Indian author.
But all these do not give him the right to demand for his friend what’s not largely unheard of in corporate world. But, then, again Tharoor would not have asked anything in return for his mentorship. The only thing is that it sounds a bit incredible to me and the rest of India.

The importance of being Krishna and Radha

By John Cheeran
So it is said that Krishna and Radha, the most romantic couple in Indian mythology, had a live-in relationship. Most of us didn’t know.
Or we couldn’t look upon that that too was a live-in relationship, with or without the knowledge of Rukmini, the official wife. Thanks, me Lords.
The remark of Supreme Court judges must gladden the hearts of those who are walking outside the ramparts of marriage in India.
A friend quickly points out that how liberal India was till the advent of Semitic religions, especially Christianity and Islam. All our gods and goddesses had a wonderful time, choosing to live the way they wanted. Morality was what suited your desires. There was freedom to chase your dreams.
Sex was a celebration of love and life in India. But, then, it got equated with sin with the arrival of Adam and Eve. Sex became only a process to procreate.
Now that live-in relationships gain in currency, though in a timorous manner, it could have much more influence on the way men look upon women and vice versa, than the 33 per cent reservation for women in Parliament.
The argument goes that marriage protects the rights of women. Well, marriage protects neither the man nor the woman. May be it ensures a better deal for children.
I don’t know.
A live-in relationship demands a firmer commitment from man and woman to ensure that such an arrangement works. And despite the best efforts, if it does not work, then you shouldn’t be chained by the emotional, visceral baggage. All of us deserve second chances to dream again and live again. For that, to wait for six months or a year, and courts to debate over your crimes is a path that we could abjure, if we could afford.
Long live, you and me.

When Krishna and Radha had a live-in relationship…

Are you in a live-in relationship?
Do you know your puranas well?
The Supreme Court says even Lord Krishna and Radha lived together according to Hindu puranas, and living together is ‘a right to life for a man and woman.’
A Supreme Court bench consisting of Chief Justice KG Balakrishnan, Justices Deepak Verma and BS Chauhan observed that there was no law that prohibited live-in relationship or pre-marital sex.
The apex court made the observation while reserving its judgment on a special leave petition filed by noted south Indian actress Khusboo seeking to quash 22 criminal cases filed against her after she allegedly endorsed pre-marital sex in interviews to various magazines in 2005.
"When two adults want to live together what is the offence? Does it amount to an offence? Living together is not an offence," judges observed while reserving the verdict.
Khusboo has been hounded by criminal trials for expressing her thoughts on pre-marital sex and virginity.
The SC bench said the perceived immoral activities can’t be branded as an offence.
Counsel for the ‘aggrieved’ complainants contended that the comments made by the actress, endorsing pre-marital sex would adversely affect the minds of young people leading to decay in moral values and country's ethos.
Judges refused to buy this argument which is often made in a variety of cases alleging decay of culture, morality and ethos or injury to the religious or behaviour sensibilities of the complainants.
"Please tell us what the offence is and which section of law applies? Living together is a right to life," judges observed while expanding the scope of Article 21 that guarantees to life with dignity, liberty and respect.
Describing Khusboo’s words as her personal feelings, the bench asked the counsel "How does it concern you. We are not bothered. At the most, it is a personal view. How is it an offence? Under which provision of the law?"
The court again countered the counsel who supported a Madras High Court directive, asking the actress to face the prosecution on the charges of obscenity and indecency.
Judges wanted the complainants to produce evidence to show if any girls eloped from their homes after the said interview. "How many homes have been affected, can you tell us?" the bench had a pointed question for the counsel.
When the judges asked whether the complainants have daughters, the counsel replied in the negative.
"Then, how are you adversely affected?" the apex court had another salvo for the complainants and their lawyer.

