So I have to do this after all. Bid farewell to Rahul Dravid. I have dreaded this day since high school and I have wished a million times that I never see this day. And yet, the day is here and I can do nothing about it. The world's best batsman announced his retirement today.

My man crush on him started one morning 16 years back when I hurriedly flipped through the pages of The Hindu. I wanted to see if the handsome young man had made a century on debut. He hadn't. I felt sorry for him. I remember it like it happened yesterday.

Rahul Dravid made his debut on my fifteenth birthday. He has since been an influence on me for more than half my life. A sample - my first password for my first ever email account was rahul_dravid; I fought countless number of times with my captains to let me bat at number three because I wanted to be my team's Dravid; I kept wickets for my team because Dravid was doing it for India. I even wished my parents had named me Rahul!

I don't have personal experiences with Rahul Dravid to share. I have seen him play in Chennai many times but never met him. I don't have a picture with him. I don't even have his autograph. And yet, he leaves behind some wonderful memories.

He was my first 'favourite' cricketer. He was everybody's favourite cricketer. There was something in the manner in which he could play a cover drive and make it look like a musical fountain. It was hard not to love him when he did that. Or the way he wore his Test cap. It never looked as good on anyone else as it did on him. He was special. There seemed to be a larger plan to his presence in the middle. And he seemed to be aware of it, even if at a sub-conscious level.

Because when Rahul Dravid walked in, even the most violent of the storms seemed to melt away into nothingness. One straight batted defence from Dravid and shoulders across the country relaxed.  Anxious people with elbows on knees and chins on palms eased back on the sofa, stretching their legs. The game was in safe hands for now.

It was as if he didn't want to let me down every time he went in to bat. 'Don't worry. The game's not over yet', he seemed to be telling me. He stood there, rock solid, defending my pride. He ducked, weaved, left, defended, he even got hurt; but he never let my pride get hurt. Even when India lost, he didn't let defeat get to me. He made defeats bearable. When Rahul Dravid was in the middle, he was playing for me. He was playing for his team. For his country. And that is how I will always remember him.

Despite his breath-taking records, Rahul Dravid was not a player for conversation. I don't recollect discussing Dravid's sixes and fours with my pals. I don't remember us animatedly discussing how he danced down the wicket to hoist one over long off. That would be Ganguly. Or Sachin. Dravid was not a player for such small talk. No. You didn't have to talk about him. You didn’t have to cite glorious examples to make him look important. He was a player who you thought about and gave respect inside your head. Not once have I seen him get angry on the field. Not once have I seen him swear. Not once have I seen him get into an argument with the bowler. But then, that is Rahul Dravid. He didn't need to make his presence felt. He was THERE. He did what he did best and he let his work speak for him.

He played the game with quiet dignity. He has left the game with the same dignity. Only Dravid could leave the ball and make it look beautiful. Today, he has left the game and yet made it look beautiful.

As I have done countless number of times in the past, today I clap my hands and quietly say 'Well left Rahul, well left.'

We all have our prejudices. We live in little boxes that we refuse to come out of. We hold on to that box as tight as we can. We may have no logic backing our judgement but we still hold on to it. But once in a while there comes an event that shakes us out of the little box and throws us into reality. And then, we realise what fools we were. The final match between Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic in the Australian Open 2012 was one such revelation for me.

I never really liked Rafael Nadal.

I had no specific reason. Maybe it was his long unkempt Tarzan-esque hair. Or his bulging biceps that gave me a complex. Or it could be the fact that he keeps adjusting his underwear before every serve. I just didn't like him. You have every right judge me at this point.

On Sunday, when the two finalists took centrestage at the Rod Laver Arena, I had chosen my side. Novak Djokovic it would be. The lean, sharp-nosed 24 year-old who had finally burst out of the shadows of Nadal and Federer deserved all my support, I thought. From the moment Novak won the toss, I wanted Nadal to lose.

I cheered for every point Djokovic won. Or Nadal lost, to be precise. But as the match progressed, it stopped looking like a tennis match at all. It was not the orchestrated movements of hands and legs that we are so used to in a Fed-Nadal final. It was not the symphony of racquet-meeting-the-ball thing as tennis is often 'supposed' to be.

