Cricketer or Commentator, he stood tall!

The Tony Greig I knew

Raju Korti

My first glimpse of Anthony William Greig, better recognised by the cricket buffs the world over as Tony Greig, dates back to 1972-73 when I was among the countless school-going boys hysterical about the game. The Englishmen were led by another Tony (Lewis) who looked more like a Hollywood star and who became an instant hit with the Indian media with his impeccable manners. On that tour of India, the scene stealer was, however, Tony Greig with his 6 feet 7 inch altitudinous frame. That of course was not his only stake to fame as Greig with his aggression and crowd-friendly antics was lustily cheered wherever the teams played. To me the most abiding memory of that tour was Greig, protecting the boundary and catching oranges thrown at him by exuberant people with the same practiced ease.
Greig was a revelation on that tour with an all round performance. As a batsman he would step out boldly to the Indian spinners and hit them out of the park. As a bowler able to bowl gentle medium pace and cutters, he could extract an awkward bounce from the placid Indian pitches.
Greig had both height and stature if you know what I mean. Thanks to Wisden Almanac and Sports and Pastime which had articles by the likes of Neville Cardus, Jim Swanton, Jack Fingleton and Richie Benaud, we youngsters were very well informed. We knew how Greig who would have never been able to play international cricket because of the Gleneagles Treaty, was pitchforked into the English team due to his Scottish parentage. The Treaty barred nations, including South Africa from international cricket because of its racist apartheid policy and with the scenario that accrued, Greig would have been condemned to his home grounds alongside greats like Ali Bacher, Pollock brothers, Eddie Barlow and Mike Procter since the Pretorian regime was adamant on its colour prejudice.
In a way, Sunil Gavaskar who strode like a collosus on the cricketing firmament in that historic 1971 tour of Carribean, was partly responsible for introducing us to the South African giants. Garry Sobers, who I consider as the game's greatest all time ever, plumped for Gavaskar in that Australia Vs Rest of the World. The latter had some of these.
A couple of years later, Greig's antecedents came in handy for the Channel Nine media tycoon Kerry Packer who used him to rope in the best of West Indian, Australian, Pakistani and South African talents for the World Series of Cricket dubbed as "Packer Circus". It turned out to be that in letter and spirit. All the cricketers were banished by their country's respective boards for their "betrayal". For all the interest and hoopla generated by the Packer Series, the matches were low scoring and most of the games became only figures in record books. The point here is Greig's leadership qualities had surfaced even before he was inducted by the MCC in its Test eleven. His role in that jumboree later not only cost him England's captaincy, which he had inherited from Mike Denness, but also a lot of vitriol and barbs through a strong backlash.
During the home summer of 1974, England faced three Tests against India and three against Pakistan. Greig averaged 42 with the bat and scalped 14 with his hundred against India at Lords as his best. This was good tune up for the Ashes tour of Australia where the Englishmen -- uncharitably called Poms -- were the favourites. As it turned out, the Englishmen were made to hop, skip and jump by the blistering speed of Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson. While his other team-mates were clueless what had hit them, Greig played the lone hand with a gritty 110. He was a stand-out character in a losing team and won the admiration of the "hard playing" Aussies, who liked his approach to the game.
When Greig toured India in 1976-77 -- this time as Captain and justified the mantle by winning a series in the sub continent against the best spinning attack in the world -- I was a college going youngster who understood that he had done his home work exceedingly well. I had seen the tall Greig holding his willy at almost his chest height while standing up to the pacers and quickly repositioning his stance to be able to bring his bat down while confronting the Indian spiners.
The equations had changed by 1987 World Cup when I was already a journalist with The Hindu while Greig had assumed the new avtaar of a writer-commentator. In the Press Box, I was lucky enough to be sandwiched between Greig and another commentator whom I rate as among the best experts, Trevor Bailey. I did an in-depth feature on Bailey and Greig, who was privy to all the conversation between us, tapped me on my back. "That was wonderful mate," he told me without concealing his appreciation. That little boost set up my interview with him at the hotel where he was put up. He was quite amused to know that he had caught one of the oranges I had thrown at him during the 1972-73 series.
By that time, I had seen enough of Greig to know how brutally blunt he could be. I recall how his ebullient oratory had created quite a flutter when he expounded the West Indies players' reputation for wilting under pressure.
"I like to think that people are building these West Indians up, because I am not really sure they're as good as everyone else thinks they are. People are forgetting they were beaten 5-1 by the Aussies and just about managed to keep their heads above water against the Indians a short time ago. Sure, they have a couple of fast bowlers, but I don't think we will run into anything faster than Lillee and Thomson. So I am not worried about them at all. The West Indians are magnificent when they are on top. But if they are down, they grovel, and I intend to make them grovel."  
There was a furore as expected. The word "grovel" had sinister connotations for the West Indians, many of whom had slave ancestry. Moreover, apartheid and Gleneagles Agreement were the issues of the day, so a white South African using the word "grovel" heavily accentuated the faux pas. Stung to the quick, the West Indian bowlers took a great delight in adding yards to their run-up when Grey took the crease and took his wicket. But true to his nature, Greig had no remorse.
Partly because he had seen me speaking at length with the likes of Bailey, Christopher Martin Jenkins, Henry Blofeld and Peter Roebuck (who jumped to his death), Greig let it unleash, no holds barred. "I still think of the West Indians in the same breath," he told me. I too didn't mince my words. "As a commentator, I thought your bias showed and though you spoke as fluently as the BBC Test Match Special commentators like Brian Johnston, Don Moseley, Christopher Martin Jenkins and Henry Blofeld, you often overplayed your hand. Was it exuberance or design?" I asked him. "Oh they are all seasoned veterans and peerless, but I am what I have to be," he said with that same flourish that he brought into play while describing the ear rings of ladies who came to watch the matches in Gulf. His narration could swing to both extremeties and often he got carried away while commentating, not really bothered with its repercussions. But you had to hand it to him that he was in a league of his own even as a commentator, whether you liked him or not. In that meeting Greig spoke a lot, sometimes criticising the Indians and sometimes showing unabashed admiration. But then he was like that, always speaking with rare candour and never playing close to chest.
So it was when he matter-of-factly spoke of his lung cancer and the inevitability of it. Compare this with our own Yuvraj Singh whose bout with cancer was chewed to cud by the media and people.
In his last lecture at the Spirit of Cricket Cowdrey, Greig said " I have never had any doubt I did the right thing by my family and by cricket."
He truly epitomised that.


   

The long and short of MSD

Raju Korti

Indian captain Mahendra Singh Dhoni doesn't seem to be getting any wiser with passing age, but there is one change in him that's quite perceptible. His answers to the Media's questions, which invariably would be longish and more often than not predictable, are getting as short as the time he spends at the crease these days.
Indian cricketers, by and large, inflated by the greens and overawing fame, are vulnerable to complacency. Dhoni has rode his luck thus far and to be fair to him, has deserved his spoils. What has failed to get into his -- what is usually labelled as -- "ice cool head" is, on the cricketing turf, nemesis does catch up.
His spinning gambit against the dour Englishmen backfired as it had to, yet, like the proverbial rope that refuses to un-knot itself, Dhoni persisted in the tactic until his mistake snowballed into a Himalayan blunder.
All the good work that Ashwin and Co did was brought to an effective nought by the seasoned Swann and Panesar.
After the much vaunted Indian batting line-up collapsed like a pack of cards at the Bangalore T20 against Pakistan, Dhoni made a profound observation: "We should have got more runs on the board. We got a good start, fantastic effort by the openers but then we kept losing wickets after that. We were short by 10 or 15 more runs which we should have got easily. 145 would have been a safe score on this track."
Of course, the skipper that he is, he conveniently skipped the fact that it was his lazy, casual shot that triggered the collapse. And if he knew 145 was a safe score, he had enough firepower in his batsmen, inluding himself, to score those. Hasn't it been sometime that he has been pleading for the induction of more energetic and younger players in the team? On a few occasions, he has either obliquely, or through convoluted statements suggested that the so called dead wood in the team may be shown the exit door. If only he could realise that he finds himself at the crossroads for precisely the same reason.
The Dhoni influence, what with the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) chief N Srinivasan doing his bidding, worked with bigwigs like Sourav Ganguly, Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman. My gut feeling is the three whose names record books would feel proud to have, didn't hang their boots in very happy circumstances. If we are to go by Laxman's version, Dhoni didn't even show the courtesy of picking up his call before he announced his abrupt retirement. By his own admission, Dhoni sounded proud of the fact that he was a difficult person to get through to. Wonder how the skipper interacts with juniors. Or is it easy for his bloated ego to deal with players who are trying to cement their place in the national side?
All's not been very well with the Indian team. There has been no love lost between Dhoni and Sehwag. Not that Sehwag is a holy cow by any means, but the likes of him have to be handled with kid gloves. Yet, during the series against the Kangaroos, Dhoni squarely laid the blame on oldies who he felt were not agile and energetic on the field. The oldies included Sachin Tendulkar as well, but Tendulkar could carry on, being too big for Dhoni to play games with.
In recent times, Dhoni has been blaming the batsmen in straight or very many words. He seems to have lost sight of the fact that apart from keeping wickets, he has to defend his own as well. The much trumpeted helicopter shot has almost diappeared and the Dhoni we see today is a run grafter rather than the aggressive batsman we have known him to be. His post-match briefings are as un-exciting as the batsmanship he displays these days. His captaincy in the past few seasons has been unimaginative. As Ganguly rightly pointed out "He looks a great captain when he is winning." 
What you give unto others, comes back to you eventually. The clamour for his sacking is becoming louder. Yes, Kapil Dev and Sunil Gavaskar did say that Dhoni was still the best bet since there was no viable alternative at the moment, but that opinion is pregnant with meaning. He is the captain by default.
The Aussie team is also going through a transitional phase. The Australian Cricket Board had a similar predicament knowing Ponting's glorious days were over and it was time to hand over the mantle to Michael Clarke who wasn't exposed well enough to the rigours of the job. But the ACB took a decision and reposed faith in him. Clarke more than proved equal to that task, just like Alaistair Cook did when Andrew Strauss paved the way for him.
The BCCI must learn to take hard decisions. Dhoni's logic of giving younger players a chance should apply to himself to begin with. Remember the West Indies Criket Board too did not hesitate to dump the likes of Richards, Lara, Haynes, Richardson when they weren't performing to their past potential.
Keeping someone in the team merely on the basis of his past laurels isn't great cricketing sense. Indian cricket has any number of examples of those who got an extended charity just to enable them a place in record books. If "why" rules over "why not" while annoucing retirement, the BCCI must give them a honourable exit and a place under the Sun.
Question is will they?