God’s Own IPL team is an eye-popping moment in Indian cricket

By John Cheeran
So finally, after Tinu Yohannan and S Sreesanth, Kerala gets its own IPL team, for an astounding amount of $333 million.
Of course this is great news for Indian cricket and sport in Kerala. The audacity of the Rendezvous Consortium to dream big and bid for an IPL team, believed to be under the tweeting leadership of minister of state for external affairs Shashi Tharoor, need to be celebrated.
Well, the Kerala Cricket Association does not have its own cricket stadium, and the consortium itself has the presence of outsiders in it, but such things should not take away from Kerala’s Own IPL team.
Many would point out that Kerala does not have enough quality cricketers in the small state. But, then, again, many of the existing IPL teams too have a similar situation to tackle with. Look at Chennai Super Kings. It basically runs on the power of Indian skipper Mahendra Singh Dhoni and Matthew Hayden and many other skillful practitioners of the game quite outside of Chennai and Tamil Nadu. So is the case with Rajasthan Royals.
But, make no mistake, the formation of Kochi IPL team will unearth more gritty cricketers from the state. Now that the bidding is over, it’s time for a suitable name for the Kochi IPL team. Kerala Cobras, Kerala Tuskers, whatever it is eventually going to be, this is a great leap into the whirlpool of sport and high finance.
It is also important to notice that unlike the backers of of Deccan Chargers (Deccan Chronicle) and Mumbai Indians (Mukesh Ambani’s Reliance Industries), Rendezvous Consortium has ventured into a field where traditional moneybags in Kerala have shied. It was, no doubt, the biggest business opportunity of the new decade in Kerala and the very fact that the Rendezvous is a coming together for the love of money and cricket in equal measure is a eye-popping moment in the history of Indian cricket.

A few stray thoughts on Orhan Pamuk’s The Museum of Innocence

By John Cheeran
Everyone has a right to be happy. Pursuit of happiness, often, is a direct result of pursuit of love. Bitterness, despair and rancour may follow, but just because others have failed to keep the flame of love alive, we should not be scared to look love in the eye.
Orhan Pamuk takes a close look at love and its varied fragrances in his new novel The Museum of Innocence, set in Istanbul at a time when empress Indira Gandhi imposed emergency in India.
When Indians were sighing over love that never could find utterance in word and deed, in Turkey, with its proximity to Europe, it was a time of awakening for lovers. For Sibel, Fusun and Narcihan, making love to the man they loved before getting the seal of marriage was far from a moral dilemma.
More than love, I’m tempted to say, it is happiness that holds together the events spanning more than 30 years in The Museum of Innocence.
Or is it the other way round? Don’t you find true happiness when you are in love that is deep and pure?
Pamuk’s hero, Kemal Bey, starts his story by telling about his happiest moment in life. And, at the end of his obsessive passion, he reminds Pamuk, the writer, of his responsibility to tell the world that he has lived a happy life even though Sibel, the girl to whom Kemal was engaged when his life upended after catching sight of the most beautiful girl in Turkey, Fusun, finds him utterly crushed and spent after the tragic accident in his life.
Emperors have built monuments for their departed loves but I haven’t come across another instance of a lover setting up a museum for his lost love.
It, however, is a moot point that does Kemal’s The Museum of Innocence, deserve that name. There was hardly anything innocent about the love between Kemal and Fusun. Kemal, engaged to Sibel, a pretty and classy girl , and informed about the ways of the world in his 30s, knew pretty well what he was up to when he fell for his radiantly beautiful but poor relative, the 18-something Fusun. Fusun, though not been to Sorbonne, gives herself completely to the passion of Kemal for 41 days. She did not strike any bargain with Kemal while baring her body and soul to her lover. The only thing that she wanted to know from Kemal was that whether he has been sleeping with Sibel. It was a lie that Kemal lived to regret for the rest of his life, when Fusun found out the truth while dancing at the engagement party of Kemal and Sibel at Hilton.
Kemal realises how much Fusun means to him only when she walks away from his life. Kemal’s undoing was his plans of being happy by having a lover while staying married to Sibel. Fusun would have none of that.
Again, most of us cannot even understand when we experience true love or when we lose it. Kemal, to his everlasting credit, realises his mistake and woos an already married Fusun over the next nine years, like a faithful dog, visiting every street where Fusun walked, looking for her scent and anything that reminds him of her.
What takes away from the classic quality of this love story is the fact that Pamuk let Kemal and Fusun unite in body and soul as soon as they found each other; it’s a lie from Kemal that unhinged Fusun and forced her to turn bitter against her cousin and lover.
Despite all the deep machinations, despite the impossible and vexatious demands, remember, Fusun again gives herself to Kemal on a doomed trip of knowing, and settling all old debts. And, in turn, does it make the fatal car crash all the more unbearable for Kemal?
I won’t know.
For, I would have been fortunate to sit next to my Fusun for the rest of my life and listen to and talk to her till the end of time. As Kemal confesses while he is looking for crumbs of emotional comfort at the Keskins’ table during supper for nine years, happiness is being close to someone you love.
How close, one might as well ask, after gazing wistfully at a museum that only has floating memories and sound bites in it.

