Indian batting anything but in the 'pink' of health

Raju Korti
There is something extremely funny when a national team is bundled out for a paltry total, especially when the team, touted as one with great batting depth and plenteous bench strength, falls like nine pins. Actually, for a total score of 36, paltry is a big concession. The manner in which India meekly gave up in Adelaide today with just 36 runs and no one managing to enter even the double digit score was worse than an abject surrender. Worse still, all this happened when I was away for some work and when I tuned in, India was already gasping at 26/8 and staring at one of the most humiliating defeats on a foreign soil. It brought back memories of the disastrous 1974 series against England when Indians were handed out a 3-0 Whitewash by the Englishmen. At Lords India scored just 42 in 17 overs to lose by an innings and 285 runs. Even then, recall that the late Eknath Solkar had dourly stuck around for his 18 runs when others capitulated before Geoff Arnold and Chris Old. That team had Gavaskar, Wadekar and Viswanth. The refrain was the Indians couldn't come to grips with the biting cold weather and refused to take their hands out of their pockets to take catches.  Today, with No 2 ICC ranking Kohli, they had no such excuse and in a spunk-less display of batting could score 36 in 19 overs, their score-card reading like someone's mobile number as the joke is being circulated among furious but sarcastic fans. There is of course no discounting the superb spell bowled by Pat Cummins and Josh Hazlewood with the pink ball but it is inexplicable that a team caves in with not even a semblance of fight. 

A look at the lowest Test totals should, however, give the Indians some consolation. On the record front, India has much to cheer about, facts being stranger than fiction. In the history of Test cricket India has 8 low totals as against Australia and England (19 each), New Zealand (16), South Africa (13) and West Indies (7). To give more comprehension to these figures, India and New Zealand, at least until the mid-70s were not exactly giants in the international reckoning but traditional Ashes rivals Australia and England are match for each other on that count. New Zealand, patently the minnows then, have come a long way to be no pushovers but they still retain their dubious record of the lowest ever Test total. From the lowest low of 26 by New Zealand to the lowest high of Pakistan's 80, there have been 106 such lowest low-scoring cricketing matches. Even lowest totals have scored a hundred in a game that is a baffling turmoil of numbers.

If you exempt the cut-throatism and ruthlessness that obtains in the way the game is played today with understandably high stakes, the fact remains that at the end of the day it is a game where teams will win or lose and even the best of teams can have a bad day in office. India's loss rankles not because of the loss per se but because of the complete absence of will to fight it out. With three more Tests to go and Kohli on paternity leave, the others have to more than iron out the kinks in their armour.

Beyond figures and customary sermonizing, I always wonder what does the team do on a day like this when their reputation is shredded to pieces. You see players in  the dug-out or balcony chatting away merrily, feverishly gesticulating, standing up in excitement and applauding, clinching fists, eating snacks and sipping beverages but a loss like this early in the tour takes some resilience to bounce back. I am  curious to know how Ravi Shastri will deal with this apart from giving his boys some pep talk to goad them into action since the batting technique of most of them showed they lacked application, forgot basics and seemed to be still stuck in the IPL mindset. 

From the Summer of 42 in 1974 in Lords to the Winter of 36 in 2020 in Adelaide -- and I am going by the Indian seasons -- India has taken 46 years to do worse. If this piece of statistic is any indication, I hope I won't be alive to see the worst.      

Not fair on Cheteshwar Pujara

Raju Korti
The idea of fielding two separate teams for the shorter and longer versions of the game may have its utility and logic but it has some strong aberrations. The reference is to Cheteshwar Pujara who is perhaps the only true specialist Test batsman in the current Indian team visiting Down Under. (Kohli excluded since he is playing only the first Test). Pujara played his last Test end February against New Zealand which means he has had no international exposure for almost a year. In 77 Tests, Pujara has scored almost 6000 runs with 18 hundreds at an average close to 50. Just how fair is it to expect a batsman of Pujara's class and caliber to walk into the Test side against Australia in Australia after such a long hiatus and deliver?

Given the way the shorter version has made inroads into the longer version, players, especially batsmen have to readjust and reorient themselves to a format that calls for completely different skill sets. In India where cricket is played extensively, there have been instances where batsmen have ended up being neither a Test or ODI/T20 specialist, losing their identity trying to constantly readjust. There are also those who have forgotten their durability and have made peace with the T20s on the premise that he Test version is now only regulation cricket and is losing its charm.

In the last decade, India has been handing out significantly higher number of ODIs and T20s although puritans and protagonists of the Test cricket believe -- and rightly so -- that the latter calls for greater endurance, competence and cricketing mindset. With more number of shorter matches being played, Test cricket skills appear to have taken a back seat. Notice that in the current series, India lost to the Aussies 3-0 in the ODIs but managed to upstage them in T20s 2-1. The transition from these to the Test series will not be easy although that the current Indian batsmen like the ball coming on to the bat on the bouncy Aussie pitches.

Pujara's example is a case in point that Test cricket skills may not earn you a place in the playing XI for the shorter formats. With some debate, India fell in line with the concept of playing different teams across formats as it was happening among other playing nations. Why batsmen, even bowlers were selected on the same yardstick. Remember, Mohammed Shami and Umesh Yadav were considered first serves for the Tests while Bhuvanesh Kumar and Jasprit Bumrah were preferred options for the limited overs games.

Take the case of Steve Smith. He has fared remarkably in both the formats but it is Aaron Finch and not he who is the captain of his side in the shorter version. He was, however, good enough to lead Rajasthan Royals in the more feverish version. Ditto with Eoin Morgan who is leading England in the shorter version while Joe Root presides over the Test squad. Morgan made a very interesting point earlier this year when he said he was open to the idea of England playing two matches in different formats on the same day. Apparently, Morgan was flexible to the idea of helping cricket back on its feet but he was also indicating that the character of the game was changing.

The specialization within formats in international cricket has happened particularly in the last decade or so and has become a working assumption among a majority in the cricket community. If you played Test cricket a decade before, you probably played T20s too. This is now passe and the emergence of a completely different ethos has changed the game's algorithm. There is little doubt that the domestic T20 contests created a new and stronger revenue model for cricketing boards even as franchise contracts became worth more than national contracts to a number of players. As a consequence, a series of new T20 competitions made their way into the already hectic international schedule, adding to new fixtures. Look at the players who have been risking injuries and burnout while signing up for everything. Players, coaches and selectors think differently about how to achieve all-format success. Specialization is a natural corollary. Three teams have pursued a strategy of choosing players to suit the format much more clearly than the rest: West Indies, South Africa and Australia. 

With lesser number of Test matches being played, specialist batsmen and bowlers are getting systematically sidelined. It is tough for someone like Pujara to come back after a long gap and start playing big innings. The exposure he gets at the domestic level does not really add up to much since playing domestic cricket and international cricket are different ballgames. Recall that two years ago at the Wanderers in Johannesburg, he took 53 balls to open his mark. That's nine overs too many of a T20 where explosive batsmen can score 100 runs.

Cricketing boards should identify players who play exceptionally good Test cricket and allow them to play a few shorter version games in tournaments like IPL where there is scope in the initial matches. A long wait outside the team can make players rusty, drop confidence and short on dressing room camaraderie. Losing good players at the cost of revenue and what people perceive as popularity does not make for a great cricketing sense. But who will convince the cricket boards?

Some thoughts about anchoring UPA's ship

Raju Korti
Nationalist Congress Party leader Sharad Pawar has trekked a long political expedition since the days I first met him in 1978 as the leader of then Progressive Democratic Front. He had by then established enough credentials in outfoxing veterans with manoeuvres startling even by the standards of his Machiavellian mentor Yashwantrao Chavan. A sulking Vasant Dada Patil, four times chief minister of Maharashtra, had told me how the newbie politician had upstaged him with  machinations that had left him cynical and bitter. In the decades that followed, Pawar left little doubt about his acumen that many believe is a euphemism for treachery. 

It is not my case here to dwell on Pawar's cunning but his name being proposed as the next Chairperson of the United Progressive Alliance has a ring of mystery to it given the flux in which the alliance finds itself in. That Pawar should be a key player in this mist is perhaps well in tune with his political record since the man's craft and shrewdness thrives in such political rigmaroles. As his name emerged as a front-runner for the UPA's presiding chair, I suspect we are in for another long spell of political intrigue. The NCP has been quick to dismiss all such talk but when it comes to Pawar there are no guarantees which way he will turn and when. 

There are no prizes for guessing why Sonia Gandhi has expressed reluctance in continuing as the chairperson. Her own party of die-hard loyalists has now openly started raising a banner of revolt. Mind you, the Congress was never a united party -- no party is; including the BJP -- and dissensions were always rife but the Gandhis managed to keep them in check with their so called personal charisma. Apparently, many leaders in the party see no chance of their elevation and have now started coming out of their shell to demand a change in leadership. Sonia seems to have caught on to the fact that discretion is better, and in any case, it makes sense to put someone else in the hot seat. Who else than Sharad Pawar? And for those who wonder what exactly is the difference between Uddhav Thackeray's Shiv Sena and Raj Thackeray's Maharashtra Navnirman Sena except of course ego issues, it is the same difference between Congress and Nationalist Congress Party.