  

On a sticky wicket!

Will we ever see this scene on Indian wickets?

Raju Korti

Before I dwell on the pivotal issue in this blog, let me bring to you a flashback of 1971 summer when a casting vote coup by then Chairman of Indian Selectors Vijay Merchant catapulted stylish and elegant left hander Ajit Wadekar as the skipper of the team to tour West Indies. Merchant’s master-stroke, among other things caused – no less – to roll the head of the incumbent skipper Nawab of Pataudi. But that of course is peripheral to the issue.
The first among the volley of questions thrown at Wadekar by a charged media was did the Indians have a game plan to tackle the battery of West Indian fast bowlers on the bouncy tracks there. Wadekar’s riposte was brilliant: Good batsmen are never afraid of good bowlers or bad pitches. As it turned out, Wadekar and his men made history winning against the mighty West Indians led by the indomitable Garry Sobers. The series was dominated by old warhorse Dilip Sardesai and the new batting sensation Sunil Gavaskar.
The West Indian pitches and then the subsequent ones in the series against England showed India had the potential to negotiate the blistering pace of John Snow and John Price. Put simply, the pitches, obviously conducive to the home teams, did not in the least inhibit quality players like Gavaskar, Viswanath and Vengsarkar.
Contrast this against the stink raised by Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI)  Vice President Niranjan Shah a few days back when he let lose a verbal fussilade against the Eden Gardens Curator Prabir Mukherjee for defying Captain Mahendra Singh Dhoni’s clear hint of preparing a turning track for the recent Kolkata Test.
Mukherjee got Shah’s goat for speaking out his mind to the media, terming it as a breach of code of conduct. Given BCCI track record of muzzling the players’ and officials’ voices, Shah’s outburst wasn’t surprising in the least. The BCCI in its infinite wisdom has rarely been sporting and still hasn’t come to appreciate the need for transparency. Often, its decisions, taken behind closed doors, are merely conveyed to the public, rationale be damned.
Mukherjee, a weather-beaten veteran of his craft, wasn’t amused when Dhoni brazenly declared that the Indians would be more than happy to have a spinning track to checkmate the Englishmen sensitized to fast tracks. Now it is old hat that the home team asks for pitches that suits its conditions. So it is not as if Dhoni committed a grave sin. He did what his predecessors did all along. Don’t the overseas players delight in the discomfiture of the Indian batsmen when they take their crease on their pitches?
Mukherjee was miffed and rightly so, that a seasoned curator like him was virtually ordered to do so. Anyone with a right cricketing sense will concede Mukherjee’s point.
Why do the Indians fight shy of playing on fast pitches? And why does it have to be a tit for tat elsewhere in the world. Can we not have a semblance of cricketing wisdom that ensures there are sporting pitches consistently all over. For one, it will keep the Test Cricket – which is the real cricket – alive. The shorter version of the game with its Wham Bang Thank You approach is now losing its excitement and sheen with its overkill.
Every time Indian teams go to England, Australia or South Africa to be haunted by those short-pitched deliveries, come back more determined than ever to give the overseas teams a dose of their own medicine by opting for a dusty, spinners’ paradise. Recall how Matthew Hayden had turned the 2004 Wankhede pitch in Mumbai as a “candy bar”.
Of course, by all means have a turning track when the overseas teams come here, but why shy away from preparing fast and bouncy tracks for the upcoming players during the domestic matches? If the diminutive Viswanath could caress a Jeff Thomson’s 150 Kmph delivery with a late cut, what stops the likes of Kohli and Gambhir from displaying similar panache? A far cry from the days of Nari Contractor felled by an express delivery from Charlie Griffith during the 1962 series in the Carribean. Since then, all debates and discussions on having sporting pitches in the country were quietly buried.
Fifty years later, the Indian paranoia to have turning wickets continues. Remember how even an accomplished batsman like Sourav Ganguly walked out huffing and puffing when he saw the lush green pitch at Nagpur. Far from trying to prove a point, Ganguly and his men were beaten comprehensively by Ponting and Co. This time round it has been different in that the Englishmen have beaten the Indians at their own game and how. How are the players, least of all the BCCI going to overcome? Maybe they will want overseas teams to come without a spinner!
 Let’s get back to what Mukherjee said: “It is unethical to tamper with the pitch as per the liking of the captain. I have not done it in my life. Why should I do it now? What happens if the pitch does not last for five days? Let them give me in writing then I will do it.”
Mukherjee faced flak for defying the Board speaking in Dhoni’s voice. The breach of code was just a specious excuse. But such deep rooted are the Indian fears that far from standing by his side, the Cricket Association of Bengal (CAB), turned against him.
Quite possible the Indians may bounce back to win the Mumbai Test, but the fact will remain that Cook cooked the Indian goose on its own soil.
The Englishmen have certainly queered the pitch for the Indians, never mind the pompous 3-0 rout the latter kept dreaming of. 

