The Art of Humour...

... or how to kill a joke.

Aum Sweet Home

• I wore a t-shirt and shorts all day on Monday. No tie.
• I finished work by one-thirty, I slept in the afternoon.
• My work tomorrow shall be conducted out of a restaurant.
• I'm back in my home town, and I'm loving it.
• Last on my list is a small problem - should I start a new blog, should I discontinue this one?
• Because life beyond Gokhale is life once again at Gokhale!

Muhahahahahahahahahahaha!

Cheers all!

A Matter of Taste

Bangalore must be one of the prettiest cities in India. People say Chandigarh is not to be sneezed at, but I haven't been there yet, so I'll reserve judgment. Plus, of course, pretty is not on my top ten list of appropriate adjectives when you're talking about a city full of hale and hearty Punju's.

But Bangalore, as I was saying, is very pretty indeed. It's interspersed with gardens every now and then, it is full of little lanes and streets that are relatively empty – at least in the afternoons – and the weather is pleasantly balmy for most of the year. The people are, for the most part, easy going and friendly; save for the rickshaw drivers, but then, you can say that for every city in India, now can't you?

There's a wide variety of restaurants all over the city, serving various kinds of cuisines, ranging from the plebeian to the exotic, and from the cheap to the you're-kidding-me-you-sick-freak! But it is a wonderful city, without a doubt.

And one of the principal reasons it is so very nice is the fact that there's a pub at practically every corner. Especially around MG Road. One cannot help but bump into a pub every five minutes. And having bumped into one, it is merely an act of civility to drop in and spend a pleasant hour or so.

People have passed their weekends by doing nothing other than bumping into one pub after the other for years together. It has become an integral part of the culture around here, so prevalent is the practice, and so numerous the pubs.

Among all these noteworthy watering holes, though, is one that I'm rather predisposed towards. It lies on Rest House Road, which comes on your right if you start walking down Brigade Road from the MG Road side. The second right, in fact. It is a little non-descript kind of place, at least from the outside. In fact, it is very easy to miss it if you haven't got your eyes wide open.

Pecos, of course. The regulars on the blog would have known this from practically the beginning of this essay, for Kulkarni can't help but drool about Pecos if he talks about Bangalore. The two are practically symbiotic, especially for the undersigned.

Forgive me while I wax lyrical about the place a little more. Small, dark and dingy it may be, but I'll wager that there isn't a friendlier place in all of Namma Bengalooru. Not if you searched for it. As I have mentioned many times before, the people are friendly, the waiters are pally, the music is nothing short of perfect and the food is out of this world.

But best of all, of course, is the beer. There are people in the world who would claim that it is watered down, and there are people in this world who will compare it to substances that we shall refrain from mentioning. But their arguments are not worth horse-piss, let me assure you. For the beer in Pecos is perfect. It may be a little mild, I grant you that, but it is good wholesome beer. It can be sipped ruminatively, it can be consumed by the barrel, and it can be downed in a go.

I have done all of that, and much more, for many a weekend in the recent past. Before marriage, in fact, it was more or less a given that Kulkarni and biraadars would be raising holy hell in their corner on the ground floor at Pecos. Pitcher after pitcher would be consumed in the riotous course of a Saturday afternoon. Happy times.

To the point however, for one must not dawdle for too long. People who know me well will admit to this readily. I'm not a man given to boasting. Modest Kulkarni, some of my best friends call me. And deservedly so, I might add. Anyways, as I was saying – I'm not inclined to blow my own trumpet, but even so, I must state this – there is nobody among my friends who can chug a mug of beer faster than I. None, bar none.

Plenty have tried, of course, the poor sods. And there is one who chugged an entire pitcher – a feat I myself have failed in. That is a tale by itself though, and remind me about it one day, for I must narrate it in full. For now, it is enough to say that he puked it all out immediately – and they still talk about that puke in those parts. With a mixture of awe and dismay.

Still, as I was saying. Nobody who can chug better than I. Plenty of Saturday evenings have seen me there in Pecos, mug in hand and strutting away, asking all and sundry to try and beat me at my game. And after I have chugged enough, I reach home. How and when are vague details that I do not bother with too much, but that is beside the point. As is the inevitable hangover. The point is, I like beer, and I like it chugged. The faster, the better.

Not for me the fine wines poured lovingly out of dark, long-necked bottles, into fine, long, stemmed glasses. I can't hold the glass in the palm of my hands, so as to warm the wine just a little (this releases the aromas, apparently). I can't sniff the fruity bouquet, and I can't sniff delicately and appreciatively. Not for me the first gentle sip, and the roll around the tongue. I can't imagine myself, eyes closed in ecstasy, savouring the tannin and the other myriad flavours. I couldn't tell you about the acidity of the wine in a million years. All I know is, the red is a little bitter, the white is not bad. And that the port wine in Goa is really, really cheap.