The Congress is likely to hold party elections early next year to select a new president since Rahul does not want to anchor the party's adrift ship. Sonia was forced to become the interim president after Rahul put in his papers in the wake of the rout during the parliamentary elections. Frustrated veterans in the party like Ghulam Nabi Azad, Kapil Sibbal, Shashi Tharoor, Prithviraj Chavan -- among 23 others --  who have for too long pedalled the Gandhi line see this as a chance to wrest some control with the party at its weakest since its checkered history. Instead of brooding over the situation, the partymen should decisively pitch for a change if they want it revitalized with new ideas. It is not just that the Gandhis have outlived their authority, the party has to shake off its culture of sycophancy and win back people's trust if it is to regain the center-stage and emerge as a strong alternative. The fact is Congress has only made things difficult for itself.

The UPA needs a leader who is a veteran and astute politician and has the ability to negotiate with other parties. So far, there have been enough indications that regional leaders like Mamata Banerjee and MK Stalin could be tough customers who may not fall in line with the present dispensation of Congress. As for the opposition parties, Pawar fits the bill but then many in Congress feel that he cannot be always trusted. Age is also not on his side. Giving space to Pawar could be suicidal even if the NCP were to merge with the Congress. The Congressmen haven't forgotten how Pawar had opposed Sonia being a foreigner and formed his party on that plank. If Pawar does take over the reins of UPA, Congress will be completely usurped and would at best appear a poor cousin.

It is not as if Congress and NCP are made for each other but they do not have any other option but to court each other for what they believe is the common cause -- checkmating Modi. The inherent contradictions within the Congress and NCP coupled with the issue of who should head the UPA is what promises to be another teaser. It could well trigger another power tussle that may further queer the pitch for both the parties. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. As Vasant Dada Patil told me long back, all opposition parties could come together but fractions within the Congress can never unite. The Congress has lived through these internal dissensions and contradictions. This time its a different story.

The Indian Chhakke Pe Chhakka League

Raju Korti

The "chhakka" -- as it is understood in cricketing terms unlike its derogatory connotation -- was never so trivialized as it is today, thanks to the Indian Premier League. More than half a century ago when Gary Sobers clobbered six consecutive sixes -- never mind it was a County match -- and as late as in 2007 when Yuvraj Singh  did an encore, the sixer was the cyanosure of all eyes. Today even a tailender can send the ball packing beyond the ropes with a wild swing of the bat and the crowd erupts in collective orgasm.

In the languid and longer version of the game, sixers came pricey. I recall in my school days there were cavaliers of the likes of Salim Durrani who would cater to the demands of an exuberant audience and hit sixes. But such players and instances were very few and very far between. The batsmen chose to go with the finesse and preferred to let the ball sprint through the ground than travel in the air through helicopter shots. Most aerial shots happen when  bats are used like slingshots.

Watching sixes in the Indian Premier League has turned into a terrible bore but the commentators and the loyalists of the Slam, Bang, Wham version go berserk with bizarre descriptions. Replays of the shot are sexed up with delirious praises of the batsman. A graphic tracing the long, aerial trajectory of the shot is followed by an animated discussion on how many meters the ball flew in the air. With the game moving at breakneck speed, the commentators keep torturing their vocal chords as sixes come thick and fast. The "four" is reduced to being their poor cousin.

Someone among the scorers is probably a man who is employed only to beam on the screen the number of sixes being hit in the tournament. By the time the edition comes to an end the number soars to well over 600 or 700. Causing enough indigestion in you to pop a few pouches of antacids! That is if your patience lasts enough to go into the farewell ceremony that ends with predictable cliches.

The players laugh all the way to their banks. Imagine getting paid Rs one lakh for each such wild slog that takes less than a minute to execute while lesser mortals break their lumbers and sweat it out in liters to eke out a living. A six is a six even if the the ball connects with the bat by fluke. The fringe benefit comes from admirers jumping from their seats with clinched fists while the only sad person in this euphoric scene is the ill-fated bowler who can only wipe his forehead and watch the ball disappear in the stands. 

The pitches are deathbed for the bowlers. What do they do when the game opens with the concept of "power play" and field restrictions? Conceding 8 runs in an over is healthy economy rate in a game  where almost 450 runs have been scored in 40 overs. Every match looks like almost an action replay of the earlier ones. Hats off to those who remember these matches ball-by-ball and shot-by-shot.     

I suggest IPL goes more hi-tech in future with some fielders given space in mid air to stop sixes. Better still, name the Indian Premier League as Indian Sixes League or a funkier Indian Chhakke Pe Chhakka League. The cheerleader girls can do their jig mid-air as the spectators would anyhow be watching the ball flying all the time.

Since the IPL began in 2008, 7303 sixes have been hit excluding the ongoing one. Multiply the number with 100,000 and you know the peanuts Board of Control for Cricket in India spends on this penurious show. 

By the way, look at the picture accompanying this blog. It shows the eccentric Billy Bowden doing his familiar jig while signalling a six. I am sure if he were to officiate in all IPL matches, he would have become a professional Bharat Natyam dancer by now.
 

Loving and hating the spookiness of Quantum Physics

Raju Korti
A recent article at pains to establish how Quantum Physics and Consciousness can come together to help us understand the true nature of reality has set me back by at least 47 years. That was the time when the likes of Max Planck and Albert Einstein had just begun to stir and torment my abstract imagination. Quantum Physics, true to its spirit, took me -- and I suspect many others of my ilk -- on a long journey of love-hate relationship with the subject. The simplicity of the theories I had been grappling until then was getting shaken at its roots with the advent of these two gentlemen along with co-conspirators like Satyendra Nath Bose, Englert Brout  and Peter Higgs. From the apparent simplicity of Newton's Laws of Gravitational Forces to the multiple conundrums brought forth by Niels Bohr, Warner Heisenberg and Erwin Schrodinger, not to speak of many others who contributed in queering the pitch, it was a wave that encountered several troughs and crests dotting this love-hate saga. There is an inherent paradox with Quantum Mechanics. You love it and hate it for the same reason but then that is its USP.

While referring to the Bible of Applied Physics by Robert Resnick and David Halliday when pursuing my Engineering, Quantum theory fascinated me no end. I found the underlying theoretical constructs riveting and I would often marvel how it was driving modern scientific discovery and delivering tangible, life-saving applications in the world. This love was partly jilted because of the now-I-understand-now-I-don't Heisenberg and Schrodinger. Heisenberg was still within the physical grasp of the mind but Schrodinger took my breath away with his theory that had more mathematics than theory in it. I particularly liked Heisenberg because his understanding that "Not only is the Universe stranger than we think, it is stranger than we can think," gelled with my confused mind.

When you change the way you look at things, the things you look also appear changed. It is absolutely impossible to read any popular account of Quantum Physics without running into the words "probability" or "uncertainty". That makes it a tricky cud to chew on when you know that probability is a human concept that has no real application in Mother Nature. May be that makes it an even more interesting fodder for thought.

Until Physics explained to me the nature of the particles that make up matter and the forces with which they interact, my boundaries of wisdom were restricted to the three physical dimensions of Mass Length and Time. The fourth dimension of Time-Space Continuum began to upset the apple-cart. It compulsively took one to the Einstein's later theory, the General Theory of Relativity which describes how gravity affects the shape of Space and flow of Time. My rather flimsy understanding of the subject notwithstanding, I was propelled into the surreal world of Higgs Field which hypothesized the field had a carrier particle called Higgs Boson. All the consternation over this particle being named as God particle vanished when it was learnt that Nobel laureate Leon Lederman had actually poked fun at at it calling it as Goddamn Particle because it was too difficult to detect its existence. If it was beyond Lederman, what could someone like me do than to give it up as a bad joke?

The beauty or trouble with Quantum Physics, depending on the way you look at it and how much of it is within your comprehension, is there is no single theory. There is Quantum Mechanics, the basic mathematical framework that underpins it all which came from the stable of Bohr, Heisenberg and Schrodinger. It made out a case for how the position or the momentum of a particle or group of particles changes over a period of time. The handicap of the Quantum Mechanics got crutches from Einstein who established that to understand how things work in the real world, Quantum Mechanics must be propped up by other elements of Physics. Multiple quantum theories made it more interesting, esoteric and befuddling at the same time. It took years to realize that these theories in their ramshackle condition were given a semblance of order through a "standard model" of particle Physics held together with a make-shift tape but giving a comparatively much accurate picture. The God particle emerged from a tumult to give all other particles their mass.

At a basic level, Quantum Physics predicts very strange things about how matter works that are completely at odds with how things seem to work in the real world. How they appear seems to depend on how we choose to measure them. Only that before we measure them, they seem to have no definite properties at all. That leads to the fundamental conundrum about the basic nature of reality. I am inclined to think that there must be some better or more intuitive theory out there that humans are yet to stumble upon. The world is at some level quantum but whether Quantum Physics is the last word about the world remains an open question. 

If you find the Quantum Theory hard to swallow, you are not alone. Schrodinger himself did not like it and was sorry he had anything to do with it. You may hate it or love it but you can't ignore it. In a book gifted to me by a researcher, Einstein has been quoted as saying " If it (the Quantum Theory) is correct, it signifies the end of Physics as a Science." And how I would hate that. I would rather let Quantum Physics remain in the realms of a relentless ferment and its romantic abstract. The book also quotes Max Planck, the father of Quantum Physics: "I regard consciousness as fundamental. I regard matter as derivative from consciousness. We cannot get behind consciousness. Everything that we talk about, everything that we regard as existing, postulates consciousness. To me that's the real Planck's Constant.  