Tiger's Trail

Raju Korti
"You are the editor of a paper that has had a long string of  illustrious names to its credit including mine", Bal Thackeray said to me, his index finger almost drilling a hole into my chest. The characteristic mischievous glint that his eyes revealed through his tinted glasses too was unmistakable, as if to make me conscious of the most unique address of the publication I worked for from its hallowed portals -- The Free Press Journal.
Of the two audiences I had with this rather charismatic man, who had arrogated to himself the pompous sobriquet of "Hindu Hridaysamraat" somewhere in the midst of his turbulent political sojourn from the mid-sixties neo-natal period of the monolithic Shiv Sena, one was incidental and the other consequential.
Sometime in 1972, I remember how Bal Thackeray -- yet to be Balasaheb then -- was chased down in Nagpur by lumpens of the Students Federation of India after he delievered a speech full of acidic barbs at the Communists he had rabid dislike for, at a college student's rally. An unfazed Thackeray boarded the car that was to take him to the airport, but not before he had whipped out a pistol and looked back at the mob menacingly, making no bones that it wouldn't provoke him much to pull the trigger. I recall how the mob stopped in its track and then beat a hasty retreat. Etched vividly, I then had little inkling that thirty-two years hence, my profession would bring me face-to-face with the same man, who now preferred to be attired in saffron robes, a "rudraaksh maala" around his neck, than the customary pant-shirt and the ubiquitous pipe between his lips.
The FPJ photographer Sanjit Sen, who was perhaps having a dekko at Thackeray for the first time, flitted his photo angles -- bending and straightening -- in a flurry of movements with schoolboyish enthusiasm. Turning his head towards him, Thackeray snapped his sardonic humour: "Lungicha photo kaadhtoys ki pungicha?" That sharp repartee also made me realise that because of the chaste Marathi I broached the conversation with him, it didn't occur to him to check my Marathi-turned Kannada antecedents.
In the meeting that unwinded well over three hours, I realised Thackeray carried a strange thought process of a politician and a statesman, but I wasn't interested in knowing the political leanings of the man as much as I wanted to delve deep into his mind. His cartoons, borne out of a razor-sharp mind, keen observation, his abiding interest in Literature and his organisational skills were more important to me than his much bandied image as a man who ignited Marathi Asmita given his penchant to use language as a powerful weapon to mobile a section of people or, for that matter, to strike terror into the minds of the "overbearing, dominating south Indians.
The late nineties, especially the post Sena-BJP coalition government in Maharashtra, his party, often accused rightly or wrongly, as "remote controlled" and run by a man who never made any secret of his preference for "benevolent dictatorship", had seen the emergence of Shiv Sena as a party of goons who couched their love for Mumbai in the name of Marathi and Hindutva. A party that had squandered away its electoral advantage with its ruffian ways.
Yet, in all this confusing melee, there was Thackeray who had a plausible rationale for all his apparently contradictory and self-defeating stances. "I will do what my conscience tells me, everything else be damned", was his thinking philosophy. That, if any, explained why he chose to take even Advani and Vajpayee head on knowing fully well it could screw up the party's political equations with ally BJP, his surprise dinner invitation to Pakistani cricketer Javed Miandad at his residence Matoshri and the much pooh poohed and criticised programme of pop star Michael Jackson.
"So what? you mean to say I should kow tow to people because of their pre-eminent status? I run a party on my own ideology. Let people poke ridicule at me. If someone doesn't believe in me, they are free to get out lock stock and barrel," Thackeray told me. "I have given my blood and sweat to conceive this party. Not for nothing the thousands of Shiv Sainiks rise at my one finger tip. If that means I am a rabble rouser, so be it."
Remember, those were the times when Chhagan Bhujbal had engineered a split in the Shiv Sena and a bigger dent in Thackeray's pride. Having covered that turmoil in the party as The Hindu reporter, I could understand, though not appreciate, the kind of venom Thackeray would spit at almost every rally, often deriding Bhujbal as Lakhoba Lokhande and an unforgivable traitor. The same anger and hatred was in evidence when Narayan Rane, who he helped to become the chief minister of "his Maharashtra", deserted to join ranks with the Congress. As someone who could deliver a speech good enough to be described as a litterateur's delight, he could also stoop to sneer at Rane with a "dedh footiya." To that extent, he was a complete spectrum, who could switch ends with similar love or hatred.
"I was, am and will remain a great admirer of "Pu La" Deshpande. I have visited and revisited his writings for as much times as I can remember, but he trained his guns on us at our own award-giving function." Though that unsavoury spat left a bitter taste in the Marathi man's mouth and was headlined as a label-head "One Marathi icon Vs Another Marathi Icon" by a superficial English Press, I can vouch it was the fury of a man who felt wronged. And before this provokes anyone to jump to conclusions, I remember having written a rasping column running down Thackeray and lauding "Pu La" for the dignified silence that he kept throughout later and refusing to be drawn into what could have been a long-drawn verbal skirmish. The irony of it all was, as a keen Thackeray follower, I was well aware of his literary credentials.  
The incongruity similarly showed when Thackeray, after roundly criticising the Congress on the issue of Enron, towed the same line in an expedient somersault. Even Sachin Tendulkar got a dose of the Thackeray medicine. The fact that someone with an avowed pro-Marathi ethos could lose his base or standing among his own constituncy, made little difference to the patriarch, who was well seized that it was his word against anything else. That to me was the USP of Thackeray. He would madly love or intensely hate the same person. Hate him or love him for that! Misplaced though at times it was, it was this stranglehold on the public pulse that gave him this authority and power. And he drew from that bank without fear and most of the times, with favour. While other politicians drank behind their khadi masks and Gandhian hypocrisy, Thackeray had no inhibitions and drank beer or wine donning saffron robes.
"As a schoolboy, I would make a scramble to lay my hands on Maarmik, your cartoon-based Marathi weekly. You lampooned your rival politicians relentlessly. Big time politicians of that era shivered you would caricature them. But why did you relegate such an incisive and evocative craft to the caprice of popular politics? You were the country's best cartoonist, notches above RK Laxman," I asked him. Thackeray looked pained for a moment and conceded that he could have given it more devotion, but "I had more pressing missions at hand, I had to decide my priorities", the obvious explanation why his collection of cartoons got assimilated into a coffee-table book towards the fag end of his life.
But true to his "values", he never carried his regrets as baggage. Those who accuse him of playing a blind but doting Dhritarashtra -- while elevating son Uddhav as the party's executive head in preference to his more competent and on-the-same track nephew Raj -- often skip the fact that he also disowned youngest son Jaidev for his philandering ways and never ever bothered to get him back into his fold. Thackeray couldn't care less that criticism could ricochet on him for promoting dynasty politics when he routinely hurled the same refrain at Congress.
Most of my meeting with the old man, ever so young at heart and so quick on the uptake, was centred around matters not relating to politics since I did not want to succumb to the temptations of writing a clique-ridden, rhetorical copy that most editors seek from their staffers to tickle people. At the end of it, I found that within the Thackeray most people had seen and heard, lived another Thackeray, who was warm, affectionate and helping. Was the Thackeray who helped Sanjay Dutt, Amitabh Bachchan the one people knew or I (preferred to) understand? Conjecturing may be an art I may have honed as a journalist, but I will keep it on the back-seat for now.
All I know is he genuinely loved Raj and had intended to groom him as his obvious heir. Raj had all the trappings he would expect as his natural successor -- the firebrand oratory laced with puns, mimicry, cartoon craft, the way to graft popularity and just about everything that was "Balasaheb." Then at what point did Raj fall from grace? As I bore, no speculations for me.
I would rather recall and feel the warmth of his hand on my back and I am sure on his part he didn't think of me as an owl either -- if you know what I mean.

Jai Hind, Jai Maharashtra  

But why not Mr Hayden?

A strong appeal

Raju Korti

Whether he used the long handle or the Mongoose Bat, Matthew Lawrence Hayden, better known to the cricketing fraternity as Matt Hayden, pulverised the opposition bowlers and smoted them brutally on the green turf till the day he hung his boots. But the 6 ft 3 genial hunk, always a sport off it, has flew off his handle once again so characteristic of him.
It has rankled Haydos no end that the Australian government in its cricketing wisdom has decided to confer the prestigious Order of Australia on Sachin Tendulkar whose exploits have already become a part of folklore Down Under.
Now Hayden is no alien to the Indian soil and its frenetic fans of the game. Like many others of his country, he keeps flitting in and out of India like a Kangaroo and makes a neat pile of money on endorsements, not to speak of the publicity that comes his way given that he shows up frequently in starred hotels in his dual avtaar as chef.
Hayden rationalises that the award is purely Australian in nature and should be bestowed upon an Australian. On the face of it, it seems a well reasoned and plausible argument, only that it doesn't seem to have occured to his narrow thinking that such an award is and should be an honour to any national and it does more honour to the country that gives it.
If the British with all their colonial mindset can still think it fit in their racist canniness to confer the Order of British Empire (OBE) on Indians, what is so questionable about the Aussie government honouring a foreign national? Afterall, their track record on racism in recent times has been similarly dismal. The honour should be for the work and not for the individual per se. If the Aussies believe that Tendulkar has brought as much cheer to their countrymen as the likes of Hayden with their game and gamesmanship, why should Tendulkar, whom the Don of Cricket simply described as"That Little Fella bats just like me" not be a worthy recipient?
Obviously, nationalism doesn't seem to be weighing on Hayden's mind as much as the "Monkeygate" of the 2007-2008 series in which volatile Harbhajan Singh's earthly Punjabi expletive was misunderstood by Andrew Symonds. As an ugly fallout, Hayden was charged for code of conduct violation by Cricket Australia for calling Bhajji an "obnoxious little weed" and for inviting speedster Ishant Sharma (Ponting's bugbunny) for a boxing bout during an interview aired on Radio Brisbane. Though reprimanded by Cricket Australia, Hayden never admitted his culpability. The Aussie cricketers do not subscribe to any code of conduct. Codes and conduct are only meant for cricketers from the sub-continent. Ask any Aussie and he will wear his pride on his sleeve saying "we play our cricket the hard way." It means the way they find it right.  
Probity, like charity, should begin at home. Hayden must ask himself why he allowed himself to be auctioned for the Indian Premier League in the first place. He could have been as sanctimonious with his views saying let the IPL be played by Indians. It's their game. But the lure of greens and renown makes people change their colours faster than a chameleon. Foreign players know that India is a milched cow and jump at the first opportunity to land on the Indian shores to grab some quick bucks and gala time. Not all shoot their mouths off like Hayden has done.
He should let marsupials enjoy their leaps in the Kangaroo court.
 