My idea of drinking is to hold the mug firmly, clink with opponent's mug, and chug. I win, everybody claps, I sway and sit back on seat heavily. Not the connoisseur, I.

The point?

My tastes in cricket are diametrically opposite.

Of Genius Nonpareil

Although they couldn’t have possibly have known about it, the people in attendance at the Lal Bahadur Shastri stadium were in for a royal treat on the 8^th of November 1999. The day had started like any other in the early winter – a touch hazy to begin with and brightening considerably as the day went on; perfect, in other words, for a game of cricket. Which worked out perfectly, for that was the plan for the day.

India was scheduled to play the second one-dayer of a five match series against the Kiwis at that venue, the Kiwis having won the opener. India won the toss that day, and chose to bat. It wasn’t an especially auspicious start for the home team, with Ganguly being dismissed in just the second over, with only ten runs on the board.

In walked Rahul Dravid, fresh from having been declared cricketer of the World Cup held earlier that year. What followed next was nothing short of carnage. Sachin Tendulkar, the man at the other end of that sublime partnership, and Rahul Dravid proceeded to plunder a progressively hapless New Zealand attack to the tune of 331 runs, stopping only when Dravid finally gave up his wicket to Chris Cairns – in the 48^th over of the innings. This didn’t please the little genius too much; and he made his feelings quite clear. The next over, delivered by a gentleman called Drum, leaked twenty eight runs. Sachin reached the boundary on four deliveries, and cleared it once.

It was a master class in batting. Sachin Tendulkar and Rahul Dravid combined to form a partnership that wasn't just monstrous in terms of runs scored, it was also a joy to watch. Both were at about their peak around that time, and it was just the Kiwi’s misfortune that they were the supporting cast in that match.

Even better, from our rather prejudiced point of view, that partnership had been privileged with a preview of sorts earlier that year. Then, during the World Cup, these two had combined to put up a partnership of 231 against Kenya in Bristol; Rahul Dravid amassed a not inconsiderable 104 runs, while Sachin scored a majestic 140.

These two instances are a small set of many, of course, when India’s finest batsmen, of this and all other generations, conspired to provide much joy. And India’s finest batsmen these two certainly are. Scoring in excess of twelve thousand test runs in one case, and in excess of ten thousand in the other should alone be proof enough, let alone their records in one-day internationals. Although you don’t really need to back up this claim with numbers. The pure, aesthetic joy that these two have afforded connoisseurs of Indian cricket over the years precludes the need for any statistical argument. Peerless in defence, breathtaking when in attacking mood, both have exhibited the kind of technique that other mortals can only dream of achieving. Champion batsmen, both of them.

Cricket is a sport that lends itself to statistical inferences like none other. It offers more than enough in terms of statistics to compare; meanwhile, it has changed just enough over the years to stop short of a conclusive answer. Still, that doesn’t stop legions of fans the world over from comparing players – over years, teams and generations.

Which is part of the charm of that cricket provides us with, of course. It simply wouldn’t do to be able to conclusively answer questions about the greatest of them all – for what would we do in the after?

Nearly three decades have passed by since Vishy and Sunny were part of the same batting line-up, but that doesn’t stop the age old argument about who had more talent. You’ll find equally vehement supporters of either genius, in the nooks and crannies of both Bangalore and Bombay. Pretty much the same argument will continue, I haven’t the slightest doubt, about both Sachin and Dravid in the decades to come. And that is how it should be.

What is beyond argument, however, is the fact that these two have been India’s best at positions three and four in Tests. No other batsman, of any era, can lay claim to these positions. On every surface, in every nation, these two have proved their ownership of the one down and the two down. In the process, and at different times in the recent past, they have been the best batsmen in the world. If Sachin was master of all he surveyed in 1998, there was none to compare to Dravid in 2002.

And what makes watching both of them all the more pleasing is the fact that in addition to being fearsomely talented and fiercely steely, they’re both acknowledged technicians in the difficult craft of batsmanship.

Take Dravid, for example. Take the time out to watch him when he takes his stance. Feet judiciously spread apart, Dravid bends a little at the knees – just like in the textbook. Back bent just a little, the head is turned to face the bowler, eyes perfectly level. The grip is standard, neither hand taking precedence over the other. At the precise moment that the ball leaves the bowler’s hand, his back foot moves back just a little, to get in line with the ball. The back lift is angled just a little, maybe towards first slip, no more. Eyes firmly on the ball, Dravid remains classically side on as he adjusts his feet as per his judgment of the delivery’s length. In case it is a defensive stroke, the bat meets the ball at just the perfect place, head perfectly still and nicely over the ball, body completely in position, bottom hand nice and loose. The ball is met as late as possible, so as to give it as much time to deviate as can be managed. Somewhere along the line, if Dravid thinks the ball is there to be hit, he will adjust accordingly – and in no other shot is this so precisely realized as in Dravid’s cover drive. In case he thinks that ball is slightly over pitched, his front foot compensates by going forward just a little more. The body leans forward ever so slightly, to ensure he isn’t playing away from the body, and the shoulders, elbows and wrists combine in a symphony of motion that results in the ball speeding away to the boundary – all along the ground. Faultless technique that draws a sigh of appreciation from the spectators, and a slumping of the shoulders from the opposition. Not for nothing is he called the Wall, after all.