Some thoughts about Adv Bhushan's "voice of conscience"

Raju Korti
The problem with over-reach of activism is it makes people lose sight of rationale. Adv Prashant Bhushan, considered by a lobby in the country as a legal luminary, is a stark example. The public interest lawyer has in the past often got away by cocking a snook at the decisions of the apex court but this time nemesis has caught up, although I would like to believe that he has scraped through with a token Re 1 fine. True to his nature, he has made an absurd and strange statement saying that he has paid the fine but that does not mean he accepts the verdict. He has resolved to file a review in the same court that he has derided earlier in his considered wisdom.

Anyone who has a fair hang of the law should know that Adv Bhushan is trying to make a virtue out of necessity and has actually no choice. The fact that he has ended up paying a fine itself can be interpreted that he has accepted the verdict. Even if he were to be sentenced to imprisonment, he would have had no choice but to enjoy hospitality of the state that he so abhors. The climax is the public interest lawyer wants to file a review petition with the same institution that he has been at loggerheads all along. Having said that, it makes little sense to stop him from practicing law when he actually doesn't do much of it. Activism doesn't leave him with any time.  

Adv Bhushan is three years younger than me. I completed my post graduation in Constitutional Law before he did and with better marks. While he chose to become a practicing lawyer, I chose to leave my legal knowledge by the wayside to pursue a career in the media. I haven't seen Bhushan argue any of the 500 cases that he proclaims to have taken up for "good causes". However, I do know for sure that he expends little time on paid cases while branding others of his ilk as "amoral".  His real stake to fame is his relentless activism that has pitchforked him into situations that have done little to enhance his standing.

As someone who has tagged with social activist Anna Hazare, Adv Bhushan has been advocating vociferously for judicial accountability, and to be fair to him, it was because of his crusade that the judges of the courts had to declare and post their assets on the court websites. But somewhere in this over-zealousness, Adv Bhushan took upon himself the cause of "cleansing the Judiciary" and began to transgress the boundaries of law.  In one of his interviews, he openly called as many as 16 former chief justices of the Supreme Court as corrupt. It resulted in an expected backlash with Adv Harish Salve filing a contempt plea against him. The Supreme Court ordered him to apologize but Adv Bhushan instead launched himself into a lengthy harangue why he felt the judges were corrupt. It didn't occur to his mind that there was little or no way of getting any documentary evidence because the judges are immune to investigation.

Adv Bhushan then decided to strike at the very roots of what he believes is the malaise. Since then he has trained his guns on certain provisions of the Contempt of Courts Act, which comparatively is a recent law compared to most of the antiquated laws framed during the British rule. He has just stopped short of scrapping the act that the Supreme Court will never do as the Constitution leaves the sanctity or merits of any law to the discretion of the Judiciary. It is like handing over a razor to someone and asking him to cut his own throat. To expect that any Tom, Dick and Harry will be allowed to file an FIR against any judge without the permission of the Chief Justice of India is surreal to say the least. His fight for the Jan Lokpal Bill had some merit but what gave away was his penchant to file PILs in what he believes are cases that call for government accountability. The gloves were off with his open defence of Naxals where he even embarrassed the Congress.

A couple of years back I had posted, more in jest than any seriousness that there was one way Bhushan could wriggle out of the spate of contempt pleas against him. All he had to do was to tell the Supreme Court that he was absent when the Contempt of Courts Act was being taught in the class. He did nothing of the kind. His run in with the top court ended when he was found guilty of contempt for two tweets he made. One where he criticized the role played by previous four chief justices, and two, where he made a snide remark on the Chief Justice of India posing on a motor-cycle without a mask. The tweets were thought of "shaking the public confidence in the Judiciary."   

It is not for me to comment on the merits of Adv Bhushan's opinions on the conduct of courts and judges but he has certainly ruffled feathers with his political beliefs. He calls it as voice of conscience little realizing that each individual is open to define conscience as per own understanding. His conscience doesn't seem to match the conscience of the courts. Yet, it tells him to fight the Supreme Court decision by filing a review plea in the same court. Some optimism and dichotomy that!  

I studiously avoided writing about Adv Bhushan's controversies because it was all too evident. So this evening I ended up writing another wisecrack, saying he reminds me of the line from an old Mukesh song: "Jalta hua diya hoon magar roshni nahi."   

 

Some thoughts about reforming India's Babudom

Raju Korti
Whether you like it or not, you got to concede that Prime Minister Narendra Modi enjoys taking the bulls by the horns. Midway into his second consecutive term he has devolved upon himself to mutate the country's notorious, euphemistically termed famed, Babus into Karmayogis. In India, Babudom refers to the executive arm of the government and the backbone of the administrative machinery of the country.

The common man, however, has a diametrically different take on the country's Babudom. The general perception is they are a self-serving, elite clique that works in silos and are not accountable to anyone except their political masters whose bidding they are generally known to do. The Indian Babudom has been conventionally known to focus more on the process than bringing about positive outcome. To make matters worse, they have stonewalled change and reforms. The Modi government has quite an ask on its hands to make this rather privileged class shed the arrogance and superior-than-thou mindset it is besieged with.

There is an archetypal story in mythology about Walya the dacoit reforming to Walmiki the sage with the only difference being this fabled character undergoing transformation through enlightenment, penance and penitence. These characteristics are alien to India's bureaucracy which has always been more firmly in the saddle than their political masters who come and go. I have first-hand of experience of some high-handed bureaucrats daring aggrieved people to go and complain to the ministers. "They are here today, gone tomorrow. I am permanent," is the disconcerting but true response.

One simple way of knowing what is wrong with the Indian bureaucracy is to see the way they draft their circulars. They have an unmatched talent for making what is simple and straight into a convoluted maze of gibberish. Initiative is not something that you associate with the Indian Babudom. There is little that bureaucrats hate more than innovation, especially innovation that produces better results than the old routines. Improvements always make those at the top of the heap look inept and who enjoys appearing inept?

I am not painting all bureaucrats with the same brush. There are sterling exceptions, but then exceptions only prove the rule. I have seen bureaucrats strike a sensible balance while running the administration, working within the framework of government rules. I have also seen competent and honest bureaucrats standing up to the political class and rewarded by being tossed around with transfers. That is a price they pay for being loyal to their duty rather than being loyal to the political dispensation. Most bureaucrats conveniently skip that they serve at the "pleasure of the President of India" and their service is protected under Article 311 of the Constitution from politically motivated or vindictive action. The pandering to the political class is deeply entrenched in their psyche.

To say that Indian bureaucracy needs an overhaul is an understatement. None of the prime ministers before has dared to convulse an institution that has wielded more power than most civil services anywhere across the world. It remains to be seen what impact will the government's move to induct lateral entry of professionals into the bureaucracy have. It is rather premature to guess the ramifications of the move to parachute private sector experts in the present algorithm of Indian bureaucracy.

"Mission Karmayogi" aims at capacity building of the bureaucracy to make them more "creative, proactive, professional and technology-abled". Implicit in this initiative is the tacit admission that the bureaucracy has not performed to the strength and competence expected of it. The sanctimonious cover sought to be provided to this apparently lofty exercise, however, becomes suspect when you learn that union ministers, chief ministers, eminent HR practitioners headed by the prime minister will serve as an apex body in providing "strategic direction", whatever that means. No prizes for guessing that these will be PM's hand-picked men. In essence, the bureaucracy will still be navigated by the political class. If so, this so called biggest human resource development program in the government, costing over Rs 510 crore, looks like flogging a dead horse.

The much avowed purpose of Mission Karmayogi to assign "right person to the right role" and align the work allocation of civil servants by matching their competencies to the requirements of the post sounds good in theory but suffers the compelling risk of breach in practice. Given the expediencies of the political class this sounds Utopian despite some of the most attractive words used to promote the concept.

Bureaucracy, inflation and dandruff can never be addressed completely.

If there is a Tharoorosaurus, there will be a Kortictionary

Raju Korti

There are high wages attached to being a celebrity and if it is someone like Shashi Tharoor there are other perks as well. Before you jump to conclusions which you think are obvious, let me tell you it is not about the man's reputation with or purported weakness for women. It is more about his penchant for words that he so tellingly sums up in his book "Tharoorosaurus". I am tempted to believe that he derives a sadistic pleasure in making people scurry to the dictionary or a Thesaurus by deploying obscure and complicated words. Devil he may be, but he deserves some due nevertheless.

Much is being made of Tharoor's propensity to charm and sweep women off their feet but that's not being fair to his decrepitude for words that have become harem to his imagination. Tharoorosaurus as we predictably realize is a word play of his name mixed with the word Thesaurus and it ostensibly seeks to find synonyms for words. Published by the Penguin Random House India, it is a veritable inventory of 53 words, one for each letter of the alphabet. Dubbed the Wizard of Words, he shares these examples from his parallel vocabulary  -- unusual words that are more Latin and Greek than Latin and Greek actually are -- from every letter of the alphabets. All of five vowels and 21 consonants. You do not have to be a linguaphile to partake of their novelty, you just have to souse in how he marinates them. Perilously disposed as I am to my perennially penurious condition, I cannot even nurse the chance finding Rs 373 that the book costs but I can indulge fair guess work to know what the book subsumes in its denouement.

