Hello Strangers. How you do?

Now what to say? Really, now what to say?

Unforgivable, I know. Unpardonable, without a doubt. And I have no real defence either. Other than laziness.

Which, come to think of it, makes for perfectly good sense, so we'll let it rest at that.

For those of you who have been waiting with bated breath for the instalments on Pune to continue, fret not, worry not and draw in a rather large sigh of relief – the word on the streets is that your wishes shall be fulfilled. But in the meantime, Kulkarni wishes to update you about other things that he would have pontificated about had he been blogging in the recent past.

First off the bat – and that is a very appropriate idiom to start with – take a bow, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar. They've been at you for ages, and they would like nothing more than to see you out of the team; and that for reasons which they know best.

You have been called the most selfish Indian cricketer and worse. You have been likened to a pachyderm, and that's been one of your kinder descriptions in the recent past. An old so and so, out of touch with modern cricket, and playing only for the sake of your advertising contracts. Not because you merit a place in the team; not because you still are, without doubt, the finest batsman in the Indian cricket team, not because there is none who can replace you – but because you play for money. A mercenary cricketer, in other, blunter words.

And you ignore them, as well you should, and you play on. You score nearly five hundred sublime runs in the Test series, and you are right up there in terms of runs scored in the one day matches as well. The imp is back – witness the cheeky lift over slips, as is the master craftsman – cherish the full blooded drive past the bowler. The runs are back, the flow is back, the master rules once more. But your critics lick their wounds and bide their time. And again you will fail to score, and once more they shall roar. For they know of no greater happiness, Sachin – their greatest joy is in bearing witness to your despair.

Ignore them, Tendlya. Ignore them and play on; for you know nothing better. You play because you want to play, and because there is none better. That was true then, and it is true now. And until the little boy inside you wants to – play on. May it be true for many matches more.

As for the many wise heads in India – they've never understood you. And as Don Mclean sadly noted many years ago, perhaps they never will.

Sorry. No, really. Sorry.

I know, I know.
It's been ages.
More than a month, and what little there is of my loyal readership is greviously disappointed.
"How can he do this?" they moan, and wring their h. in d.
Every day (or so they tell me) they log on and eagerly check for updates, and everyday they have to face the stark truth.
Kulkarni, that lazy slacker, that fat so and so, that Billy Bunter of bloggers, is doing what he does best.
He's doing nothing.

Pshaw. Pah. And other words, similar in spirit, that begin with p.

For up his rather capacious sleeve, Kulkarni hides some aces. For the past week or so, he has been chilling in Pune. Taking a well deserved break from Excel and it's charting capabilities, and from the many splendored joys of Namma Bengaluru.
But not, me hearties, from blogging. He has built up, in the somnolent afternoons and the increasingly stuffy nights, a squirrel's reserve of blogs, which he shall reveal upon going back to his South Indian abode.
Promise.
Wait with baited breath then, dear readers, as you have thus far. But this time, with a small spark of the reawakening, with a faint sighting of the light that may lie at the end of the tunnel, and with the last remaining resident of Pandora's dabba for company.

And really. Sorry.