Strains gone, stress showing!

Lata and Rafi, the best ever, but....

Raju Korti

Age may have caught up with national icon Lata Manageshkar, but amnesia certainly hasn't. The singer whose name will remain etched in history books, has gone off key yet again. Off the mike though. And if you thought this was a small consolation, ask the fans of another legendary singer Mohammed Rafi and you'll know how mortified they are at the country's deified songstress for exhuming an issue that everyone had thought had been given a decent burial.
Those who have followed Lata closely will tell you in hushed tones that for all the supremacy and sovereign that she has been as a singer, insecurity has been her constant companion. The fabled Lata Mangeshkar ego is widely perceived to have made short work of whatever competition she has had to put up with including that from her own illustrious sister Asha Bhosale.
It has always baffled me as to why a person of her countenance, stature and craft had to find herself on a slippery ground each time even when a no-competition stared her in the face. Contrast this with the smiling mien of the late Mohammed Rafi who had more contemporaries to contend with than Lata. Rafi edged past them with his metier; never even once overstepping the fault line. He was gentleman to a fault, if I may be allowed the pun. Throughout his four-decade career, Rafi was the proverbial banyan tree under whose umbrage other singers grew. Competition made him excel himself and smile more while it made Lata sulk more and more.
This streak in her surfaced visibly when she took on the mighty Rafi on the issue of royalty. There are many who say this as an afterthought: That Lata stands vindicated today as far as appreciation of an artiste's calling is concerned. But then, we are living in brazenly commercial times where business ethics are best read only in text books. Rafi took a principled posturing on an issue which made horse sense to the composers who conglomerated the glorious music of the fifties and sixties. Recall how a furious Lata walked out of the meeting summoned to debate the issue, realising she had been hopelessly isolated. Rafi made people swoon anywhichways. If not with his lung power, with his smile and modesty.
It was Lata and not Rafi who decided unilaterially that she would not sing with the country's best male singer to which the latter's measured response was "if she isn't interested, why should I be." The fact of the matter is the ego issues simmering between the two had come to a boil and the royalty issue was just an impetus. Things hadn't been hunky dory with them mainly because Lata couldn't reconcile to the fact that any other singer could be hailed as more popular, admired and adored. Even today, 32 years after his death, the discerning believe that Rafi's admirers far exceed those of Lata.
Those were the times that if and when a good solo came Rafi's way, Lata would make sure it came her way too. And without sounding biased, as everyone would agree, the Rafi version sounded miles ahead. For that matter, with a few exceoptions, the male version of the song always outbeat the female version. It only worsened things.   
As a historian of film music, I know where the roots of this dispute were and what rankled Lata so much so as to keep her grudges thus far. She fell flat on her face when it came to garnering support of the music directors and producers on the much touted royalty issue. So confident was she of her clout in the film industry that she couldn't believe when she found, she had only few takers on the issue. When Rafi rationalised that once a singer sang a song and got paid his/her remuneration, he had no right to ask for any payment over and above (read royalty). His reasoning and logic was so fair and just that almost all music directors seconded him. Lata was hoping that with Rafi's support, the royalty issue was as good as clinched and no composer or producer could dare defy them. But Rafi's stand upset her calculations. Besides, she suspected that Rafi was tutored by Naushad. Indeed, in on of her interviews on TV she clearly said that Wo (Rafisaab) bahot seedhe the, unko kisine bhadkaya tha. Even at this juncture, the issue would have been sorted out without much heartburn, but the killer punch came soon after. Composers, wised up to her idiosyncracies and mood swings, started taking other female singers like Suman Kalyanpur, apart from her own sister Asha Bhosale, for duets. Nothing changed for Rafi, but everything for Lata. And let's face facts. Both the sisters, despite their phenomenal talent and the advantage of being on their home ground, were always very insecure and wary of competition. So much so that even the internal rivalry/cold war between them wasn't lost on discerning people. With the dice falling in favour of Rafi, Lata got desperate and as was her wont, intensely jealous and spiteful. In his book, senior journalist Raju Bharatan quoted Rajsingh Dungarpur (with whom Lata was believed to be close) about how obstinate and child-like Lata could be if things didn't turn out the way she wanted them to be.
The royalty issue showed Lata who stood where in terms of public admiration and respect. Though legends of singing, there was no dispute as to who was more loved, respected and adored. It is surprising that someone of the stature of Lata, who should never have harboured any fears of being eclisped by anyone, should take recourse to such vicious campaign against someone as godly as Rafi. But then, both Lata and Asha have always shown this blow-hot-blow-cold attitude. Some day they are effusive in their praise of Rafi and some day as mean.
I feel that it is really immaterial whether Lata has a copy of the purported apology letter written to her by Rafi. My gut feeling is she doesn't. And even if she were to have it, it would only be interpreted as Rafi's humility for which he was known all through his career. Lata's claim should be dismissed as the as the ravings and rantings of a fractured ego. Having said that, there is also a limit to which one can stoop. And such an unkind cut to a person who has died 32 years back, and one who is held in such high esteem, is not done at all. One can only feel sorry for Lata who should be actually basking in her independent iconic status rather than trying to put herself on the same keel as Rafi.
But counselling her is a remedy worse than the disease. Only she can be her own doctor.

Third Front: Fancy frigging

Raju Korti

In India, you do not have to a be a political pundit to know elections are round the corner. In the season of juke ballot box, there are two regulation issues that spring up like dog's mushrooms and these manifest in the grey columns of newspapers or the talk time (!) on television channels. The Bofors scam and the Third Front, which interest no one except the players involved.
The Third Front is not even a conundrum. Its heavyweights from the Janata Dal (A to Z), Bahujan Samaj Party, Telugu Desam, Communist Party of India, All India Forward Bloc and Samajwadi Party realise at the convenient time that the people, heavily fed on the "pro-rich" economic policies of the Congress and the "communal and fascist" face of the Bharatiya Janata Party, want a "refreshing" change in the riff raff medley composed of the likes of Mulayam Singh Yadav and Mayawati.  So we have a Third Front that is "pro-poor, pro-farmer, pro-worker, pro-OBC, pro-Dalit, pro-women (!), pro-minorities and pro-youth." It is as if there can be no other dispensation that is so generously inclined to the cause of a welfare state. But the plain and unwarnished truth is this alliance is unholy and rank opportunistic trying to cobble up a poorly stitched coalition that breaks faster than it forms.
The man who unleashed this monstrous atrocity on the people is none other than "Mr Clean" VP Singh who let loose the Mandal hell on the polity, putting it back by ages. The trick is to use names that are meant to throw dust in the eyes of people. So you cannot be faulted if the United National Progressive Alliance (UNPA) sounds dangerously similar to United Progressive Alliance (UPA) of Sonia Gandhi.
Lost for an issue? Launch a Third Front. That seems to be the underlying principle (?) of these parties who would not bother to know where is the common ideological ground. If there is any, of course. Poor people! If the main choice is dreadful, the alternative is worse. If the arrangement is born out of an "anti-Congress, anti-BJP", it is best left to imagine where is the ideology in all this.
Now that the elections are not far away, Mulayam Singh Yadav, who has been supporting the Congress-led government from outside all these years, has abruptly realised that the scam-tainted government led by mum's-the-word Prime Minister Manmohan Singh needs to be ejected. He is of course the same Mulayam who has bailed out the Congress during the trust vote on Indo-US nuclear deal. If he so vociferously supported Pranab Mukherjee as the presidential candidate, it was not out of charity but to wriggle out of the disproportionate cases against him. With the Congress on a shaky wicket, Mulayam's (un)conventional wisdom tells him that Third Front is the need of the hour.
The tragedy here is that both Congress and BJP are not going to win the elections on ther own steam in 2014 and it is going to hurtle the country into another opportunistic, self-seeking, power-hungry phase. Ask yourself which Third Front will it be and you know the throes of uncertainties staring at you.
Just for the record, the first Third Front government in 1989 led by VP Singh -- the National Government -- lasted barely more than a year with outside support from the Left while the second in 1996 with 13 splinter parties lasted around 21 months with outside support from the Congress. Mulayam was the defence minister here. This time round, he is defending himself!
The message in the history is loud and clear. Mulayam and his friends are just sabre-rattling. His home state presently in the hands of his son Akhilesh, Mulayam is now eyeing prime ministerial gaddi in the fond hope that the Third Front will climb to power with outside support from the Congress. And if nothing else, Congress is sure about one thing: If it cannot come to power, it must bend backwards to ensure BJP too doesn't. So never mind if crooks are propped up at the cost of a hapless people.
Given the gullibility and political proclivities of the Indian electorate, even if the UPA comes to power again, it cannot discount the Mulayam and Mayawati factors. It's not about the incumbency or anti-incumbency factor. Its all about you-scratch-my-back-I scratch-your's and you-tickle-mine-I-tickle your's.
The Third Front is at best an unproductive political masturbation of the senile.    
         