Having made the preamble of my harangue so luxurious with not so expansive words, let me come to the precise reason what prompted this impromptu blog. The will of my conscience here has been single-handedly forced by two reasons, both of which have their footing in two branches of Science -- Physics and Mathematics. I will skip expounding the Newton's Third Law of Motion or what is understood as Contrapositive in Logic. The intelligible point I am making here is if there has to be a Tharoorosaurus, there has to be a Kortictionary too. It is all so elementary, my dear Watson! If Tharoorosaurus owes its existence to Tharoor, Kortictionary owes it to Korti. Names do matter and words spelt by either Tharoor or Korti, are words at the end of the day.

Those who know me even peripherally, will bear me out. I have sweated in litres browsing and studying Thesaurus and the Dictionary for ever since I can remember. The words, their substitutes, homologouses, equivalents, usages, figures of speech, idioms, synonyms, antonyms, homonyms and what else have you of from the labyrinthine macrocosm of Wren & Martin. Like Tharoor, I have jealously and steadfastly guarded my paintbrush while celebrating words and treating them like clay. It amuses me no end that the permutation and combination of 26 alphabets spin a complex ecosystem of words that can be moulded, shaped, chiseled, crystallized, kneaded, polished, carved, built, embodied, minted, modeled, framed, forged, fashioned, cast, sketched, whittled, roughewed and fabricated in becoming the edifice of Literature.

People who are lesser endowed with words than I am -- and I don't say this in my self-arrogated wisdom  -- grudgingly tell me all the time that I am too overbearing with them. Their refrain: Do you have to be so extravagant and grandiose with mentally taxing words when simple words could have got your point through. My riposte is as simple as it can get. Why not make the dish more appetizing by garnishing it well! Words don't drill holes in your pockets. Kortictionary will be my tribute to words. Since it incorporates my name, my copyright is guaranteed by default. What Tharoor is to Thesaurus, Korti will be to a Dictionary. Hope you get the essential drift here. The similarity between Tharoor and Korti ends here. I do not possess the other talents which Tharoor is generously accredited with.

I have spent a part sleepless night yesterday fretting over whether it should be Rajucon (as take off on lexicon) or Kortictionary. The second finally made it because carries its trade mark, which is my surname, and sounds more weighty unlike the first that has the misleading "con" to it. Words have to be reined in and cannot be allowed to become their own masters. Once they become subservient to you, sentences have no option but to fall in line. 

Kortictionary does not aim to give Tharoorosaurus a run for its money. It only seeks to complement it and live in harmony with what I earnestly believe is a very limited edition. I have a much larger court to play on even if that means patting my own back. That indulgence makes sense when your head is full and pockets are empty.

Some day I plan to write Vocabulary Chalisa. It will take you an unending game called Word Play.

An air-conditioned memory

Raju Korti

One never knows the true value of a moment until it becomes a memory. In my idle and limited wisdom I have often labored with words to fine-tune some of them from the complex maze and miscellany congesting my mind. By cushioning those flashes of time with a liberal tempering of Teflon-coated words, I am lucky to find happenstances to celebrate them.

 

As I peeked out of my balcony early this morning to a dark, intensely wet morning in the backdrop of green hills that my sights were treated to, there was a sense of deja vu. The ambience quickly deported me to that one-hour stay in the Panhala hills nestled close to the beautiful city of Kolhapur. A cousin was kind enough to lend his chauffeur-driven car for a quick visit to the place before I returned to the monotonous and mechanical life of Mumbai. The 20-odd km distance meandered through a narrow, serpentine road that seemed to warm up to the presence of the few people using them.

Panoramic would be an understatement to describe the theater I was exposed to when I reached the hills. The human habitation was fenced by a short Gothic wall from where you could marinate your bland mind and beaten body with Nature providing all the aromatic spices to perk you up or else jump to your death if you had morbid thoughts. I chose the first more out of fear than judgment.

For from the madding crows and away from the hustle bustle of the metropolis, when you feel rejected and are left alone to steal a few moments of solitude and reflection, nothing like the Mother Nature's lap. Reclining against the stone wall of the historic Panhala fort, I soaked in its adventurous mystique, esoteric but cool climes, flitting rain drops and breath-taking imagery. The Nature stood tall and handsome, making the houses below look Lilliputian. Before you could compose an ode to Nature's disposition, it changed its temper.

As the rains started beating down faster, the scene that looked so pristine a few minutes before, suddenly turned alarmingly frightening. The swooshing high-velocity winds with rain drops as big as the size of marbles made me stagger to a make-shift eatery. Nothing was visible as a blanket of heavy fog and biting cold gripped me. I could hear more than see glasses, chairs and tables falling down violently. Never having experienced this calamitous avtaar of the Nature, I panicked and thought it was an apocalypse until a hand patted on my agitated shoulders. "Saheb, chaha hawa kaa?" (Sir, you want tea?). For the life of me I couldn't figure out how someone could locate me in the midst of this blinding mist. I just nodded dumbly. I had tightly gripped a nearby pole to escape being hurled away by the marauding winds and rains. The next 20 minutes told me what chilling fear is all about. In those horrendous moments I died several times. 

A little later everything cleared. A sixty-plus woman walked up to me with a steaming hot cuppa and a plate of pakodas. There was an amused look on her face as if nothing had happened. Seeing me shivering in my pants she steadied me saying this was routine during the rainy season. The tea calmed me down but the nerves remained frayed. The Nature had returned to its benign Bishop looks once again but I was too over-wrought to admire its concocted beauty. My one thought was to escape as quickly as possible before another assault took place. I quickly got up from my chair, paid the bill and sprinted to the car where my driver was waiting for me.

Looking back, I feel it was all so surreal. The Nature's complexion I saw this morning seemed to call out for two happenstances -- similar circumstances and experienced on the same day. They came with an education: That anger and retribution are the revenge of the Nature for the violation of its laws. I call it an air-conditioned memory. Think people, think.

Miandad-Imran Khan battle, from Cricket to Politics

Raju Korti

Pakistan Cricket, like its Politics, is full of extra-constitutional authorities. More often than not, both are known to merge seamlessly. The renewed animosity between Javed Miandad and Imran Khan shows that on both the turfs there has been no love lost between the two. Having met both a couple of times, I can say without hesitation that of the two, Javed is much more cocky, devious and shrewd than the man who seems to be cutting a more and more sorry figure as the country's prime minister.

You may hate him as much as you want but as a player he was a wily fox who with his skill, perseverance and street-urchin cunning had an uncanny knack of getting under the skin of his opposition. He was too overbearing and therefore not a very positive influence in the team but then in the Pakistan team most players acted and behaved like parallel captains. At different times he was axed by the selectors, handed in his resignation and was even overthrown by his own players.

The fierce competitor from the streets of Karachi, however, has always been a big source of entertainment for his antics on and off the field. Remember the 1981 spat with Dennis Lillee and the mickey-making of Indian wicket-keeper Kiran More during the 1992 World Cup. While batting, he would entice the opponents into a shy at the stumps by continuing to stand outside the crease even when the ball was fielded and would rub it in with an impish grin. He was, as Ian Chappel said, an "archetypal champion if he is on your side and a bastard if he is an opponent."

In my blog on Imran Khan in 2012, I had said that with his crafty ways, Javed cuts for an ideal figure in Pakistan's turbid politics. He has vindicated my prophecy by taking on Imran Khan after years of cold war. It will be entertaining to find how this acrimony plays out in the country's sticky political wicket. Javed is rustic and insidious while Khan is charismatic and manipulative. Expectedly, the sparring has begun with Cricket as the ruse and Politics as the bottom line.

Javed has held Imran singularly responsible for the the ruinous state of Pakistan's cricket accusing him of appointing officials on Pakistan Cricket Board who have zero knowledge of the sport. He was obviously referring to the hiring of Wasim Khan from abroad as the PCB's CEO. But the righteous pretense dropped with "I was your captain, you were not my captain. I will come to politics and then I will talk to you. I was the one who led you all the time, but you act like the God now. It is almost like you are the only intelligent person in this country as if no one has gone to Oxford or Cambridge or any other university in Pakistan (sic). You don't care about the country. You came to my home and went out as a Prime Minister. I challenge you to deny this."

In keeping with his cultivated aloof image Imran hasn't chosen to respond to Javed's barbs. As captain of the Pakistan Imran was known to be a law unto himself. Every now and then he would shed that mask of snobbery when it suited him. Javed may have forgotten but in those days, Imran often unleashed the unrefined and abrasive Javed to get under the rivals' skin and unsettle them. I remember how he cackled saying he would appeal vociferously for an LBW decision even if he was fielding deep in the field. His exact words: "Miyaa karna padta hai." Those were the days when Pakistan had other greats like Zaheer Abbas, Sarfraz Nawaz, Mushtaq Mohammed, Majid Khan, Asif Iqbal  among others but none came anywhere close to Javed when it came to on-field antics.

After the 1992 World Cup victory Imran used his cancer hospital as ladder for his political ambitions and despite being propped by the army, realized that his charisma was not enough to deal with hardened political adversaries. With Javed, it was similar story in the sense that he wasn't any less dictatorial and when the players revolted against him, he managed to survive by the skin of his teeth because the PCB threw its lot with him. I am not sure about Imran's role in the ouster of Javed as captain but his switch from being impartial to falling in with the rebels decided the outcome.

