I usually associate free time with logging on to the internet to find something to read. I derive immense pleasure from labouring through a lengthy essay or feature, ruminating on its import, talking to someone about the contents of the piece, which often leads to a healthy debate, eventually allowing me to concretise my thoughts.
I have a few standard web sites I visit and often I stumble upon a few pieces through my facebook and twitter streams. I don't know when and how I developed this habit - maybe journalists subconsciously think reading is good, maybe this was one of the ways I got better as a cricket writer - and it gradually turned from habit to addiction.
A friend, who has been observing this trait of mine, recently asked me a perplexing question. "Why do you read?" This I was unprepared for. I had grown up surrounded by books and was always admonished for "not reading enough". I often look back on my school days and wish I had read more instead of spending my free time overdosing on cricket.
A few days ago I had answered a related question - what makes a good piece? Since I had thought of that one in far more detail, it wasn't too difficult to answer: something that either provokes new thought or something that moves. If a writer satisfies either of these, I feel I've spent my time productively.
But this was a far more complex question, philosophical almost. And I could only resort to cliche - "to shape my thoughts and opinion", "to become a better writer", "to be globally aware" - but struggled to nail it.
After grappling for a few hours, I finally realised I was complicating matters. I liked reading for the same reason I liked movies - I loved stories. I kept tab of the news because, as a journalist, I feel I have to. But what I really enjoyed was reading stories - finely crafted narratives that held my attention. Nothing more, nothing less.
And on that note, here's the wonderful story of Olga Gurshin, the first student from the Soviet Union to take a four-year course in the U.S. At the end of it, I was as happy with my reading addiction as with my answer to the intriguing question.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Innocent adults
How many ever times I watch Majid Majidi's Children of Heaven, there's always something new that provokes thought. Today, in what was possibly my fourth screening, I focussed on Zahra, the little girl with an angelic smile and a wonderfully-expressive face.
Through her, Majidi shows us how several poor children are forced to grow up in a hurry - washing dishes, baby-sitting the new-born, assisting in the kitchen - but continue to retain a large part of their innocence.
Zahra, a six year old, leads the life of a working professional - attending school in the morning and handling household chores for the rest of the day. There isn't a single shot of her playing with her friends or being pampered, activities that are a norm in more privileged six-year-olds' lives.
Yet there's a unsullied innocence about her, the kind that hasn't succumbed to the cynicism and world-weariness - traits that a 35-year old with her background, schedule and challenges would have been expected to have.
Zahra shows us the kinds of challenges that many children face - we understand how the frustration of losing a shoe can really mess with daily rhythms. We understand that poor children can take nothing for granted and yet, deep down, they cannot afford to give up hope.
Through her, Majidi shows us how several poor children are forced to grow up in a hurry - washing dishes, baby-sitting the new-born, assisting in the kitchen - but continue to retain a large part of their innocence.
Zahra, a six year old, leads the life of a working professional - attending school in the morning and handling household chores for the rest of the day. There isn't a single shot of her playing with her friends or being pampered, activities that are a norm in more privileged six-year-olds' lives.
Yet there's a unsullied innocence about her, the kind that hasn't succumbed to the cynicism and world-weariness - traits that a 35-year old with her background, schedule and challenges would have been expected to have.
Zahra shows us the kinds of challenges that many children face - we understand how the frustration of losing a shoe can really mess with daily rhythms. We understand that poor children can take nothing for granted and yet, deep down, they cannot afford to give up hope.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
A dream job that often isn't
I just read Tom Swick's fine piece on the evolving role of a travel writer. Here's one part that struck a chord:
I can see where Swick is coming from. "Cricket writing" is a highly romanticized profession too. People gawk when told about one traveling the world to cover cricket.
That's way off the mark. Several leading cricket writers spend close to 250 days of the year away from home. Even the ones who are assigned individual tours, are out for 50 days at a stretch. It's an immense burden on their family lives and several end up with extremely unhealthy lifestyles (it's difficult to be on tour and stay away from a drink or seven).
Most cricket writers go through tournaments under a lot of stress. One needs to file three or four stories every day and it often requires preparation, burrowing instincts and last-minute flexibility. Persistence is vital - whether it's calling a former cricketer for an interview, or lounging around in the team hotel lobby for a stray quote or diary entry.
The additional occupational hazard is the daily press conference - often a stream of cliches that add little value. Each one of these is like a repeat of the previous - with players being highly guarded about team compositions, injury updates and team assessments. Every game is "crucial"; every opposition "cannot be taken lightly".