Deshmukh who was a true Vilasrao!

Raju Korti

In my three-decade career as a journalist, I have met two Maharashtra-based politicians who could be given the benefit of doubt of being considered as handsome. One was Rajarambapu Patil, the sugar baron from Walwe tehsil of Sangli district and the other; twice chief minister Vilasrao Deshmukh.

Patil, was of course, cast in the typical western Maharashtra mould. Looking at him, it occurred to me that with his height and face, one could look debonair even clad in a simple cotton dhoti.

At one of his election meetings – ironically soon after the one held by then chief minister Vasant Dada Patil, his rival in the same cooperative sector – I told the ever-smiling Rajarambapu that he could also diversify as a film hero. Never confronted with a compliment like that, Bapu, going into his sixties, was flummoxed for several minutes before it sunk in. He actually blushed and just shook his head, but I could see he was genuinely thrilled. Putting an affectionate arm around me, he made me sit next to him and shared one of the best rustic meals I have ever been treated to. In those days I keenly followed the cooperative lobby in Maharashtra thanks to Vasant Dada Patil who acquainted me with the intricacies of the movement. So pleased was Bapu with me that he insisted I be his guest for two days. Like his appearance, he jealously guarded his reputation as a magnanimous host and by the time I took his leave, I was in the awe of the man. Not just for his good looks but for his dignified demeanour. This was sometime in 1981.

Around this time, Vilasrao had just made his maiden entry into the legislative assembly having had his political grinding, first as Zilla Parishad member, then as Sarpanch of his hometown Babhulgaon and as a youth Congress leader. However, it wasn’t until 2003 and 2004 when he ascended the chief ministerial gaddi that I had an audience with him. I happened to tag a fellow journalist who had an interview appointment with him Although a mere piece of furniture in that meeting, it was me who broke the ice. Vilasrao himself gave the opening. He had fished out a comb from his kurta and was styling his already elegant flick of the hair. Later, I learnt that Vilasrao was fond of “combing operations” as I called it.

“You could double up as a Marathi film hero”, I told him, not sure how he would react to a crack like that. His facial muscles broke into a sheepish but pleased smile. I guess he wanted to say something to that but stopped just in time probably seized of the office he held. It is another story that this obligation to history was fulfilled by his son Riteish. Vilasrao must have had it in him. When handling the Culture portfolio, he hobnobbed with stage, theatre and art, a fascination he carried far enough to fall into the wilderness of an insignificant portfolio of the union cabinet when he took producer Ram Gopal Verma and actor-son Ritesih to the November 2008 terror attack sites. 

As an individual, Vilasrao was flamboyant, but his traits were typically Congress. He could never summon the courage to take on Delhi like his detractor Sharad Pawar did. Like many of his senior leaders he allowed things to go adrift, giving the impression of being patently adventitious. He knew when to be astute, when to lie low and when to be expedient. Occasionally, he would display political acumen like when he paid back Sushilkumar Shinde in the same coin to become the CM. He displayed this characteristic by playing a political ping pong with his senior comrades Ashok Chavan and Sushil Kumar Shinde in the Adarsh scam.

His party bosses knew his strong affiliation with the grassroots was his biggest asset and couldn’t afford to antagonize him beyond a point. Those who knew him closely, were familiar with the Stephen Leacock-ish humour to his side. I have seen few people with a smile that could have different connotations as Vilasrao did.

This is no comparison between Bapu and Vilasrao. Both came from different backgrounds and nursed different values -- political and otherwise. There was one common chord though. Both did justice to their names. You may read between the lines.

The "Avtaar" of Rajesh Khanna

Raju Korti

Long before the 35-inch screen grappled to cope with his larger-than-life image and Jatin Khanna had shed his superficial skin to become Rajesh Khanna, I believed I knew the man well. But he never appealed to my limited aesthetic senses like he did to countless others as the quintessential romantic. Little did I imagine that there was much more to this man, who I recall in my college days, generated the kind of mass hysteria hitherto unseen in the annals of Indian cinema.
Having heard any number of stories about his airy flamboyance, casual and couldn't-care demeanour and rather intimidating presence, he was the unlikeliest of celebrities I would have chosen to bump into -- for professional or unprofessional reasons.
In fact, I took a sadistic delight in snubbing my friends who were his unabashed fans and worshipped him for whatever he did in the name of acting. At the height of one such moment -- when Khanna married the startlingly beautiful Dimple, who was almost half his age then -- I had wisecracked with an impudent and uncharitable headline "Pretty Dimple weds Popular Pimple", inviting more of frowns than chuckles from the other members of the newsroom.
Years later, I caught a glimpse of him at the Sun N Sand Hotel in Juhu, when he was still in his prime and attracting collective gasps from everyone within the vicinity. His disposition clearly betrayed an "I am the King of all that I survey" attitude with that characteristic nod of the head and eyes flickering somewhere between a blink and a wink.
It was only after he decided to contest the parliamentary elections that I decided to explore the man, who could have been a living example of all euphemisms. They called him reticent and reserved, but he could have been a snob, they called him blunt, but he could have been audacious and insolent. You could interpret Kaka Rajesh Khanna the way you looked at him.
I got to the point straight away. "You have had your grinding on Stage. Why did you allow yourself to become a slave of mannerisms and style?", I asked him. It was then I realised Kaka was quick on the uptake and that he saw through me fater than I could see through him. "Saaf kyon nahi kehte ke mere chamche mujhe ye sab seekhate hain", he replied with the same calculated calm of "I hate tears Pushpa". And then he let the words flow with the same tranquil : "I am Rajesh Khanna, the first and only superstar. Whatever I do defines acting."
To his credit, among the film personalities elected to Parliament, Kaka did much more than those of his ilk, but even in his new found avtaar, he remained self-styled and never ever lost the sight of the fact that he was and would be one of his kind. Through the small documentary of his life that he narrated to me with the precision a seasoned editor would be proud of, he laughed away all his travels and travails. It was difficult to believe that here was a man who had tasted heady success, held an unchallenged sway for two decades and wasn't able to come to grips with it. And if millions of his fans wanted him to be seen the way they wanted, who was even mighty Rajesh Khanna to refuse?
With Kaka, everything had to be brutally blunt. No hush hush affairs for him. He could obscure the line between real and reel simply because he was Rajesh Khanna on and off the screen. Now, even as I write this tribute-cum-obituary, I candidly admit my notions about him were pre-conceived. In hindsight, I felt rather than I saw in his eloquent eyes the sensitivity of an artiste and a generous human being.
I remember he told me the story of how he had cajoled the late Rajendra Kumar into selling his "Aashirwad" bungalow off Carter Road in Bandra when the latter had advised him against it, saying the place wasn't lucky. "I went ahead and bought the place. It is in this huge bungalow that my isolated heart has thudded for so many years."
Of course, Kaka hit the bottle hard in those years of self-imposed exile when everyone else distanced from him. But he didn't stoop to conquer. No ribbon cuts, no inaugurations and no rent-dancing at weddings. Not even desperation advertisements for survival even when the taxman came repeatedly knocking. And look at the supreme irony and stark message of the one and only advertisement that he did. Calculated to promote a fan, it instead stirred back to life, the memories of a hero, who made it clear to all Babumoshais that no none could snatch his fans away from him.
It could only be Rajesh Khanna's privilege to articulate:
Zindagi ko bahot pyaar hamne diya
Maut se bhi mohobbat nibhaayenge ham.

Many Measures, No Confidence!

Customary shake, usual bake!