With loyalties fragmented, Majid Khan and Zaheer were left by the wayside and the mantle fell on Imran. Javed backed him in an attempt to unite the team but things soured when during the 1983 historic partnership of 451 with Mudassar Nazar, he was denied the opportunity of equaling Gary Sobers' Test record score of 365. Imran's surprise declaration the next morning left Javed frothing at his mouth. His moment under the sunlight was gone. The rift only festered with time even as the captaincy rotated between the two and none of them being any wiser. Javed became a symbol of pride for the Karachi lobby while Imran became a symbol of Lahore lobby. Curiously, neither had any direct role to play here. They were chosen by the lobbies to voice their own cases, causes and concerns.

Now that the acrimony between the two has spilled out into the open, the ramifications can only be guessed. Puppet though he may be, Imran has (so far) the backing of Army because of the Nawaz Sharif factor while Javed could pull strings through the Inter Services Intelligence (ISI) courtesy in-;law Dawood Ibrahim. As political rivals this can lead to realignment of country's political forces which have always been volatile. It will be a test match where Imran will have to bat well and Javed will have to bowl well.

The WHO's who of 'vaccine nationalism'

Raju Korti

It is much easier to remember all the precautions to keep the Corona at bay than to remember the name of the World Health Organization chief. Ethiopian Tedros Adhanom Ghebreyesus the first non-physician and African to be drafted in the role has reasonably acceptable credentials. As someone who holds a Master's in Immunology and Infectious Diseases from the University of London and a PhD in Community Health, he can be accredited with enough understanding of the situation resulting from the pandemic the world is grappling to come to terms with. His utterances in the last few months, however, reveal that the politician in him surfaces more than the scientist. That may perhaps have something to do with his more-than-a decade stint as the Minister of Health and Foreign Affairs of his country. The hangover refuses to leave him even after three years of his new assignment. 

Ghebreyesus has now warned nations against what he terms as "vaccine nationalism". Late yesterday, he argued that it would be in the interests of wealthier nations to ensure that vaccines against the virus were shared globally. The rationale was vaccine-hogging richer countries would not be safe corona virus havens if poor nations remain exposed. I am afraid the righteous tenor of this argument will be lost in the dubious reputation that WHO has acquired after a series of flip flops on the pandemic situation.

There is no denying that for the world to recover faster, it also has to recover together because it is a globalized world and the economies are intertwined. Part of it cannot be a safe refuge and recover. The virus has so far killed over 7 lakh people and is believed to have infected almost 19 million since the outbreak emerged in China last December. The WHO is faced with a much stiffer challenge this time with a host of countries frantically trying to pull out a vaccine but its chief seems to be weighed down by Washington's arm-twisting tactics. The US is WHO's biggest donor but the world body has been toeing a line that smacks of pro-China slant. Trump has accused the WHO of being China's stooge more than for its ineptitude in dealing with the pandemic. The WHO chief has on and off lauded China's efforts in 'containing the pandemic'. Political rhetoric apart the WHO is to blame for a situation of its own making.

From the faltering early response to the confusing and contradictory messages, the WHO has not given a sensible account of itself. Its soft approach towards China and delayed warnings about the spread of the virus has put a question mark on its role as the global health leader. If the US does go ahead and terminate its funding to the WHO, the latter will have little else to do than issuing pompous sermons. The WHO has been found wanting in taking stock of the rapidly evolving research findings and communicating about them, the latest being the flip flop on whether or not the virus is transmitted by asymptomatic persons. The confusion is worse confounded by conflicting findings emerging from different countries.

In its bid to play safe, the WHO lost its way completely. Determining which routes of transmission are driving most of the spread is crucial to devise right combat strategies. This is, however, not the first time that the WHO's opinion exposes lack of scientific temper. It has repeatedly said that airborne droplets or aerosols are not a significant factor in the spread although a growing body of evidence suggested otherwise. It also delayed endorsing masks claiming there was little evidence that they prevented transmission while scientists world over were insisting on the use of masks. It dilly dallied on the approach to gather scientific data. Lack of transparency and coordination only made matters worse. The signature campaign against Ghebreyesus is faster than the number of people getting infected. Possibly his head may roll if US has its way.  

While the WHO plays the ping pong, the world is witnessing a rat race to find an effective vaccine. The Russians, Indians, English and the Americans among others are in tearing hurry -- and understandably so -- to get there first. At the moment everything about the arrival of a scientifically tested vaccine is in the realms of speculation. There is no way to know how this will play out in terms of global outreach since the stakes are high and knowing how the all-powerful pharma lobby will tun it into a money spinning device. By the time all the attempts go though the regulatory process of various trials, it could be well mid-2021.

Till then human health hangs to a fragile thread. "Vaccine nationalism" or not; the WHO will have left with no credibility to lose. It has hit rock bottom and there is nothing left to dig any more.

End of the 'W' era in West Indian cricket

Sir Frank Worrel, Sir Everton Weekes and Sir Clyde Walcott 

Raju Korti
There are people who you are never occasioned to meet in flesh and blood. Yet having heard and read them about them a lot, it is as if you know them personally from way back. Sir Everton Weekes, the redoubtable West Indian batting legend, who along with his equally illustrious compatriots Sir Clyde Walcott and Sir Frank Worrel, formed the famed three Ws in the annals of cricketing history is one such in my long list of mental desktop. Weekes died yesterday at 95 leaving behind two interesting but cruel happenstances that deprived him of what would have been a dream record. The first deprived him of a record consecutive sixth Test hundred in (then) Madras) after a controversial run out at 90. The other robbed him of a lifetime hundred when he looked fit even at 95.

As I said in a post earlier, Weekes, Worrel and Walcott are shining examples of destiny finding each other. All of them were born within 18 months and within three miles of each other in Barbados and were even delivered by the same midwife. They made their debuts in early 1948 against England and were middle order mainstays of the legendary West Indian side of the 50s, and were knighted for services to cricket. Worrel died aged 42 in 1967 after suffering from Leukamia while Walcott, who later became the manager of the West Indian team and served as Chairman, International Cricket Council, died in 2006.

Weekes bid adieu to Test cricket in 1958 when I was just in my diapers. Like all youngsters whose passion for the game developed in the dusty lanes of the city, I never missed reading and hearing anything that concerned my cricketing heroes. Our appetite was fueled and nourished by several magazines, notably among them being the Sports & Pastime which carried beautiful articles by the likes of Jack Fingleton, Jim Swanton, John Arlott, Sir Neville Cardus and many other sports journalists and commentators. Their simple, free-flowing, lucid and prosaic narration appealed to our juvenile minds more than the lyrical expression that Cardus was predisposed to. There was no TV to feed our visual delights then but what we read voraciously those days was probably more vivid.

Weekes became a part of our cricketing consciousness later. Sir Frank Worrel it was initially who carried all the halo around him, not only as the captain but as a great statesman of the game. It also had something to do with his premature passing when you consider that cricketers today, especially in the subcontinent, are reluctant to hang their boots because the bucks and stakes are too high. Our respect for Weekes went notches high when we learnt that he stopped playing because he no longer enjoyed it. And that was how it was when he opted out of administration for the same reason. Point to be noted! He played for the pleasure of it. He never hung around and dug his heels in for a few more years of limelight and money. That ethos was so royally West Indian.

There was another chord that struck an equation with him. As impressionable schoolboys we had all heard colorful stories about how the brawny-tough Barbadian side jealously guarded its invincible image. Folklore had it that people in West Indies wouldn't mind their national team losing but could never reconcile to Barbados losing out to any visiting team. Against the West Indies in Tests it was cricket, but against Barbados it was a prestigious battle. It was almost like "Never mind if East Bengal loses, Mohun Bagan shouldn't lose."

Although not mentioned anywhere, I am inclined to believe that Weekes played a huge role in shaping up this Barbadian psyche not only through his individual brilliance but by shrugging aside all social constraints and barriers. There is no denying that his charismatic influence must have rubbed off on his Barbados and national team. It is not my case here to reel out his exploits, distinctions, achievements to strut my argument as they are already known to anyone who has followed the game even without seeing him in action. Remember, Weekes and Barbados were already force to reckon with before another giant Sir Gary Sobers became world's arguably best cricketer to carry the mantle forward. When Weekes was limping into retirement, Sobers had just stepped into his shoes. The high standards set by 'Black Bradman' George Headley in the pre-war era had taken firm roots.

Not many have had the rare brew of being a top cricketer, commentator, administrator and human being. That reflected in the way his "live and let live" approach to life. There was a positive sparkle to his vibrant and patented Calypso upbringing. For a man born in 1925 in white plantocracy where social justice was not even notional Weekes lived his life of deprivation without harboring any hate and grudges. That conditioning reflected in the poise with which he graced the cricket crease. His only six in his 48-Test career with 15 centuries and an average of 58 showed, if anything, the mindset of a man who was so grounded in his thinking. More than anything else it needed guts to be fair and rational to accept a controversial run out in the 90s when it would have guaranteed him a lifetime record even in these times of cricketing overkill.