Lessons In Forgetting by Anita Nair: A Review

By John Cheeran
Who doesn’t think about beginning life anew?
Of course, such thoughts punctuate the middle age. Only a few hours ago I read a newswire story saying the middle age begins at 36 and the old stage starts at 58 (that’s in England).
Ah, well. I have recently finished reading Anita Nair’s novel Lessons in Forgetting. Characters in Anita’s novel talk about forgetting and coming to terms with second life. It’s a theme even I’m keen on. Apart from that how good is Lessons in Forgetting as a work of fiction?
Anita Nair, of course, writes well. It is important to admit that, for me, Lessons in Forgetting was the writer’s first book. But often writing well does not make a great work of literature. One may well ask, why should anyone read a particular book?
So let’s ask, why should have I read Lessons in Forgetting?
Does it offer any insights into life, relationships between men and women?
Anita Nair makes a valiant effort to present her work as a map to the minds of corporate trophy wives. It begins when a disillusioned corporate honcho walks out on his homemaker trophy wife. When Anita makes out that Meera (wife) did not know that Giri (husband) was planning to move out it does not cut any ice. Despite the pretty prose, Anita fails to come up with arresting reasons for Giri walking out on Meera, the flimsiest of excuses being lack of funds to climb to another level in life and Meera’s refusal to sell the old but sprawling bungalow somewhere in cozy Bangalore.
It also does not add to the charms of Lessons in Forgetting that Meera has been portrayed as the sacrificial lamb. It’s only after Giri has walked out, Meera knows other men, including the philanderer cine star and Jake, the storm predictor.
Unfortunately, I did not find any insights into man-woman relationships in Lessons in Forgetting. In fact, I felt that Anita Nair forgot how to conclude her lessons. How to finish what you have started used to be a great gift among story tellers. Some of the modern story tellers tend to make it more exciting by leaving it open ended, which, at least in this case, I find a weakness of spirit and craft.
A lot of thought, apparently, has gone into the writing of Lessons in Forgetting, such as weaving in the status of women in contemporary India by skimming the surface on female infanticide in Tamil Nadu. I’m told by a friend that during one of the launches, the book was handed over to a researcher on female infanticide.
Jake and his daughter in a vegetative state do not add to the strengths of this novel which held out so much promise in the beginning.
But I’m happy for one fact.
Meera does manage to stay on her feet in the absence of Giri. She finds a job, manages her responsibilities as a mother and a daughter and slowly accepts that life has more to offer, even though she does not know what exactly is in store for her. For that matter, who knows what has life in store for us?
And the very fact that Meera and readers do not hear anything more from Giri, apart from an email in the aftermath of his walkout, shows that it is possible to move on without dollops of guilt and bitterness on both sides.

IPL-3: Will KKR reverse the slide?

By John Cheeran
Who will win the IPL-3?
May be, we should narrow our focus and ask who will win tonight’s contest between Deccan Chargers and Kolkata Knight Riders, with which the event begins in Mumbai.
There is a lot different in 2010 when compared to last year’s 2020. The most important one is the nature of wickets with the game returning to India. Team compositions, however, remain by and large the same. You cannot ignore that there is less turmoil in KKR camp with little hints of experiments.
I believe Kolkata Knight Riders’ supporters have slain a kangaroo or two to propitiate the gods. If everything goes according to script, KKR should beat Deccan Chargers tonight. The underdogs, last year’s wooden spoonists, hurting the champions in the big game.
What a way to start? Eh?
But despite the so called tactical brilliance that Sourav Ganguly brings to the KKR side, Chargers would not be an easy side to beat under the leadership of Adam Gilchrist.
There, however, is no doubt that everyone would love, especially, sponsors and marketing kids, a KKR victory. That will make the event more open, more sexy and more Bollywoodish.
But right now I’m interested only in finding out whether KKR still have the Fake IPL player in their dressing room.