A handful of writers may well bypass all these irritants - you can work for a monthly magazine, you can skip the press conferences, you can write and not report - but what even they can't do is change the way they watch the game.
We all began as cricket fans before becoming professional cricket writers. Being in the profession, though, takes away a lot of the fizz. Of course, we are taught to be objective (to the point of being cynical) and stay away from flag-waving zealotry but what really rocks the boat is the gradual understanding of the players, the system the politics and the shenanigans.
You begin to understand that X was picked over Y not necessarily because he was better but because he was from a certain zone or because he was backed by a certain agent or because he was the distant cousin of Z. You also realize how players (some of whom you might have idolized before you entered the inner circle) can be egotistic pricks and manipulative Machiavellis.
At a more basic level, you are constantly searching for narratives to write on. The multiple aspects of the game that you earlier noticed give way to a more thematic observation - trying to weave a story through a common thread. Of course there was a wonderfully athletic catch at midwicket but how does an appreciation of that play fit into the day's story? You are forced to focus and not simply ramble along - which is basically what fans do when they watch a game together.
At some point, when all these influences come together, you start watching games through a different prism. It's no more the innocent past-time that made you jump up and shriek or kick the floor in anger or sulk all day. It's now the sport that you are detached from (though in reality, you're very close to the epicenter).
You begin to view it as a job - I've actually felt really frustrated when a cricketer died on a Sunday, simply because it meant more work - and ask yourself - just like Swick says of travel writers - what am I doing here? And over time, you gradually forget why you got here in the first place.
These books have done a great deal to romanticize the profession. (Tell people that you are paid to travel and write about it and you’ll be greeted by exclamations of envy.) ... “Travel writer” may be the one title everyone wants except the people who have it.
I can see where Swick is coming from. "Cricket writing" is a highly romanticized profession too. People gawk when told about one traveling the world to cover cricket.
That's way off the mark. Several leading cricket writers spend close to 250 days of the year away from home. Even the ones who are assigned individual tours, are out for 50 days at a stretch. It's an immense burden on their family lives and several end up with extremely unhealthy lifestyles (it's difficult to be on tour and stay away from a drink or seven).
Most cricket writers go through tournaments under a lot of stress. One needs to file three or four stories every day and it often requires preparation, burrowing instincts and last-minute flexibility. Persistence is vital - whether it's calling a former cricketer for an interview, or lounging around in the team hotel lobby for a stray quote or diary entry.
The additional occupational hazard is the daily press conference - often a stream of cliches that add little value. Each one of these is like a repeat of the previous - with players being highly guarded about team compositions, injury updates and team assessments. Every game is "crucial"; every opposition "cannot be taken lightly".
A handful of writers may well bypass all these irritants - you can work for a monthly magazine, you can skip the press conferences, you can write and not report - but what even they can't do is change the way they watch the game.
We all began as cricket fans before becoming professional cricket writers. Being in the profession, though, takes away a lot of the fizz. Of course, we are taught to be objective (to the point of being cynical) and stay away from flag-waving zealotry but what really rocks the boat is the gradual understanding of the players, the system the politics and the shenanigans.
You begin to understand that X was picked over Y not necessarily because he was better but because he was from a certain zone or because he was backed by a certain agent or because he was the distant cousin of Z. You also realize how players (some of whom you might have idolized before you entered the inner circle) can be egotistic pricks and manipulative Machiavellis.
At a more basic level, you are constantly searching for narratives to write on. The multiple aspects of the game that you earlier noticed give way to a more thematic observation - trying to weave a story through a common thread. Of course there was a wonderfully athletic catch at midwicket but how does an appreciation of that play fit into the day's story? You are forced to focus and not simply ramble along - which is basically what fans do when they watch a game together.
At some point, when all these influences come together, you start watching games through a different prism. It's no more the innocent past-time that made you jump up and shriek or kick the floor in anger or sulk all day. It's now the sport that you are detached from (though in reality, you're very close to the epicenter).
You begin to view it as a job - I've actually felt really frustrated when a cricketer died on a Sunday, simply because it meant more work - and ask yourself - just like Swick says of travel writers - what am I doing here? And over time, you gradually forget why you got here in the first place.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
The genius of Blaise Aguera y Arcas
There can be no doubt that this is the golden age of photography. I'm not referring to the quality of photos being taken, but to the quantity - the gazillion photos that people click every day, on their point-and-shoots, SLRs, mobile phones etc.