The West Indies has had a terrific legacy of players who have played the game as sport and not as a profession. It is probably this aspect of their gamesmanship -- the sheer thrill of playing rather than winning or losing -- that endears them to cricket lovers the world over. It is not therefore difficult to imagine Weekes at the batting crease play the shots that we all heard and read about. That is some consolation when you know that you have had the privilege of seeing the man only in YouTube clips.

With him I have gallivanted the expansive beaches of Barbados, played a game of Bridge, stood up when he hooked ferociously, sat by his side listening to his Caribbean-accent commentary and was present by his side when he walked upright to receive the knighthood at 90. All in my Utopian imagination. Wasn't it Weekes who once famously said "when one is fit, no distance is too long?".

A few thoughts about Pianos and Guitars as unsung heroes

Raju Korti
Watching a music channel yesterday late night showing for the umpteenth time a clip from Teen Deviyan (1966) in which a debonair Dev Anand unleashes all his flirtatious charm on the bevy of beauties around him through Kishore's "Khwab ho tum ya koi haqeeqat", one thing came almost as tunefully. In the aggregate of the song situation that rides on a chocolate face, boisterous voice and feminine grace, the unsung hero is the Piano.

Having watched the progression of films from the fifties to the late nineties, I have concluded with unimpeachable evidence that the Piano, Guitar and Sitar have never been able to overtake the charisma of their male and female protagonists. It is almost as if these instruments play second fiddle or side-kicks to them. Let me come back to "Khwab ho tum ya" to buttress my point. To begin with, before the song, Dev Anand asks a Simi breathing down his neck "Yahaan koi Pyano Vyano hai kya?"

I am sure you must have, as I did for years, focused on Dev Anand in a killer black suit and tie, his femme fatales awe-struck at his effervescence in full flow. But hold on. We also watched an anguished Shammi Kapoor dressed similarly in "Dil ke zarokhe me tujh ko bitha kar" (Brahmachari/1966), Feroze Khan in "Bahot Haseen ho bahot jawaan ho" (Mai Wohi Hoon/1966) and Ajit in "Mai khushnaseeb hoon" (Tower House/1962) to name a few. For that matter, Rajendra Jubilee Kumar in a rich Sherwaani making a forceful point with "Ae husn zara jaag tujhe ishq jagaaye" (Mere Mehboob/1963). The highest common factor here is the plush dress sense. The lowest common denominator is the Piano. Its luxurious status stood no chance before the dapper heroes. You may call it a stereotype but I prefer to call it an unwritten code. In the tug of war between your fascination for the hero and the song, Piano takes an apologetic backseat despite making all the right notes.

The hero is fluent enough to use the fingers of both hands. They dance on the Piano keys from one end to another, sometimes banging the keys like a percussion instrument. The poor Piano takes it in stride despite its imposing presence in the midst of its august gathering. Come to think of it, have you ever seen a poor hero on a Piano? No director has been that expansive in his thinking unless I have planted this idea in his mind.

The Guitar isn't been far behind. Probably it has a slightly better status because of its portability and a more jazzy appearance. The hero can either prance around with it or hold a part of it under his armpits and the rest of it like a child in his lap. The sixties had its heroes wield it like a Hanuman's "Gadaa" (mace). Watch Joy Mukherjee doing that in "Laakho hai nigaah mein" (Phir Wohi Dil Laya Hoon/1962). Throughout the song, he never even once fingers (with) it. A decade earlier, Dev Anand at least made a semblance of working his fingers in "Dil ki umange hain jawaan" (Munimji/1955). The seventies and eighties gave the Guitar a new dimension. The likes of Rishi Kapoor preferred to cuddle it like a baby to woo their Lady Love. The number of songs where the hero is armed with a Guitar are far more than those on the Piano. In the process, it has suffered bigger abuse. One of them being gender discrimination. The ladies never got to express themselves on the Piano as their male counterparts got to.

I clearly remember in my school days many friends joining Guitar classes because they genuinely believed themselves to be from the neo-generation that derived its glamour quotient from the instrument. It was also presumed that with their manes, bell bottoms, long bush shirts and a Guitar hanging down their shoulders, they could impress the lasses. They never got far, let alone becoming Rishi Kapoors. Their Guitars vanished faster than their ambitions.

The Sitar has been kind to the heroines but then the codes apply here as well. The Sitar does not deserve anything else than a pure silk saree. At least I have not seen any female actress strumming it in middies, skirts, frocks or other such western outfits. The protocol is the heroine should sit in a particular posture while her fingers run on the strings with Carl Lewis speed. Mercifully, it hasn't occurred to any film-maker to break this convention and the instrument has retained the dignity it deserves. With the kind of films made today, Sitar has almost staged a quiet exit. 

A point to note. Between the upscale Piano and the impoverished Ektaara (a single-stringed music instrument used mostly on beggars, mendicants and orphans), flutes, saxophone and tabla have flitted in and out as guest artistes. But more about that some other day.     

Flashback of my long meeting with Hemant Kumar 34 years ago

Raju Korti

Hemant Kumar and Aarti Mukherjee clicked by me in 1984.

After years of longing, I finally managed to catch up with legendary composer, singer and producer Hemant Kumar in 1984, just five years before he passed to leave an unfilled vacuum. He was well past his prime then but his composing and singing instincts were as impeccable. As a keen devotee of film music, thanks to those golden fifties, sixties and early seventies, I nursed an abiding regret of not being able to meet the man about whom I had read and heard so much. As I write this blog, there is a tangential satisfaction to that anguish that it is better late than never. I have no answer to why I didn't write about the intensive interaction I had with him all these years but as an apology of a consolation, I am happy that this blog coincides with his 100th birthday today (June 16).

I will never forget the long, searching look Hemant Da gave me when we met. Dressed in white pyjamas and a long kurta, his six-plus feet lanky frame towered above my diminutive 5-plus feet. Having recovered from an acute heart condition, he looked pale, drawn and weak. Apparently, he was incredulous that someone who had just stepped into his thirties could even think of talking to a veteran who was been-there-done-that. I had to pull myself together before I lent credence to his apparent misgivings. He was accompanied by playback singer Aarti Mukherjee (of 'Saara mora kajra chhudaya tune' fame) who did not take any part in the three-hour conversation except occasional nods and smiles.

"Hemant Da, they always talk about the two faculties that you straddled so brilliantly -- as a composer and a singer. So who's better between the two?" I asked him. "I can't put my finger on any one of them. Both are an inseparable parts of my musical instincts. Although, I began as a short story writer, my mind was into music. So I quit Engineering despite vehement opposition from my father. Mind you, one of my short stories won critical literary acclaim when I was barely sixteen but I was prepared to chuck that talent for Rabindra Sangeet."

Hemant Da's predilection towards his passion was right on target as within a year he became a singer for All India Radio, his deeply baritone vocals tailor-made to take on the depth of Tagore's compositions. "In those days, my singing hero was Pankaj Mullick and I use to ape him so well that I was nicknamed Chhota Pankaj. But beyond this hero worship, I regret I could not get my teeth into rigorous classical music. It is a regret I will carry to my grave," he said.

Having followed Hemant Da's career closely, I could see that the lack of adequate classical music -- by his own admission -- was no handicap, especially in films. In the early forties, his contemporary was King Talat Mehmood whose chaste Urdu diction and rendition of ghazals had made him a darling of the masses. Mohammed Rafi, who later went on to become the premier singer of the industry, was just struggling to gain a toehold while Mukesh had just got going. Kishore Kumar was nowhere on the scene.

As someone carrying the stamp and legacy of Rabindra Sangeet, Hemant Da found himself at variance with the genre of film songs. That, however, wasn't a handicap as he had the prime examples of Sachin Dev Burman and Salil Choudhury, both Dadas in every sense of the word. Another Dada was in the making to join this exalted company. "It was in the early forties that I hitched onto the Indian People's Theatre Association (IPTA), a Left-leaning  body which had composer and song writer Salil Da as one of its mainstays. I was in the midst of some musical greats and it was particularly satisfying that Rabindra Sangeet was a common chord that ran through us," Hemant Da recalled.

"I wasn't doing badly at all, composing for Bengali films, but when Filmistan made Anandmath in 1951 and I was asked to compose its music, I decided to explore Mumbai, the Mecca of film music. The film was a moderate success but a then raw Lata's Vande Mataram struck perfect patriotic notes and made people sit up and take notice. Then came Shart where I did my own bidding with Na ye chaand hoga."

"But wasn't this a turning point for you? Dev Anand happened," I asked him.
"Na ye chaand hoga was just the platform. Ye raat ye chaandni (Jaal), Chup hai dharti chup hai chaand sitaare and Teri duniya mein jeene se  (House No 44), Hai apna dil to awaara (Solva Saal) and Na tum hame jaano (Baat Ek Raat Ki) happened because Burman Dada was convinced I could fit on Dev Anand's lips," Hemant Da reminisced, pointing out that in the years to come, he steered himself with his own talent through Naagin, Duniya Jhukti Hai, Bees Saal Baad, Bin Badal Barsaat, Kohra and Anupama. The interesting aside here is this was the same Burman Dada who before being a guide to Hemant Da was contemplating to quit and go back to Calcutta because the scene in Mumbai didn't appeal to his Bengali ethos.