At any moment, all these can end

By John Cheeran
This word sticks in my throat
Can’t utter this without upsetting
My kind, patient listener and the world
and neigbhourhood around
You are being selfish, I’m gently reminded.
At any moment, all these can end,
Don’t you know this?
This, this idle talk of an idyll
That one can create by bruising egos
Looking only into you and me
Redrawing the lines of this fading picture
Another world but in this space itself
Another life but without dying
Another song but with new lyrics
Arguments begin and end
Another night walks into the promise of a dawn
Voices crackle in distance; I hear a sigh, my own
Hope fills my heart as I hear your prayer
And the footfalls of a child chasing her stars
I rise, look towards you,
And catch your radiant smile
Caught in the gleam of the days to come

The truth about Indian hockey

By John Cheeran
Now that Indian hockey has lived through its customary World Cup convulsions, it is easy to talk about this game dispassionately. The problem with hockey in India is that it has not too many takers. But, then, if you don’t fly into a rage, hockey is not a sport you fall in love with, wherever you are on this planet.
It is a fallacy and fantasy that hockey had huge support base in India once upon a time. Yes, India has won eight Olympic gold medals in the sport, but for most of us that’s an incredible piece of statistics, nothing else. India’s last Olympic gold came in 1980 in Moscow during an enfeebled competition when the US and its allies boycotted the event.
India’s Olympic gold medals did not create a nation-wide support base for the game when it was winning. And it is important to ask why the sport did not catch the imagination of the nation at large. A few north Indian boroughs do not make for a Pan-Indian appeal.
Many ascribe 1983 World Cup triumph for cricket’s astounding popularity in India. But much earlier, in 1975, India had won the hockey World Cup under the leadership of Ajitpal Singh. Did it lead to a surge in popularity for the game? It did not. In fact around the very same time, contours of hockey as a game were redefined.
Modern hockey is a different beast altogether which does not have much resemblance to what Dhyan Chand and his ilk used to play. It’s a fast paced sport and India has to realize that it is yet to master the basics of the new game.
Hockey, as a game, has inherent flaws. Its appeal is limited. That’s why Bolywood hottie Priyanka Chopra and cricket king Virender Sehwag urge you to give your heart to hockey in ads but themselves stay away from the hockey stadium even if it is a World Cup. It’s not a place to be seen.
Hockey is not football, it’s not even cricket.
Hockey is hockey and it is quite sad that not many are willing to watch this sport which definitely calls for a high degree of skills and loads of talent.
And I’m certain that even if India emerges as World Cup winner and Olympic champion in hockey in the coming years, there will not be any increase in the support base for the game. It will remain as a game played by a select few for the pleasure of a select few. It would be difficult for many, and especially hockey watchers, to accept such a viewpoint.
In the next years, sports such as NBA, football and tennis would demand more attention from the Indian public and the space for hockey would be shrinking fast, despite whatever the players would achieve on astroturfs.

What does a woman want?

By John Cheeran
I’m against reservations of all sorts and hence, not enthused by the idea, nay, the bill seeking 33 per cent of seats in Parliament for women.
Instead, reservations should go.
Especially, when it comes to what a woman can do or not do in her life and in society. Ordinary woman does not dream to turn the tables on her male counterpart in Parliament. She only wants to have her voice to be heard at her own home, by her gatekeepers and guardians, in most cases, her parents and husband.
Who can reserve that space and freedom for an Indian woman at places where she lives her life? At work place, at home, at public places?
No one, but woman alone can. Yes, of course, men can help them. No doubt about that.
More than a bill in Parliament Indian woman deserves a change in the attitude of society.
And it would be important to remember that often, it is other women who stand in the way of this change in attitude.
A change in attitude both on the part of men and women will lead to women living their lives to the fullest. Such a shift in attitude will only make men’s lives qualitatively better.
Man, fear not woman. Let her dream her own dreams.
Let’s live without handcuffs.
Quite often it is true that no one knows what exactly a woman wants. May be, not even UPA chairperson Sonia Gandhi knows it. But, then, there are women and more women. Some of them are happy to take things as they are or eager for a 33 per cent of the Parliament slice.
But what do you offer a woman who wants 100 per cent from her life, not just 33 per cent of dole from her gatekeepers?
A copy of women’s reservation bill, or a page from scriptures?

A prayer with eyes closed

By John Cheeran

I close my eyes but open my mind
To new roads that lie before me
I feel like a bride again at a Swayamvara
Choose wisely, girl, choose wisely

Breaking free from this world is not easy
Oh, how I hate tears, drama and courtrooms
I don’t want to be the wanton one of my clan
Woman like me are told to live for that epitaph
“Here a lies the woman- husband’s pride and daughter’s refuge.”

I have been gazing at a new map
A map marked with old ink
Streets lined with my heart’s deepening desires
Is this dusty path worth its way to happiness?
Is this the road that leads to a new light?