But there was a big problem: of what value are all these photos? Flickr and Google Images are seeing a rapid proliferation of uploaded photos every day but how does one separate the gems from the rubbish? How does the cream rise up to the top? Who makes sense of all these images and integrates them into something meaningful.
Along comes Microsoft's Blaise Aguera y Arcas and a great creation called Photosynth. I won't do much explaining here because Arcas does a fabulous job of it himself.
And so we actually have a software that not only aggregates similar photographs (those taken at the same event or venue) but also integrates it into a meaningful whole (that's way, way more useful that the parts).
Just as you have hyperlinks in text documents, Arcas explains how one can cross-link pictures and create this panoramic experience. And not only do you get to see your pictures of the event, but a collage - putting together various views from diverse lenses.
It's a classic case of the gems coming together neatly with the rubbish - producing something that's highly viewable.
Read Farhad Manjoo's piece in Slate for more.
But there was a big problem: of what value are all these photos? Flickr and Google Images are seeing a rapid proliferation of uploaded photos every day but how does one separate the gems from the rubbish? How does the cream rise up to the top? Who makes sense of all these images and integrates them into something meaningful.
Along comes Microsoft's Blaise Aguera y Arcas and a great creation called Photosynth. I won't do much explaining here because Arcas does a fabulous job of it himself.
And so we actually have a software that not only aggregates similar photographs (those taken at the same event or venue) but also integrates it into a meaningful whole (that's way, way more useful that the parts).
Just as you have hyperlinks in text documents, Arcas explains how one can cross-link pictures and create this panoramic experience. And not only do you get to see your pictures of the event, but a collage - putting together various views from diverse lenses.
It's a classic case of the gems coming together neatly with the rubbish - producing something that's highly viewable.
Read Farhad Manjoo's piece in Slate for more.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Asif Sheikh and ten cows in the background
So we're back to TGE (that great era when India were on the cusp of liberalization) and there's no better video to illustrate the contradictions of the period that this.
Remember Asif Sheikh? Or Ruchika Pandey? Well, even I forgot these guys but I still remember the Filmfares of those days featuring them. (of course, the Filmfares I used to read in the local barber shop, that seemed to never have India Today but always have Filmfare, Women's Era and Debonair. No wonder it was always crowded).
Now to this legendary video. You'll recognize the song - not necessarily because you remember the movie (Yaara Dildara) but because a guy called DJ Suketu created a remix a few years ago. It made the MTV charts and everyone was humming the tune again.
But what of the original? It's a peppy tune, something that the young generation would have hummed easily. And, considering that the Youtube video has 226 comments to it, I think it's fair to say it was a raging hit back then.
But look at that video. Look at the primitive camera work. Look at the amateur lighting. Look at the clothes that Asif and Ruchika are wearing. Look at their expressions, the setting, the flowers. Simply look at Ruchika standing in one place and gyrating as she taps her waist.
Most importantly, look at those cows in the background. I mean ... cows! They didn't move a few feet away and shoot without cows. They insisted that they stand right in front of the bovines, make sure that eight or ten of them appear on every single moment of the video. They needed that rustic quality to this video. As two cows danced int he foreground, they needed more in the background. What creativity!
Imagine 15 years from now. I'm telling my children about the good ol' days, when I was their age. And these are the kind of gems that will pop out. I mean, I used to laugh at my dad in his bellbottoms. Everytime I see this video, I wonder if he was better off. I mean ... Cows!
Remember Asif Sheikh? Or Ruchika Pandey? Well, even I forgot these guys but I still remember the Filmfares of those days featuring them. (of course, the Filmfares I used to read in the local barber shop, that seemed to never have India Today but always have Filmfare, Women's Era and Debonair. No wonder it was always crowded).
Now to this legendary video. You'll recognize the song - not necessarily because you remember the movie (Yaara Dildara) but because a guy called DJ Suketu created a remix a few years ago. It made the MTV charts and everyone was humming the tune again.
But what of the original? It's a peppy tune, something that the young generation would have hummed easily. And, considering that the Youtube video has 226 comments to it, I think it's fair to say it was a raging hit back then.
But look at that video. Look at the primitive camera work. Look at the amateur lighting. Look at the clothes that Asif and Ruchika are wearing. Look at their expressions, the setting, the flowers. Simply look at Ruchika standing in one place and gyrating as she taps her waist.