Such was Hemant Da's unflinching belief in the potential of Rabindra Sangeet that in those days he was considered as only next to Mullick in the intricacies of that genre ahead of seniors like Burman Dada and Salil Da. This hierarchy was also with its anomalies. Burman Da understood little or nothing of Hindi. He needed to understand the mood of the song and its words written in Bengali before he could employ his compositional genius. Hemant Da was in comparison much more comfortable, having come from the Hindi hinterland of Benares. He was also very much in tune with the musical philosophy of Salil Da and although it didn't show much in his (Hemant Da's) compositions, he had as much flair and understanding of the symphonies, notably among them being Bach.

Naagin made Hemant Da a household name. For many, that was no big surprise as composer Ravi who he assisted for many years, told him that given his talent, it was time he started going his own way. The film's feet-tapping music with a string of Lata hits as also his solos and duets, was a revelation as against the three-hour visual atrocity on the viewers. People rather went to 'hear' the movie than 'see' it. The film won him a Filmfare Award. But Hemant Da preferred to dwell on mid-1955 when he sang four solos for the legendary Uttam Kumar. It was the beginning of an enduring friendship and their chemistry showed they were the most poplar singer-actor combination holding an unchallenged sway for almost a decade.

Hemant Da lapsed into nostalgia as I mentioned to him that period when he was composing for a lot of Bengali and Hindi films while jealously guarding his roots in Rabindra music. "I was at the peak of my career then as a composer and singer. The best was I was singing for maestros like Nachiket Ghosh, Robin Chatterjee and Salil Choudhury. Some of my songs were remakes or improvisations of the Bengali original. I also hobnobbed with production. Bees Saal Baad, Kohra and Khamoshi were produced by me. Neel Akasher Neeche was directed by Mrinal Sen and went on to bag the President's Gold Medal after an unsavoury controversy." Bees Saal Baad and Kohra forged a wonderful relationship with Biswajeet.

After almost an hour, Hemant Da was coming to the perception that for a youngster, I had done my home work fairly well as I mentioned his one song after the other in the course of the meeting. A faint smile creased his face when I mentioned to him that in the bevy of beauties that he sang, my favourites happened to be the 1955 Sardar Malik beauty filmed on Prem Nath 'Mai garibo ka dil hoon watan ki zubaan' (Aab-e Hayat) and a duet with Geeta Dutt from Detective (1958) 'Mujh ko tum jo mile ye jahaan mil gaya' (Fabulous use of Hawaii guitar). He had a word of lament for Mukul Roy, Geeta's brother and the composer of that dulcet duet. "He was such a talented music director and understood the nuances of film music so well but it beats me why his career didn't pick up."

In an era when he rubbed shoulders with the likes of Shankar Jaikishen, OP Nayyar, C Ramchandra, Naushad, Madan Mohan, Roshan, Hemant Da did not even once go in for lavish orchestrations. His accompaniments were minimal and the song carried itself on the weight of its sweetness. Hemant Da was particularly delighted when I pointed out how sublime Lata sounded in 'Chhup gaya koi re door se pukar ke' in that obscure film Champakali (1960). He seemed touched when I said it could give Madan Mohan's 'Chaand maddham hai' (Railway Platform/1957) a stiff competition. "I think Burman Dada's influence rubbed off on me. Even when it came to the choice of singers. I remember how he had singled me out to sing for Dev Anand when everyone else felt that my voice wouldn't suit his persona. See how Burman Da stood vindicated. In my career as composer, my choices have been guided by the demands of the song per se rather than factors like who was lip-synching the song and how many instruments I must employ to embellish it."

"You tuned so well with Burman Dada and sang 12-13 songs for Dev Anand. What happened thereafter? I asked him. Hemant Da paused a little but the gentleman in him came to the fore. "I don't know what happened after Baat Ek Raat Ki. He never called and I didn't ask. I didn't think too much about it and got busy with my own work." Was it that on Burman Dada's exacting scale Hemant Da's voice had lost its baritone edge? Unlikely, as you know that the quality of his voice was still replete with the same refined sensitivity. I can vouch as I heard him in flesh and blood.
"I used Mohammed Rafi and Kishore Kumar sparingly even at the peak of their careers. For that matter, I sang my own song only when it was absolutely called for. I shared a great working rapport with them and I was devastated when I lost two dear younger brothers -- Rafi and Uttam Kumar -- in a span of just one week. They were giants. Why didn't I work with them more? I loved Rafi's Dil ki aawaaz bhi sun (Humsaaya), Manna's Piya maine kya kiya (Us Paar), Mukesh's Woh tere pyaar ka gham. Even an otherwise exuberant Kishore was polite when he teamed up with me. He knew exactly what I wanted to deliver in Kashti ka khamosh safar hai (Girl Friend). I have memories of Rafi walking up to me and wanting to know the pronunciation of some Bengali words before he sang those songs. He was one singer who knew how to use the mike well -- like when to sing from the throat and when to sing from his navel."

For all his modesty, Hemant Da could run a quick temper at times and did not hesitate to mince words. He revealed how he had warned Guru Dutt against the latter's penchant for changing his singers and composers at the last minute, citing the example of the 1962 classic Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam that had adultery as its theme. "I agreed only after Guru gave me an undertaking saying that only I was equipped to handle the music since it was set in the backdrop of Bengal." History was made before it was written.

For a man on whom the Government of India issued a stamp posthumously in 2016 and had won a spate of awards and recognition, including two national Awards, Hemant Da didn't make much of this memorabilia. He never mentioned any of his songs when asked about his favourites. Having refused Padmashri in the 1970s, he also shunned Padma Bushman which was three years after I met him. More than three decades after his death music companies keep releasing his albums, repackaging his old songs. There are dime a dozen who copy Rafi, Kishore, Mukesh and don't admit so but I personally know many who take a great delight in unabashedly conceding that they love to imitate Hemant Da's style but are nowhere near.

Close your eyes and hear the Kishore Kumar composed 1964 beauty from Door Gagan Ki Chhaon Mein:
'Raahi tu mat ruk jaana, toofan se mat ghabrana
Kabhi to milegi teri manzil
Kahin door gagan ki chhaon mein..'
It may have been incommoded by KK's own 'Jin raaton ki bhor nahi hai' but has in sharp contrast hope and tranquility that make the song a quintessential Hemant Kumar from a school of music that qualifies to be a university of its own.

PS: It needed a Hemant Kumar song for a film to be qualified as 'haunting'. And since the man was too modest to speak about his own songs, I will labour over my favourite HK solos and duets which I am sure might raise eyebrows for skipping songs which have hit higher popularity charts. Partly, my choices are influenced because you don't get to hear them much. So here I go.
1) Mai garibo ka dil hoon watan ki zubaan (Aab-e-Hayat/1955/Solo)
2) Mujh ko tum jo mile, ye jahaan mil gaya (Detective/1958/With Geeta Dutt)
3) Aa neele gagan tale pyaar hum kare (Baadshah/1954/With Lata)
4) Baharo se pucho nazaaro se pucho dil kyo deewana mera ho gaya (Fashion/1959/With Lata)
5) Nai manzil nayi raahen naya hai karvaan apna (Hill Station/1957/With Lata)
6) Raahi tu mat ruk jaana (Door Gagan Ki Chhaon Mein/1964/Solo)
7) Dekho wo chaand chup ke karta hai kya ishaare (Shart/1954/With Lata)
8) Zindagi kitni khubsoorat hai (Bin Badal Barsaat/1963/Solo HK version)
9) Jab jaag uthe armaan to kaise neend aaye (Bin Badal Barsaat/1963/Solo)
10) Ye nayan dare dare, ye jaam bhare bhare (Kohra/1964/Solo)

Nature as part of Conspiracy Theories syllabus

Raju Korti
Ideally, I should have written about this a couple of days before to coincide with the World Environment Day that had Biodiversity as its existential theme. While a token lip service was being paid to the cause of Nature's well being, I was exercised by reasons justified or not; that my subject wasn't being kind to my sensibilities. So here I go with a conspiracy theory.

A file grab of Cyclone Nisarg

I do appreciate that human actions, including deforestation, encroachment of wildlife habitats, intensified agriculture and acceleration of climate change have pushed the Nature beyond its limits. It would take more than 1.5 Earths to meet the demands of the humans make of Nature each year. To relate with the current theme, if this degeneration continues, biodiversity loss will have untold implications for humanity, including the collapse of food and health systems.

While human greed has triggered this gradual but confirmed abyss of Nature, the latter has now turned villain to the former's hero. As part of the international Disaster Management team involved in advancing urban resilience through science and innovation, I can vouch for the Nature shedding its superficial benign skin to emerge as an anti-hero.

The 2020 has cast Nature in an ominous role that should qualify for a lifetime achievement award. Its machinations have resulted in disasters whose magnitude and gravity keeps getting more and more intense. Is this degradation irreversible even if all possible actions are taken to correct the historic wrongs mankind has unleashed on the Nature? I think not because the Nature after all its contemplation has resigned to the fact that the situation is beyond redemption and now it is payback time. Do not mistake the conspiracy behind its reprisal.

The country has been hit by two severe cyclones within a fortnight of each other. First Cyclone Amphan ripped Bengal apart followed by Cyclone Nisarg devastating Maharashtra in quick succession. If you thought these two were aberrations, you now have the prospect of another one building up, this time Orissa at the likely receiving end. This is unusual in spite of the argument that cyclones are usual at this time of the year. In the encumbered times of a highly contagious and baffling pandemic, this retribution by the Nature seems to have taken a back seat. That, however, is not all. Mark my words. You will see cyclones hitting the Mumbai coast just before the onset of monsoon every year. 