Rather, every shot played during the match was a bullet piercing my little box of prejudices, leaving a small hole for me to look outside the box. I was beginning to feel like a school boy stopped by his teacher for running aimlessly in the corridors and let go after a lesson in moral science. It was almost like Rafael Nadal was telling me that I was a fool to support Novak Djokovic.

In truth, what Nadal was telling me was that I was fool even to take sides in sport and that it didn't matter who you supported. For on that night, the world number 1 and the world number 2 showed the rest of us, what it means to believe in something.

It is not the desire to win the championship. It is not the desire to carry home that glittering trophy. It is not the world ranking (which, anyway, was never going to change after this match). It is the love for the moment when the racquet makes contact with the ball.

Every time they were pushed to the wall, one of them raised the stakes. And the other matched it. Serve for serve. Shot for shot. Game for game. The body refused to concede. Not just yet. For it revelled in the challenge. And seemed to be fuelled by it. The inner spirit was telling the body that it can do better. That it has the resources to despatch the ball to the other side of the court. That it will not let the ball go past without a fight.

Every shot played had an equal response from the other side of the court. Nadal pummeled away shot after shot, came back from the brink of losing the championship to equal the score. Every dive was matched by a breath-taking display of sprinting across the court. Every delicate drop-shot was countered by a smashing forehand.

Djokovic's body seemed to give up the race towards the end. And then he rose, as if suddenly realizing that his job was incomplete and that he needed to finish it before going home that night. Of course, he went on to win the trophy. But by then, it didn't matter to me who won. Even the fanatic was beginning to reason. That sport is not meant to be enjoyed by taking sides.

Perhaps, this is why Man likes sport. Man versus Man.  It has to be a primal pleasure, watching two creatures of your species fighting it out for something they both strongly believe in.

By the time Djokovic collected his trophy and posed for photographs, I was thanking Nadal. Not for losing. But for showing me what I had read just in books and heard in famous speeches.

That it is very important to believe in something. That it is even more important to hold on to that belief. To raise the stakes every time that belief is threatened. That winning and losing does not concern the champions and is best left to the mortals.

I thanked Nadal for breaking my little box into pieces.

I was recently at the Landmark Book Store. I was not buying books though (thanks to Flipkart), as I have tens or perhaps hundreds of times over the last many years. I was buying some toys and collectibles. I was standing in line to settle my bill when I saw a little boy standing beside me. He was holding a bunch of books with his two hands and was staring at me. I could see his little curious eyes trying to bore through the plastic bag and guess what toys were hidden inside. I took out a tiny Towmater and showed him. He gave a half smile and waved a comic book at me. It was Tintin.

Suddenly, I wanted to be that boy. The boy who held a bunch of unread comics in his hand with glee. I have been that boy. Many many times.

I would visit the lending library near my house and spend hours browsing through rows and rows of books. I would carefully pick a bunch of books from a shelf, sit down on the floor and place them on my lap. I would start setting aside the books I have read to one side and the ones I haven't on the other side. I would repeat this with several bunches of books from other shelves. Then I would start reading the blurbs of all the unread books and depending on my mood at that time, I would choose about 2 or 3 books from them. (Of course, they were Enid Blyton.)

I would then pay the borrowing fees my mother gave me, carefully place the books in a plastic bag and run home to read them. I don't remember much after that because I probably got lost in the English countryside with Frederick Algernon Trotteville or Georgina. But what I distinctly remember is that act of selecting a book.

A few years later when I was a teenager, I was doing the same thing. Only this time, instead of borrowing, I was buying them at the roadside bookshop with my saved up pocket money.  The bookshop (or rather the book-cart) guy had an incredible collection of pirated books. His most prominent displays were the self-help books, Dale Carnegie books or books like Men are from Mars Women are from Venus. But hidden under the top row were all the good stuff. Only regular buyers knew this secret. Or so I thought.

Whenever I passed by him, I would stop by and browse to my heart's content. It was one of the busiest roads in the city with unbelievable noise and traffic. People would walk around me, hawkers would shout and vehicles would be honking away. But time stood still for me while I was happily choosing between Arthur Hailey and Jeffrey Archer. I would then indulge in my customary bargain with him and walk away with at least 3 books in hand. I would then board a bus to go home, find a seat and open the books with a secret grin. I would smell the ink on the book. The musty ink on pirated books was my first drug.