Scarred and scared as I’m
How am I to trust this stranger?
How am I to trust myself?

Lord, Lord of Nandana, can you hear my heartbeats?
Do you know for whom my heart is beating?
Oh, Lord, are you the stranger?
Are you the voice that I hearken to
every day, night and waking moment?

Hear me, answer me and open my heart
Show me the right path and walk with me
So that I can start to dream again

When beggars turned into kings for 70 minutes

By John Cheeran
On Sunday, it was a 'if wishes were horses moment' for Indian hockey team. It so turned out that beggars were kings at least for 70 minutes of the match against fierce rivals Pakistan in New Delhi, a city that was shaken by the footfalls of refugees in the wake of the vivisection of India.
Let's be honest.
No one, including the team's Spanish coach Jose Brasa, would have believed that India would whip Pakistan they way they did.
India not only dominated the match but scored four goals stamping their authority in no uncertain manner. For the record, I did not expect India to outperform their rivals. In fact I was prepared to watch India sink in after a flurry of well-intended thrusts into the D.
After fighting for their self-respect within the federation and country, Rajpal Singh and his co-conspirators had a tough task. Otherwise they would have been pilloried for their ‘bloody-mindedness’ for asking for what was their due.
To begin a World Cup campaign against Pakistan, that too at home, presents pressures that few can understand. Unlike cricket, which offers a chance for some players to stay above the team's downfall, in games such as hockey and football which calls for team effort at all stages of the game, there are not many escape routes.
On Sunday, it was pretty evident that Brasa had helped the boys to improve their basic skills such as trapping and passing the ball. Even in the matter of penalty corner conversions, not the strength of Indian sides in the past, there is a marked improvement.
For many Indians, the 12th World Cup got over the moment referee blew the whistle on the India-Pakistan game on Sunday. What happens in the remaining days is now merely academic. Indians have won it. Considering the animosity between the two nations in recent times, especially in the wake of 26/11 attacks in Mumbai, blasts in Pune, beheading of Sikhs in Pakistan, hunting down of Indians in Kabul and the botched talks between the foreign secretaries, only the utterly naive could miss the political significance of this classic encounter.
For supporters of India, the battle is over. But not for the Indian team. They have a lot to achieve in the days ahead to redeem the status of the game in this country. For that, they will have to make heavy inroads into the far better orgainsed defences of European teams and emerge as strong contenders for the World Cup.

An ache without any balm

By John Cheeran
I never prepared so delicious a meal such as this night.
After all, this feast is in my honour.
As glasses clink in the raised hands
I can feel the stab of shattered shards in my heart.
I poured a little of my blood, still left after all these years of recriminations, to the sauce.
It tastes great, a kind man remarked with that rare parting of lips.
Beloved, you don’t know the taste of my blood, after all these years?
What do you know of me?
An ache without any balm, a cheek without colour
A breath without life, a look without vision
You, in your feigned innocence, know nothing of these.
I was the easy picking.
I was the lamb who waited for the butcher’s knife with no taste of life and love, before or since.
Now, can you see that glint of ingratitude in my eyes, as
I serve and play the perfect host to your unsuspecting but scrutinizing eyes and palates?
If only I could drink from wells other than you
I would have dissolved
I would have merged in muddy rivers
reeking of slush, sweat, rum and dreams
As lights dim during this night,
This anniversary of primal conquest,
Can you recognize the silhouette of rebel and a dreamer
That still prays for deliverance
From you as well as your kindness that kicks me in absent hours?

A poem for indescribable silence

By John Cheeran
Where are you?
Why this deepening silence?
Every time, I hear a footfall in the corridors of my heart, I think of you.
I know your call will come, that sunshine laughter and timbre of sweetness, sweetened by distance and time.
Days are dreary without you.
Within you I can sense currents of joy and sadness coursing through as clock ticks to the mundane chores.
Morning coffee, breakfast, lunch, dinner, grunts, chidings, a glance of disapproval, an unshed tear and a rare of moment of understanding. Of being poles apart. Like the scarred hearts of a man and woman.
A five course meal, was that the way you marked another millstone? Ah, that extra dose of salt in sambhar almost brought tears to my stomach.
Here I chew on stolen conversations
Vows are easy to be broken as you know by now;
but I will not, but wait till dawn breaks out in the East
So I go on in silence, thinking of you, only of you,
only of you, and only of you.
And search for you in the lengthening shadows around me,
in other voices and faces that stream through
the morning, noon and evening of my consciousness.