The swarm of locusts that have invaded the vast swathes of land in the country since April is perhaps the most far-reaching in the sense that it could result in massive food shortage. If that wasn't enough, another invasion is expected within a few weeks. Nature and its ancillaries are wreaking havoc from the sidelines while the pandemic is at the epicenter of public attention. Worst, there is no solution to any of these.

My understanding of Climate Physics tells me that the country in its present rot needs to be restored at least to the environmental status obtaining in the early sixties. Those who have lived that phase will bear me out. There is no quickfire cure for our environmental problems beyond salvaging Nature, which is always going to be a long-drawn process given the extent of ruin caused and the utter lack of application and appreciation towards its far-reaching consequences. In the tussle between Nature and Development, expediency always wins it for the latter.

Three cyclones, one after the other, a deadly and persisting pandemic, two back-to-back calamitous pest attacks and the omnipresent threats of flooding, gas/radiation leaks, Tsunamis, Earth-quakes, Droughts, cyclones/tornadoes/hurricanes have been spinning a web of disaster. The prophets of doom have inconsequential conspiracy theories to think of than what Nature has in store. In the human ego, man-made conspiracies have more sale-ability than those by the Nature. That perhaps explains why this has not occurred to any of those who in their presumptuous wisdom enjoy wicked delight in spinning conspiracy stories.

Conspiracy theorists believe in a conspiracy because they think it is the exclusive domain of sinister and powerful individuals and groups. The Nature is right on course to include itself in their syllabus. As for me, the gratification is being probably the first to introduce Nature in that curriculum if it means patting my own back. Happy I have a snout that can smell a conspiracy where there really is one. 

Revisiting Mahabharat and the essence of its burden

Raju Korti
You do not have to be a fundamentalist to be interested in Mythology. I have a completely detached take on the purported reality of the subject which transcends beyond the realms of mundane ground realities like wars, disputes, human conscience and earthly compulsions. As historical compass, Mythology points to the horizon and to point back to ourselves to establish a brutal connection between the past and present; spinning a complicated web of redemption and chaos. B R Chopra's teleserial ruminates on this standpoint with "Seekh hum beete yugo se, naye yug ka kare swaagat."

I have watched Mahabharat a few times that it has been telecast since the first time from end 1988 to mid 90s apart from reading it like a fairytale story in my childhood days. Each time my eyes have been opened to the new vistas of behavioral sciences that it seeks to portray with such vividity. As a reader with next to no knowledge of classical mythology, I approached the Mahabharat as I would approach a contemporary poem or novel. Perhaps it is a measure of my supreme ignorance that I have been rewarded with a rich, affecting portrait of, among other things, the profound essay it makes in myriad shades of human emotions. From my earliest imagery of divine miracles to a war within a family lineage and to being a bedrock of a story and legend seeking to correct human perceptions, it has served as a cultural mirror -- the super heroes and super villains playing pawns to the vicissitudes of time.

When the epic saga was aired for the first time a little more than 30 years back, it struck a chord for being able to provide a vibrancy to a cliffhanger narrative. To me, the most abiding element is the profundity it seeks to lend to human emotions and the amplitude to each of its larger-than-life characters. To that extent, it is arguably tough to segregate characters in the story as less or more important. Its highest common factor prompts me to conclude that each of the dramatis personae is a symbolic representation of an emotion. And yet, despite each of them at cross purposes with each other, evoke similar feelings of sympathy and despise. Its almost surreal that situations and characters that can cause mental integration and disintegration merge so seamlessly. That is what makes Mahabharat a timeless work of art.

There is a general perception that Mahabharat is all about politics unlike the earlier epoch Ramayan which makes out a case for idealism in life. Having scoured through a number of treatises on the subject, I am yet to come across any distinguishable research that delves on the common denominator of the politics espoused so evocatively by Krishna through The Gita in his weighty Sanskrit verses. So I watched it with a neutral prism to decipher and deduce from its intrigues, conspiracies, affectations and vulnerabilities. My finding may be nothing to rave about but I find it worthy of writing a book given the enormity of the folklore and the wide spectrum of the personality of its players.

When you readjust your goggles, you have a view with a different colour. The entire flow from the genesis of the Bharat Vanshiyas to their annihilating end -- punctuated with a thrilling blend of romanticism, love, hatred, compassion from a knotty web of relationships -- emerges a compelling sense of helplessness. The "vivashta" (helplessness) of each of its characters as they play out their aims and ambitions goes beyond theatrics. They all meet their end justifying themselves. And yet, neither the ends nor the means complement each other.

The rulers right from Shantanu, wife Satyawati, son Devavrat (Bheeshma), Pandu, Dhritarashtra, Gaandhari, Duryodhan, Dusshasan, the Pandava brothers, their teachers Dronacharya and Kripacharya, Ashwatthama, Draupadi and all other peripheral characters including the ordinary soldier in the war, are helpless for one reason or the other. That helplessness perhaps explains why every character generates sympathy despite their ruthless grandstanding. Helplessness induces hopelessness and therefore compassion.

Behind the compulsive premise of this war, lies an infinite pool of lessons. Very few narratives have been able to capture the rainbow of love, loathing, envy, lust, greed and power the way Mahabharat  has done. Add to that the helplessness as the trigger point. As I grapple with the idea of dealing with each character as a case study in helplessness, I am increasingly stimulated to write a book that makes as much sense in today's context. Mahabharat provides enough punch to pack from a surfeit of divergent stories of characters disabled by their helplessness. If Time has indeed traveled over 5000 years believing the Mahabharat has happened, it still continues to be witness to the biggest human weakness.

At a time when the human spirit is meandering through religious riders, it is necessary that this fascinating account of strife and conformity is looked at dispassionately. And as you will agree, helplessness has no religion.   

Of Journalism, copycats and counterfeiters

Raju Korti
Let me say this upfront. I am not too enthused by the word "plagiarism". Somehow I feel it intellectualizes the crass act of copying. I would rather go for "copycat, counterfeit and piracy". They are commensurate with the character of the act. Plagiarism starts with the very same people who decry it with righteous anger and I am referring to the breed whose professional calling looks upon copying as an affront but practices it subtly in the express understanding that you are not a thief until you are caught.

The isolation and infertility of thought in these locked down times seems to have mutated into new species of copycats. But as a weather-beaten media professional of forty years let me start with those in my own calling. There is a newspaper which advertises itself as a friend and not a newspaper. It has a big brother which claims to be the sole repository of Journalism of Courage. The editor of the "friendly newspaper" carries the aura of a refined intellectual but time and again the mask falls. His self-cultivated image as the practitioner of fearless and cerebral journalism took a beating when he was abruptly asked by his "friendly" management to withdraw an editorial he wrote with so much conviction. The "friendly" newspaper did not bother to tell its valued reader friends why it withdrew an editorial published in the earlier edition was junked in the next. Our respected editor was undaunted. He recently translated -- word-to-word -- a longish tweet by Andrew Lilico, a columnist of The Guardian. It did not occur to his erudite and reflective mind that there is a social media which makes a journalist out of every Tom, Dick and Harry and Jane and Jill. The lid was off in no time but our editor is made of sterner stuff. He carried on as if nothing had happened. But of course, this is not about this one person. It is now a global affliction where anyone can be a stakeholder in your intellectual property. Now the politicians are counterfeiting journalists by claiming their ownership of  posts and memes whose original composer you may never know.

Until mid-80s, my idea of copying was limited to desperate students who banked on the intelligence of the vicinity students while writing their answers papers. The first hint at plagiarizing came when some of my seniors in the profession subtly hinted at it. There was no internet then. The editors were privileged to get all national and some international dailies. The lesser mortals in the newsroom never got to read those unless they sought them. I particularly remember a colleague who had a crooked smile on his face while telling the office peon "Agar editor sahab ka editorial likhna ho gaya ho to bade papers leke aao bhai." No one said anything. People just giggled.

One colleague who could not write one sentence straight once wrote a Middle article. All of us had a nagging doubt he had lifted it but no one was vocal. The chief editor held back the piece for almost a fortnight in the hope that the original might be found but then finally gave the benefit of doubt to him. A couple of days later the editor in-charge of Letters column received a nasty letter from an 80-year-old Parsi gentleman demanding to know if O Henry was reborn after 75 years. Our smart colleague had copied a O Henry short story verbatim with just one change. Counterfeiting Pounds, Shillings to Rupees and Paise. The editor gave him a dressing down in front of the staff in the newsroom and a long sermon on newspaper ethics and integrity. Our guy just laughed it off. And to cop it all, this happened when the colleague had ordered samosas and chai to celebrate the publication of a "great literary piece". To this day, I can't forget the shameless smile on his face as he munched samosa while listening to the rebuke from his boss. That he was a post-graduate in English Literature gave the episode an extraordinary twist.

Bigger copycats than him have happened since. Names do not matter. These are scribes who fell in love with writing but writing never fell in love with them. If you think this is an original sentence, perish the thought. The sentence is blatantly copied from one of my US-based fellow journalist friend Mayank Chhaya's blog on Chetan Bhagat. My honesty drives from my conviction that all originality is undetected plagiarism.