Raju Korti

Looked from any angle, Pakistan is a nation with the proverbial two sides of a coin. The Head is set face to face with India and the Tail invariably or variably – depending on political expediencies and the mood of its hardliner Army – facing the United States of America. That, of course, is peripheral to the issue in discussion.
The immediate trigger for this blog is yet another foreign secretary-level talks have gone through diplomatic charades and consigned  to the inconclusive and senseless dustbin of the turbulent history of the two nations constantly at each others’ throats. The diplomatic tenacity between the two countries has meandered through a series of Confidence Building Measures (CBMs) that have done precious little to reduce fear of attack by both (or more) parties in a situation of tension with or without physical conflict.
History tells us that CBMs emerged from attempts by the Cold War superpowers and their military alliances -- the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) and the Warsaw Pact -- to avoid nuclear war by accident or miscalculation. In the Indo-Pak context, the CBMs haven’t had much of a connotation.
Among the scores of exchanges India has had with Pakistan, the closest one to have fructified was the Agra Summit in 2001 where, eventually, both the sides had veered round to the fact that Kashmir was the core dispute. But as it turned out, the wily Musharraf, who almost talked himself into an Indo-Pak extradition treaty during the course of the summit, left in huff and puff after Advani queered the pitch by throwing in the Dawood Ibrahim issue. I recall having seen on TV Musharraf turn red before coming out with “Advaniji yeh bahot chhota tactic ho gaya”.
Musharraf, who was yet to arrogate to himself the status of a CEO then, made a very pertinent suggestion on how the issue could be approached by eliminating irritants and zeroing in on the options that could be taken forward. It made a lot of political sense but India’s PR was a disaster and what could have otherwise ended as a watershed development in the chequered history between the two countries, reverted to status quo.
It is against this backdrop that the latest nuclear confidence-building measures have to be viewed as a stabilising force for enhanced security, and safety of nuclear facilities. The Track II process might be touted as “some success”, but in the endgame, its validity remains questioned.
An impressive range of CBMs – both military and non military – in the two decades have been overtaken by a Kargil in 1999, the massive mobilization of troops in 2002, and not to speak of the relentless terror unleashed from the Pakistani soil.
The air, road and railway linkages, the hotlines between the two countries have more or less come a cropper. The hotlines have been hardly used when required most and when matters came to the boil, it was saber rattling all the way what with the two countries staring at the horrific prospect of a nuclear war. The border crossings and trade has been almost next to nothing. There has been a specious argument in favour of a disproportionate emphasis on military CBMs with non-military CBMs not getting due appreciation.
Many CBMs originally crafted to address the stabilization between the two countries post the nuclear tests of 1998 remain only in the realms of “acceptance in principle”. The fact is they will remain so unless dominant issues mentioned in the composite dialogue are resolved. Obviously, it is a case of cart being pit before the horse. While CBMs do have the potential to create trust between two nations, trust is also called for in the very inception stage. One feeds off the other, and in the current scenario, when political will in both states appears to be waxing and waning intermittently, CBMs which are difficult to establish but easy to disrupt, have not been fully effective. There is a lack of verifiability in many CBMs which leads both countries to fall victims to mistrust, suspicion and misinformation on a variety of issues.
CBMs have been particularly ineffective, if not absent, during the times of conflict because despite declarations to that effect, neither country has moved beyond the point of “conflict avoidance”. Recall that the ceasefire effected in 2003 was violated by Pakistan in 2008. Worse still, government on both sides often deploy CBMs as a political tool to win over their respective constituencies which can be very damaging in the longer run.
Post-Abbottabad, it is not only anti-American sentiments that run deep in Pakistan: India, to many Pakistanis, is still perceived to be a greater threat to Pakistan than Al Qaeda or the Taliban, clouding the atmosphere for the civilian government's talks with India.
The CBMs have so far been a case of a cart being put before the horse. No way can the talks gallop until the core issue is addressed. And all said and done, it never will be.     

Two rounds of bout with Dara Singh

Raju Korti

For a generation that is hooked on the likes of Salman Khan, Hrithik Roshan and Shah Rukh Khan as the ultimate emblems of masculinity, Dara Singh may probably just be the mythological character of Hanuman that he essayed in his later years in long-drawn sagas like Ramayan and Mahabharat. But ask those who were privileged to see this hunk in his prime and they will assert that the man who juggled the role of a wrestler and a celluloid action hero with so much aplomb, was a hunk in true sense of the word.

In the sixties, Dara Singh held out a constituency of his own. His six feet two frame had the kind of rippling muscles that would make look Salman's pale as fragile arteries in comparison. But there was much more to the born wrestler that he was. Under those steely shoulders, he had a heart softer than butter. The face may have looked like it was carved out of hard granite and the rolled up sleeves capable enough to make sobriquets like "Rustom-E-Hind" and "Hind Kesri" sit pretty on them. On the one side there were hoards of baby-faced chocolate heroes and at the other there was Dara Singh. He was truly a class and breed apart.

I had always thought of him as a B and C grade hero in the Wham-Bang-Thanks-Mam genre films where he would make short work of his on-screen rivals with the same ease that he did in the wrestling bouts. In the fleeting minutes between the action, he would turn a hopeless romantic and find time to fool around with Mumtaz and Nishi, his accredited heroines. Remember, those were the times when Mumtaz was just a glam doll used to fill up reels left over after Dara Singh's encounters with his villains. Mumtaz was persevering and lucky enough a decade later to fall into the arms of the country's first superstar Rajesh Khanna while Dara Singh had lapsed into friendly mythological roles of Hanuman in soaps and films. It seemed there was no one better than him in the country of billions to play the role.

But my two meetings with Dara Singh exposed me to a totally different persona of the man. I found him to be a complete anti-thesis of the rugged, raw, virile mass of flesh that I had seen fill the screen. Dressed in the conventional Punjabi attire and seated alongside his illustrious brother-actor-wrestler Randhawa, the first thing that struck me was his incandescent smile and warm disposition. His massive 130 kg body construct was every inch affectionate and affable. And though he hugged hard enough for me to feel that he had fractured some of my ribs, I couldn't mistake the warmth he exuded. It was a gesture that reminded me of a beautiful Rafi solo from his 1963 film (aptly titled) "Faulad".
"Dil hai hamara phool se naazuk, bazoo hai faulad
Toofano mein palnewaale, rehte hai Azaad"

It took a huge matka (pot) of Malai Lassi -- which he gulped down in one swig -- and some nostalgic memories that no one probably ever shared with him, to get him to rewind. His chest, already big enough to embrace two of my kind, swelled with further pride while narrating how he remained unconquered in all the 500-plus wrestling bouts that he fought. Some of them with traditional rival King Kong had become legendary and stuff folklore are made of. Yet, ironically, one of the films that he was the hero in was titled "King Kong".

Dara Singh never tired of reeling out how he maintained his physique, his grueling exercise schedules and his extraordinary and gluttonous intake. Without having to reel out those incredible details, I can tell you, most of us don't have the tummy for eating that kind of food for weeks. But then, he was Dara Singh, no less.

Dara Singh told me he was born to fight. "At an age when toddlers try to take baby steps, I was breaking things around me with my brute strength. So I was channelized into conventional pehlwaani where I could display my strength in all its rippling glory." That was the beginning of a distinguished and blemish-less career  that spanned over five decades. He was born to conquer. Rather the word "defeat" didn't exist in his lexicon.

Dara Singh never had to act or emote with his eyes and stuff like that. He let his bulging biceps do all the talking. Who would want a macho to play a tear-jerker? In that long sitting, Dara Singh gave a spell-bonding account of most bouts -- both with his rivals in the real and the ones on the screen. It had all the trappings of an international bestseller.

When the time came for me to take his permission, he raised his genially giant frame from the chair to embrace me once again, But this time I was prepared. I just extended my hand to shake with his. For the next few weeks, I was applying pain balm to soothe my aching palm. On hindsight I should have folded hands with a "Namaste". 

Loo's Motions

Raju Korti

Will the day ever dawn?

As a professional journalist brought up and programmed to think differently, I wonder what's the fuss about. I mean shouldn't we Indians thank our learned Deputy Chairman of Planning Commission Mr Montek Singh Ahluwalia for making as insignificant an issue as toilets part of our national consciousness?
For a population that doesn't spend more than half an hour on shedding unwanted load off its system, Ahluwalia's expansive idea of nationalising Rs 35 lakh on the renovation of two toilets has obviously given a severe constipation to "right thinking" people. But first things first.
I do not know whether Ahluwalia has ever availed the services of the toilets, the kind of which dot the vertical landscape of Mumbai. Two things might happen if he has done that. Either he may have sprinted away from the place with the speed of Carl Lewis or probably soiled his pants even before he could take the right posture. And this I say with due respect to the man whose wisdom has constricted to the more-than-narrrow walls of the toilets used by the honourable members of the Planning Commission.
I have been observant enough to catch expressions that clearly tell you that people are holding on to their bladders or bowels, desperately to head for the comfort of the toilets in their house. I can tell you, its quite a daunting ask given that people commute for sometimes more than two hours in Mumbai's crazy life.
Of course, Mumbai is generously disposed towards its struggling populace. For those who stir out out of their house early morning and return late evenings, the metropolis has a number of Sulabh Shouchalayas (easy access toilets) to relieve them from their revolting tummies. So far so good. But such is their maintenance -- a euphemism for condition -- that you throw up a fit and decide to scurry for your home instead. The more desperate ones come out with a face of a lifetime's experience. To add insult to injury, these toilets hypothecate their services "to the courtesy of a corporator or MLA". You live in a country where you have to thank your leaders for allowing you these small mercies.
But even Mumbai, who our leaders from time to time keep assuring will become Shanghai some day, has the same earthly charms to offer as our ubiquitous ruralside. All those who have lived in Mumbai and are condemned to travel through its suburban trains will know what I mean. Not all those sitting by the window shut their eyes of exhaustion. You need to be commute-hardened and gutsy to witness a line-up of migrant squatters shedding their natural manure and upholding the cause of  environment in an otherwise concrete jungle that Mumbai is often billed as.
The diversity is intriguing. An institution that cannot be accused of having planned anything concrete in its chequered existence, fights shy of using its existing toilets that our natural squatters can't even dream of while lesser mortals are inured to be in the lap of nature. Little wonder, the stink on money being squandered on toilets is bound to linger.
I recall once being part of a popular leader's entourage. Twice Maharashtra's chief minister and presently a union minister -- by a strange coincidence handling a portfolio that's relevant to this subject -- he was then in the Opposition. Midway, most people in the retinue, including our leader, got the natural urge. So all of them got down from their cars to provide man-made Urea to the roadside trees. Nature sure is a great leveller. It got an humble (!) journalist and a top leader to unzip barely five feet away and look at each other askance and with a sly, knowing smile.
So without sounding like a socialist, I would like to request Mr Ahluwalia in all humility that he must make a matching allocation for the "other" toilets as well. Else, it will be our Mumbai and their Shanghai.      

Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindusthani. That was Raj Kapoor for you.

Raju Korti

Circa 1974. My first dekko of Raj Kapoor was part perchance and part choice. Untill then, I had happened to file past the famed RK Studios in Chembur umpteen number of times without ever being poked by the curious admirer in me to meet the man so often described as the "Greatest Showman" of film industry.
RK was then flush with Bobby's unprecedented juke box office draw and the launch of his son Chintu (Rishi) and a certain Miss Petitite Dimple Kapadia. A perpetual grin lighted up his face and reached right up to his sea blue eyes. The reason wasn't far to seek. The man had virtually gone bankrupt pampering his old dream of Mera Naam Joker, a heavyweight theme that nursed heavyweights. As one who knew better than anyone else in the quicksands of the fickle film industry, RK had failed to guage public pulse with the result that Joker failed to amuse the masses. Bobby was thus a case of desperate situation brooking desperate measures. But it wiped out RK's losses for good. Not that he was averse to experimentation. RK had given ample evidence that he could be sensibly inclined with meaningful cinema like Boot Polish, Jaagte Raho and Teesri Kasam.
RK ushered me into his office with his trademark smile stars usually reserve for their smitten fans. He soon realised I wasn't one and got more matter-of-fact. Actually, I had never looked at him as part of the legendary trinity of Dev Anand and Dilip Kumar. RK wasn't a style icon and didn't have the kind of urbane charisma of Dev. Nor did he put on show the weighty disposition of Dilip Kumar. Off screen, he was just the same lovable, simpleton Chaplinsque tramp who could tug at your heart-strings.
As we settled comfortably to talk about his films and his music, I got first-hand evidence of all those stories of RK being an insatiable glutton. Even during my subsequent meetings with him, I kept wondering how his tummy was flexible to accommodate all that food he relished so much. Every now and then, he would just scoop his index finger from the nearby window to order dosas, wadas, idlis and uttapams. He would also wash them down with Scotch that he would fish out from his coat pockets. And then, his face flushed and sparkling like red wine, he would unspool memories, most of which I knew and had heard.
But RK was as ravenous when it came to movie-making. He would be like a man possessed when he made his cinema. At times he gave the impression that the world didn't exist so engrossed he would get while making a film. He peaked when he would himself go through the arduous process of editing and washing the film. This RK was a complete anti-thesis of the RK people knew. He would shut himself off in the dark room for days on end, often skipping his food and his Scotch. But of course, the moment he was through with the technicalities that sometimes lasted more than a fortnight, RK would fish his pockets for the first swig.
He was, of course, a complete team man and one area he excelled in was music. Stories abounded about how he could harness the talents of composer duo Shankar-Jaikishen. I recall how music aficianados indulged in animated debate on who between the two was closer to RK. I, however, got it from RK himself though he did not say it in very many words.
I am inclined to believe that RK had just that little soft corner for the Gujarati Jaikishen, the handsome take-it-easy man who he thought was cut out for lead roles. But he also had enough head on his shoulders to acknowledge that Andhrite Shankar was the cerebral of the two. He straddled the geniuses of the two without ever losing his upper hand. I still remember how RK was anguished when a certain lady singer was responsible for knocking the hyphen out of SJ. Right from the days of Barsaat and Awaara, RK evinced keen interest in his music. And we all know how it set an entire generation aflame. SJ were to RK what SD Burman was to Dev Anand.
In his expansive moods, RK would never mince words and feelings even when it came to his lady loves. It would be out of place to dwell on those chapters of his life but if one were to learn from his capacity to absorb failures, RK would make a model example.
On his death anniversary yesterday, I went into a flashback. Curiously, I was in the night shift the day he was awarded the Dadasaheb Phalke award by then President R Venkatraman, breaking the protocol and walking upto him to hand it over. Chronic asthmatic, RK was breathless. He never gathered his breath back. More than a fortnight later, the Anaadi who made an entire Soviet Union swoon to his foot-tapping "Awaara hoon.." had lapsed into history. Coincidence willed it that as a editor in-chare of that night shift, I had the misfortune of "cremating" him.

Entertainment with Red Chillies

Raju Korti

It is perception that divides notoriety from popularity. The Knight in the not-so-shining armor I am referring to is “superstar” Shah Rukh Khan whose alleged drunken hi-jinks at the Wankhede Stadium on Wednesday evening left Mumbai Cricket Association officials eating out of their hands and his side-kicks admiring him more than ever before.
True to his form that rides on a permanent ego trip, Khan has always thrived and prospered at the expense of an indulgent constituency. Of course, stories of Khan’s generosity, much in the style of his professional and personal adversary Salman Khan, abound. But generosity and decent behavior, to most celebrities drawn from the big flashlights, is an option on whim and fancy. That’s what makes all the Khans so intriguing and intimidating. You can't disagree when your learned friends in the fan magazines admiringly describe the tribe as “feisty and tough.”
Buoyed by the rare success that his “riders” have encountered in this edition of the Indian Premier League, SRK in his infinite wisdom decided to take his battalion of lackeys right onto the playing arena. It was nobody’s business, least of all, the Mumbai Cricket Association and Board of Control for Cricket in India, to have stopped SRK’s jubilant march given that the “King Khan” has served his curator’s role on bigger pitches and queered them more effectively.
Obviously, the security manning the area hadn’t counted on the famed SRK “spirit” that has in the past often dared to take on many. It is evident that the powers that be on the stadium have not read the man’s CV that has glowing references. In fact, they need not have done that. A phone call to SRK’s one-time close buddy Farah Khan’s less overbearing hubby Shirish Kunder would have given them a first-hand credential. Ignorance was no bliss here.
Courtesy, to Main Hoon Na Khan, is a one-way traffic. Meaning, it has to extend toward him. He does force a contrived smile and puts his hands together occasionally when contemporaries pip him to the post at awards functions and Tendulkar unleashes a good innings against his outfit. He is a honorable exception that proves the rule.
I believe the MCA and BCCI  (Amazing that the first two letters of these two mighty bodies are also swear words that many people use with practiced ease) have now sworn to teach the Khan a lesson and bring him down to Mother Earth. Little do they know that it isn’t easy to rein in Ra Ones and Dons, as much as it is to tackle the likes of Harbhajan Singh and his ilk. Because that’s not cricket.
      

   

The brouhaha over English!

Raju Korti

 

There is this interesting little story about a senior citizen, who true to the dictum "age does not wither them nor customs stale", dashed off a letter to hold your breath Winston Churchill, during the thick of the Second World War. A self-styled authority on the English language, he was not too amused to read one of the British premier's fiery speeches as it was teeming with mistakes. So worked up was he that he "scurried for a pen and paper and prepared an elaborate list of the grammatical errors in the statesman's speech".