Most importantly, look at those cows in the background. I mean ... cows! They didn't move a few feet away and shoot without cows. They insisted that they stand right in front of the bovines, make sure that eight or ten of them appear on every single moment of the video. They needed that rustic quality to this video. As two cows danced int he foreground, they needed more in the background. What creativity!
Imagine 15 years from now. I'm telling my children about the good ol' days, when I was their age. And these are the kind of gems that will pop out. I mean, I used to laugh at my dad in his bellbottoms. Everytime I see this video, I wonder if he was better off. I mean ... Cows!
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The price one pays
News organizations are normally prepared for deaths. Important obituaries are written well in advance, and many organizations are ready to publish them immediately after the news of the inevitable.
Lasantha Wickramatunga, the chief editor of The Sunday Leader, was different. He wrote an obituary for himself, just in case he was killed. And last week, just as he predicted, it happened. The piece, which appeared in the Jan. 11 edition of the Sunday leader was poignantly titled, "And then they came for me", a line borrowed from German theologian Martin Niemoller.
Wickramatunga's obituary is a resounding affirmation to journalists around the world, that their community, even in this day and age, can indeed play a major role in nation building.
(We'll get back to the TGE theme soon)
Lasantha Wickramatunga, the chief editor of The Sunday Leader, was different. He wrote an obituary for himself, just in case he was killed. And last week, just as he predicted, it happened. The piece, which appeared in the Jan. 11 edition of the Sunday leader was poignantly titled, "And then they came for me", a line borrowed from German theologian Martin Niemoller.
Wickramatunga's obituary is a resounding affirmation to journalists around the world, that their community, even in this day and age, can indeed play a major role in nation building.
People often ask me why I take such risks and tell me it is a matter of time before I am bumped off. Of course I know that: it is inevitable. But if we do not speak out now, there will be no one left to speak for those who cannot, whether they be ethnic minorities, the disadvantaged or the persecuted.
Look around war-torn regions of the world and you'll find journalists risking their lives. El Periodico is Guatemala’s leading newspaper for investigative reporting and its editor, Jose Rueben Zamora, made a career out of exposing the government. Some of his most famous pieces were about the connections between narcotrafficking, organized crime and people who exercised iron-fisted control over Guatemala’s government.
In June 2003, gunmen claimed to be detectives and his his family captive. They then tortured Zamora, put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger on an empty chamber thrice. They then left, ordering that he stopped publishing articles against the establishment.
Zamora's response was as ballsy as it got. He sent his family to live in the U.S. for a while, before publishing stories identifying the people who had invaded his home.
--
There's a lot of jargon being thrown around in the media industry: reinvent the business model, understand your audiences, unbundle the content, fragment the market, integrate the platforms of publishing ....
But there's nothing, absolutely nothing, that can substitue for heroes like Zamora and Wickramatunga. If those in the media hope to make a serious difference, if they genuinely believe they're in it for some higher good, if they understand their social responsibility ... it's time they saluted those like Wickramatunga. Let's hope, as he himself did, that his death served as an inspiration that will galvanize forces to usher a new era of human liberty in a war-torn country.
(We'll get back to the TGE theme soon)
Sunday, January 11, 2009
That one-run victory
The Ranji Trophy final has started today and it's time we rewind the clock to That Great Era (TGE). As I have said earlier, TGE refers to the period that encompasses the late '80s and the early '90s - no specific dates but you get the picture - when we were still leading wonderfully sad lives.
So we're back to TGE. It's May 1991 and it was time for a Ranji Trophy final. I mean, it was a big thing those days in the Pip household and Grandfather Pip was happy it was telecast on TV. I'm not sure if the whole game was shown but I sure know that the final day was. And that's generally what people remember when you say Haryana v Bombay, Ranji final.
If you ask any cricket fan about that final, I can pretty much assure you that he won't remember Deepak Sharma, who was the top-scorer for the match with 199. He will tell you about the final-innings chase, about Dilip Vengsarkar's valiant hundred, Kapil Dev's inspirational bowling, a climactic run-out, and tears, lots of tears. Vengsarkar cried, a nation cried with him and another set of Kapil's Devils rejoiced.
I've heard many nice stories about that game but the best ones are from Rakesh Sanghi, the official scorer for Haryana in those days. He clearly remembers the train journey to Mumbai. It was a long trip and the players were keeping themselves occupied with songs and dumb-charades.