The Bombay Bomber is another story altogether. Reams have been written about his unorthodox technique – but not enough focus has been given about his adaptability. Compare Dravid’s footage from the mid-nineties to the present day, and there will hardly be a change in technique. What was written in the preceding paragraph was as true then as it is now.

Not so for Sachin, however. He has certainly changed over the years. Not so much in terms of his grip or the stance perhaps, but certainly in terms of initial movement. Depending on the pitch, the bowler and the conditions, Sachin will either simply lean forward just a little, move back and across, or quite literally walk into his shot. Not for him the conventional and the orthodox every time – he is quite happy to modify his game if he feels the need.  He was quite happy, for example, to take a little step towards the stumps during the 2003 World Cup – he was quite literally walking into his shot. This was in sharp contrast to his tactics in the 1996 World Cup, where there was very little or no initial movement – and of course, he didn’t too badly in either tournament. Which only goes to show his versatility – not for him the conformity and certainty born of doing the same thing time and again.

Before Sachin burst on to the international scene, however, it would have been quite difficult to convince your coach about the benefits of a predominantly bottom hand grip. It works beautifully for the little man, of course, given his low centre of gravity. Combined with his almost unfair ability to judge the length of the ball, and quickly get in position accordingly, it gives him that perfect positioning to take full advantage of the delivery. Which he usually manages to do – almost all of the time.  You can’t speak enough of Sachin’s ability to manufacture the perfect shot for almost every delivery he faces – about how he seems to be perfectly placed to play the shot of his choice – as if he has anticipated the bowler. Rather like Federer in tennis – for both of them, the ball waits an extra nanosecond, as if in deference.

Whether in attack or in defence, then, Sachin seems the epitome of perfection. Conversely however, in comparison to Dravid, Sachin looks to attack first, and defend later. His defensive shot is an outcome of he having judged an attacking shot to be injudicious, and not the other way around. Still, in either case, one can hardly deny that it is extremely pleasing to the eye.

Sachin’s style isn’t from the textbooks, however. In retrospect, it cannot be, for it works only given that Sachin is what he is. He’s adapted, through literally decades of practise, a style that suits him perfectly. In other words, he’s quite literally written a textbook that suits, and can be followed, only by himself.

There was another before Sachin, an artist who chose to create his own style rather than walk down the classical path – an artist with a repertoire as varied as Sachin, and an oeuvre that is no less in magnificence. There was only one man who could have sung “O Mere Dil Ke Chain” with as much felicity as “Kuch to Log Kahenge”. There was only one Kishore Kumar. He too was considered unorthodox. He too was not one to the textbook born – like Sachin, he patented his own technique, fashioned out of many hours of hard work. But the finished product was peerless, without compare.

Only he could have sung “Ek Ladki Bheegi Bhaagi Si” and only he could have sung “Meri Bheegi Bheegi Si”. The effervescence of “Khai Ke Paan Banaraswala” could as easily give way to the sombreness of “Dukhi Man Mere”. Kishore was to the world of singing what Sachin is to cricket – an unorthodox, brilliant talent with a wide ranging repertoire. Both were equally adept at adapting to the demands of their times. If Kishore was able to transition smoothly from the melodies of R.D. Burman to the disco beats of the eighties, Sachin was equal to the task of acquiring for himself the sweep – where earlier he could only turn the ball of his toes, he is now a consummate master at dabbing it around the corner. Many more examples can be given of their talent and unorthodoxy (witness the uppercut), but this is nonetheless a delightful analogy – and hopefully, a compliment to both. Both acknowledged geniuses, and both pleasingly unorthodox.

And if one were to complete the analogy, as indeed one must, then there is only one singer who can step forward with aplomb to match Dravid’s technical virtuosity. With years of highly technical training behind him, and with a voice that comprised chiefly of lemon and honey, Mohammad Rafi was to the world of vocals what the Wall is to the cricketing greens.

Only a person steeped to the gills in classical training could do full justice to a song as demanding as “Mere Mehboob” – which, of course, he did in full measure. It is easy to draw parallels between Rafi Sa’ab and Dravid – for no matter their endeavours, the first quality that one notices is that of technical correctness. Even the lighter numbers that Rafi Sa’ab sang – and there were more than a few of them – are stamped with the vocal equivalent of a straight bat. Witness “Aja, Aja” from Teesri Manzil, or “Deewana Mujhsa Nahin” from the same film; wonderfully, easily and very correctly sung.