This was all to the good, but the well-meaning gentleman had not counted on the tongue-in-cheek leader whose acidic barbs had already become part of British folklore.
So with great zest he shot off the missive that had the stamp of his self-proclaimed mastery with a smug satisfaction that he had humbled the none too gentle cheroot-smoking giant. For a long time, he did not get a reply but he reasoned that the portly leader may not have had the time. Just as he had started wallowing in his "victory", he received a characteristic Churchill oneliner. To call it a stinker would be an understatement. But Churchill wrote back or is it hit back? "English is the language an Englishman speaks."
When an old-timer narrated this anecdote to me, it set the clock in my head ticking away furiously. My ideas about this language and its grammar went topsy turvy and, what's more, far beyond the realms of Wren and Martin, hitherto the Bible on the subject. It started dawning upon me that the vagaries in the language were legion.
There were exceptions galore that, if anything, only proved the rules. Forget about the complicated clauses, even articles and prepositions were studies in contrast. A professor who taught me English in college once told me that half the English battle was won if one knew how to use articles. This valuable tip later helped me glide through many a reporter's copy which consolidated my belief that the profession is nothing but literature in hurry with a liberal tincture of common sense.
After meandering through the ages, the language has undergone innumerable cosmetic and structural changes. The customary greeting ``how are you?'' is now ``how is you?'' while a ``long time no see'' is supposed to be more evocative than its more correct version. But then, isn't language all about communication and pomposity?
Now consider this: The European commission on European unification recently announced an agreement whereby English will be the official language of the EU rather than German, which was the other possibility. As part of the negotiations, Her Majesty's government conceded that English spellings had some (!) room for improvement and has accepted a five-year phase-in plan that would be known as EuroEnglish. Some flexibility!
In the first year, ``s'' will replace the soft ``c''. Sertainly this will make the sivil servants happy. The hard ``c'' will be dropped in favour of ``k''. This should klear up konfusion and keyboards kan have less letters. There will be growing publik enthusiasm in the second year when the troublesome ``ph'' will be overruled by ``f''. This will make words like ``fotograf'' 20 per cent shorter. In the third year, publik akseptanse of the new spelling kan be expekted to reach the stage where more complikated changes are possible. Governments will enkourage the removal of double letters, which will have always been a deterent to akurate speling.
The subsequent years will see a fermentation of the language that will be fraught with endless variations.
The question now is who will write the epitaph for Wren and Martin.

...And The Award Goes To None

Raju Korti
I am overtaken by a sense of trepidation and despair every time a Sunday approaches. Not that one doesn't need a welcome break from the daily skullduggery and humdrum. But for sheer ennui and redundancy, Sundays aren't fun days any more.
Being a habitual home bird comes with its own incumbent risks. There are not many ways to break the shackles, and more often than not you end up switching on the telly in the fond but useless hope of stumbling upon some wholesome recreation. The menu is anything but appetising.
Thanks to the presiding officer of the cable entertainment, the starters are provided by regressive, outrageous soaps punctuated by synthetic and larger-than-life characters who are either too lovey dovey, too scheming, too rich, too poor and too generally too. Loud and pedestrian dialogues matched by garish costumes are far removed from the real. A few minutes of dekko is enough to throw you into pessimism to last till the next weekend. As one who would pause to occasionally watch Marathi serials because they were a wee bit more sensible and down to earth, it is frightening to see the rot setting in there too. There is truly university in this stupid diversity.
The anchors of the crime shows look like criminals themselves, spouting corny scripts and accompanied by strange gesticulations. Of course, they are fun to watch, if you can soak in the humorous element, but then that humour is as dead beat as some of the decomposed and mutilated corpses that are meant to send chills down your spine. The "reconstructed" scenes are probably enjoyed only by the actors who must laugh their guts out at having made a neat pile of dough for doing something as non sensical as that.
Brace for worse for the onward journey -- a plethora of so called news channels. If you haven't seen or known the hosts of talk/debate shows, news anchors and sundry reporters passing off non events as news, you can see them giving you fixed grins from ubiquitous posters dotting your cityscape. They do not need any more honourable mention here. These guys do no wrong, say no wrong, know almost everything under the Sun and their opinions matter above everyone else's. Little wonder even the "experts" summoned to speak look lost and stymied, cut off as they are even before they start waxing eloquent on their valued opinions. Upstart reporters asking inane questions to a cluster of people, most vying to get in front of the camera, look flustered and like sacrificial lambs when news anchors dictate to them from their air conditioned studios what questions to ask. Debates are a non show if there are no frayed tempers.
Movie and music channels that used to be tolerable once have run out of steam. The fare is repeated far too frequently under different heads. So be prepared to watch Shah Rukh Khan's DDLJ ad nauseum in "Romantic Movies", "Love Films", "Kajol Special", "Chopra Special" or maybe "King Khan Week".
But by far the worst is the awards functions. Week after week a hapless audience is condemned to watch some award function or the other or their repeat telecasts "for the benefit of those who missed out the first time". Not satisfied with one man anchoring the show, these days they foist another who in tandem make a pathetic attempt to tickle your funny bone. The scripts are either too pompous or too free flowing to the comfort of your sanity. On the other side of the stage we have award winners who have to kiss and hug their folks after their name is called, jealous competitors sporting disdainful smirks, and others who clap and watch animatedly at just about everything. The inspirational thanksgiving speeches of the ones pipping their rivals to the post are interspersed with the co-anchors pulling each other's leg or making snide remarks against their peers -- all in good humour. And sitting in your drawing rooms, you are supposed to enjoy this unmitigated mediocrity as spice.
The laughter shows make your intestines spill out of your tummy. If you don't laugh here, you are being too harsh on yourself. And to the hosts! If you can't understand and appreciate below-the-belt humour, then your sense of humour is perhaps warped,
That leaves us with some sporting encounters. And if it is something like the IPL that is long enough to give the Great Wall of China a complex, you have the liberty and option to redefine what kind of event it is. A recreation or entertainment.
Whoever said what the eyes don't see the heart doesn't grieve about certainly wasn't speaking through his hat.

The American Paranoia

Raju Korti
The Americans are always obtained on when to mince words, use officialspeak and when to draw from political humour that borders on subtle satire. One does not know whether it was his rigorous stint with the Marine Cops or his diplomatic skills that he kept honing while doing duty for President Reagan and Bush (Senior), but the then Secretary James Baker was sure a class act.On his numerous failed attempts -- like the North Korean Missile Programme -- to broker peace in the conundrum called Middle East, the suave juggler had termed the region as a theatre of the absurd, which indeed it was. When asked by a posse of we-know what-you-would say journalists on what were the guarantees of a conciliation from the US intervention, he reparteed with the trademark non chalance a la Sean Connery, "No guarantees. This is Middle East".Baker's influence may have been replaced with Hillary Clinton's tepid responses as far as the Americal foreign policy is concerned, but the pronounced contrast in the American perception is clearly discernible. That, of course, is quite understandable given the otherwise Big Boss status that the United States has arrogated to itself, more so after the fragmentation of the erstwhile Soviet Union. What amuses, however is the paranoia that it displays when it comes to North Korea and Iran.Pyongyang's latest attempt at acquiring a 6000-9000 km range Inter Continental Ballistic Missile (ICBM) may have come a cropper, but the Americans believe, rightly or wrongly, that the missile could have been punched with a nuclear warhead.Having been witness to how then prime minister Rajiv Gandhi's smiling jaws had dropped to his knees when an Indian rocket launch went kaput, I can also visualise how the American think tank must have took in a long sigh of relief at the failed missile test. But the US also knows, it will be sooner if not later before the reclusive rogue state sends another one soaring to the consternation of millions of gasps.The North Koreans may be still way off a smooth test, but before things degenerate to a head, the Americans need to drop all sense of anxiety and first call the Nokor's bluff before taking any action on the ground, considering it musters the courage to do so. And this is where the crunch lies. Having flopped in most of its military exercises, including the not-so-honourable one when India and Pakistan stood perilously on the brink of a nuke war in 1971 war, the US also needs to reduce its dependence on umbrella organisations like the NATO. Each time it cannot draw support and sustenance from a host of allegiances like it managed to during the war (ostensibly) to rescue Kuwait. Recall how some stooge nations were vociferous in their protest against the US when the UN inspectors did not find even a grain of evidence on the existence of weapons of mass destruction(WMDs) in Saddam's Iraq.The problem is the US has remedies worse than the disease and with its sometimes esoteric approach to handling foreign relations -- expediencies granted -- it only succeeds in isolating itself. The post bin Laden killing is a case in point. Half cock measures don't work in international issues, not in the longer run anyway.Weighed down as they are with the might of China, the implacable North Korea and Iran, and the obdurate Cuba, its time the Americans saw a mirror image in India and deal with the unpredictable Pakistan accordingly. A meandering Pakistan rife with uncontrolled religious extremism is a far more dangerous proposition not only for South East Asia but to the whole world.The North Koreans may or may not reach the Americans, but the Pakistanis have already placed themselves in that situation. Dabbling far too much in others' affairs is fraught with dangerous consequences and the Americans know it. Only they do not learn.Ariel Sharon got it right when he said "Don't worry about American pressure on Israel. We, the Jewish people control America and the Americans know it."