But a few hours were enough for Kapil to send out orders. Nobody enjoys themselves until we win the final, he said. It was loud and clear. The rest of the journey was spent in near silence. Sanghi's words are worth repeating: "When Kaps spoke, everyone listened."
And then to the final day itself. Apparently it wasn't Vengsarkar who caused problems for Haryana. The headache came from elsewhere. More from Sanghi (paraphrased and not exact quote): During one break Kaps spent close to 20 minutes talking only about the strategy to get Sachin out. He was in such great form that nobody had any clue about where to bowl to him. He flat-batted Kaps for a straight six and a few of us in the dressing-room were convinced that the game was over.
I vaguely remember that six, seen through grainy DD television pictures. A few journalists who were at the game remember it too. One likened it to a shot that got the Wankhede pillars to creak.
Here's H Natrajan's view in Wisden Asia Cricket:
The match report in The Hindu (R Mohan, obviously) did the game justice, or so it felt then. The Sportstar had an even more detailed spread. And then there was Sportsworld. Cricket was good back then - if gave you time to inhale, recall and exhale. It allowed the big boys to play in a Ranji final. It allowed TV viewers to watch a Ranji final. It allowed young boys to analyse the game, talk about Tendulkar's six, feel bad for Abey and feel happy for Kaps.
Those were the days.
Ps:just for the record, they won by two runs. It still feels like one, though. So the headline must remain.
So we're back to TGE. It's May 1991 and it was time for a Ranji Trophy final. I mean, it was a big thing those days in the Pip household and Grandfather Pip was happy it was telecast on TV. I'm not sure if the whole game was shown but I sure know that the final day was. And that's generally what people remember when you say Haryana v Bombay, Ranji final.
If you ask any cricket fan about that final, I can pretty much assure you that he won't remember Deepak Sharma, who was the top-scorer for the match with 199. He will tell you about the final-innings chase, about Dilip Vengsarkar's valiant hundred, Kapil Dev's inspirational bowling, a climactic run-out, and tears, lots of tears. Vengsarkar cried, a nation cried with him and another set of Kapil's Devils rejoiced.
I've heard many nice stories about that game but the best ones are from Rakesh Sanghi, the official scorer for Haryana in those days. He clearly remembers the train journey to Mumbai. It was a long trip and the players were keeping themselves occupied with songs and dumb-charades.
But a few hours were enough for Kapil to send out orders. Nobody enjoys themselves until we win the final, he said. It was loud and clear. The rest of the journey was spent in near silence. Sanghi's words are worth repeating: "When Kaps spoke, everyone listened."
And then to the final day itself. Apparently it wasn't Vengsarkar who caused problems for Haryana. The headache came from elsewhere. More from Sanghi (paraphrased and not exact quote): During one break Kaps spent close to 20 minutes talking only about the strategy to get Sachin out. He was in such great form that nobody had any clue about where to bowl to him. He flat-batted Kaps for a straight six and a few of us in the dressing-room were convinced that the game was over.
I vaguely remember that six, seen through grainy DD television pictures. A few journalists who were at the game remember it too. One likened it to a shot that got the Wankhede pillars to creak.
Here's H Natrajan's view in Wisden Asia Cricket:
After lunch, Sachin Tendulkar, still only 18 years old, launched a counterattack with a six over the straight field off a slower one from Kapil. It was a declaration of intent. Tendulkar then greeted left-arm spinner Pradeep Jain with another straight six. As word of Tendulkar's charge spread around the city, the Wankhede began to fill up. Before long, 18000 had thronged to witness the unfolding of an epic.I wasn't one of them. Instead I endured the pictures constantly flickering, the commentary (yes, that banal commentary) enthralling, and the tension mounting. AIR was on too, I think it was Suresh Saraiyya calling the game there. And suddenly there was chaos, an obscure guys called Kuruvilla, a run-out. And tears. And joy. And tears. And joy.
The match report in The Hindu (R Mohan, obviously) did the game justice, or so it felt then. The Sportstar had an even more detailed spread. And then there was Sportsworld. Cricket was good back then - if gave you time to inhale, recall and exhale. It allowed the big boys to play in a Ranji final. It allowed TV viewers to watch a Ranji final. It allowed young boys to analyse the game, talk about Tendulkar's six, feel bad for Abey and feel happy for Kaps.
Those were the days.
Ps:just for the record, they won by two runs. It still feels like one, though. So the headline must remain.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)