Likewise Dravid’s hitting out. Even the slogs have a measure of correctness to them. Cast your mind back to the tri-series final in South Africa in the ’96-’97 season, when Dravid laid into Donald. The hits crossed the boundary, no doubt, but they did so in a very prim and propah manner. They were dispatched there by Dravid, after all – they had to follow decorum. Likewise with Rafi – he might sing “ Aai Aai Ya Sukoo Sukoo” with gay abandon – but he couldn’t help there being a degree of correctness even in that mad melody.

Correctness be damned for Kishore Kumar, though. Not that he couldn’t call upon it when asked to, of course – “Mere Naina Saawan Bhaado”, for example – but the eccentric genius was equally at home singing “C.A.T. Cat... Cat Maane Billi”. Similarly, again, Sachin is equally adept at making a bowler sink abjectly with a rock solid defence – but he is equally liable to uppercut a perfectly good delivery right over the slip cordon, even in a Test.

There are not too many instances, unfortunately, of Kishore and Rafi having sung together, let alone different versions of the same song. I can only recollect “Tum Bin” and maybe the medley in “Yaadon Ki Baraat” – but the instances are not too many.

How blessed are we then, in the world of cricket, to have seen these stalwarts play together on many an occasion. There is no coincidence in the following statistic – they form the most successful pair in Indian cricket history, ever. Over a twelve year period, they have played over a hundred times together in tests, scoring over five thousand runs in the process.

And even today, in the autumn of their glorious careers, we have the pleasant prospect of seeing Kishore and Rafi bat together for some time to come. Enjoy it while it lasts, for there isn’t a better sight in world cricket.

As to the question of who is better between the two; well, music fans are undecided after more than fifty years of heated comparison – we’re only fourteen years into the rivalry. Of one thing we can be sure – both will provide our canons with still more fodder.

And for that, we should be grateful.

Play on, gentlemen, play on. 

Perfect Monday Reading

You want to know what is the perfect Monday-afternoon-half-empty-teacup-in-front-of-you-blooooooooorrrrrrrrgh-being-your-chief-emotion kind of read?

Then say thanks .

Thought For The Day

Time runs out of batteries on Mondays

Wrapping Up Time, Peoples...

Done. Finito.
Bangalore is going to be waving a tearful goodbye to moi in about three weeks. It's been a crazy three years... well, almost. Almost three years, and almost crazy.
There's been a refurbishing of the Yam, there's been the Belladonna. Trips to Mysore, to Pune, to Goa... hell, I got married.
But c'est tout. Finis.
Ata Pune.

But it wouldn't hurt to touch upon a couple (and maybe more) of vignettes around this place - fun times should be noted down for posterity.

Although it might be prudent to note, given my procrastination skills, that this is merely a plan - don't get your hopes too high.

Cheers!

Free

No ties on Mondays. No projects, no deliverables, no meetings, no reviews, no goals, no calls, no all hands, no town halls, no one on ones, no time-lines, no presentations, no decks, no pitches, no immersions, no models, no scoring, no data refreshes, no queries, no left joins, no right joins, no outer joins, no equi-joins, no power lunches, no working lunches, no seminars, no round tables, no presentation-to-senior-managements, no dry runs, no visits, no on-sites, no off-sites, no team meetings, no validations, no peer reviews, no reruns, no reworks, no modifications, no back-ups, no transitions, no databases, no cross team projects, no roadshows, no initiatives, no goal-sharing, no quick checks, no modifications, no merit cycles, no on-boarding, no new joinees, no interns, no dummy projects, no live projects, no follow-up calls, no calendars, no meeting requests, no appointments, no rescheduling, no conferences, no dial-in's, no agendas, no cubicles, no meeting rooms, no coffee machines, no water coolers, no farewells, no welcomes, no expectations, no meets-expectations, no exceeds-expectations, no to-do list, no fire-drills, no golden hour, no quick turnarounds, no quick hits, no deep dives, no exploratory analyses, no request forms, no proposals, no PPT's, no Excel sheets, no output, no code, no log, no one-over-ones, no rhythm, no pulse, no calendars, no all-nighters, no pick-ups, no drops, no cabs, no time sheets, no footprints, no utilization sheets, no ice-breakers, no trainings, no hands-on, no contests, no quizzes, no team-building sessions, no ad-hocs.

Free.

Limerick

There was once a firm full of idiots,
Whose defining characteristic was being nuts,
They'd come into office and blabber,
On a scale to make you stagger,
The lot of 'em needed a kick up their butts

A new beginning

Peoples.
Especially peoples who like Pune, have a look here .

For the nonce, blogging will be rather more frequent there.
Danke.