Years later, I became all grown up. I learnt about book-piracy and resolved not to buy pirated books anymore (a resolve I break occasionally though, for the thrill of it). I would visit the Landmark Book Store that was conveniently located a few metres from my office. I worked in customer service for a bank and it sure is the not the happiest of the jobs in the world. Browsing through Landmark became my drug after a rough day. As I slowed down on the aisles to scan the shelves for interesting books, I could feel the world around me slow down too. I would spend hours in those aisles completely shut out from the world until the PA system announced that they were shutting shop for the day. I would reluctantly close the book in my hand and replace it on the shelf and head out.

I would do this two or three times a week, buying at least one book a week.

Then why, you may ask, was I jealous of that kid at Landmark? It's because I have stopped buying books at bookshops. Online bookshops (read Flipkart and co) sell the same books at excellent discounts. Even on those few occasions I visit bookshops, if I see a book I like, I immediately flip out my smart phone and check out its online price, which of course, would be cheaper. I would place the book back in its place. Later, when I am home, I logon to the website and read all about the book. They even have blurbs and reviews about the book. All I have to do is to click and the next thing I know is that the book is in my room.

Without having to spend hours at a bookshop. Without having to search where the 'Indian authors' section is in the store. Without having to ask the attendant if he had a copy of Amitav Ghosh’s latest book and if not, could he take an order? Without getting lost (literally and otherwise) in the midst of thousands of books. Without having to be alone even for a moment.

Complete value for money. A boon for book lovers, many may say. I tend to disagree. I hope someday, I get lost in a bookshop, again.

Why do people quit jobs? I mean, seriously. Why would anyone in their right mind want to quit a job that pays them money? I was never able to understand the reason. Until I quit my job.

Just two years into a bank job and I got bored of it. I wanted change. I simply couldn't take it anymore. So what did I do? I joined another bank! And then I wanted change again. And again.

"DO YOU WANT TO GIVE IT YOUR ALL? ARE YOU READY TO SACRIFICE?" I remember my first boss asking me this question to fire me up. 

"YEAHHHH!!!" was my emphatic reply, with a fist pump. 

And then I realised he meant it literally! I had to give it my all. All of my time. All my hobbies. All of my personal life. 

I stopped growing. No, stop getting dirty ideas. I meant I stopped growing mentally. That's it! Just like that. I stopped gaining any worldly knowledge. I hardly even read the newspaper. If at all, I would probably pretend to read The Economic Times (fondly called 'ET' by us business grads) at work, more to...you know why. I would  

randomly quote the newspaper in some random meetings. "You know I read in the ET today, telecommunication industry is growing at 25% quarter-on-quarter and is going to boost our National GDP by 0.17% and so I think we must fund this client asap". The client in question would probably be a polythene bag supplier to a mobile-phone prepaid card distributor. 

While I could get away with this strategy most of the times with most of the people, I could not escape from one person. That was me. I didn’t like what I was doing. I mean, I wanted to do something apart from work. Isn't that the right thing to do? Surely, for the money that I got, I was giving them a lot of my personal time.

So I did the right thing. I decided to give my time for something that would reward my contribution better. I quit my job. To join another bank that paid me more! Brilliant idea, wasn't it?

Oh yeah. It was a brilliant idea alright. Until I hiked my wage rates again. My time deserved more money.

Cut to the chase, it was long before I realised that it was not the money that was giving me problems. It was my brains. It demanded something other than "More of the Same". The brain was asking for a change. It needed exercise. It wanted to be used differently. It wanted, oh my god the dreaded word, life!

It came crashing down on me that whatever I told my boss at the job interview was a big lie. "Oh, I could do this all my life", "This is exactly the kind of job I was looking for all my life", "Numbers are my passion" kind of stuff. I often go into deep meditation and wonder how I landed up where I was. First it was the people around me and what they thought about me that seemed supremely important. I wanted to gain their approval by working in a "respectable job" (to hell with that now). Then it was the money that was paid for my services. I wanted lots of it. (Still do.)

Then suddenly, from nowhere, the inner voice demanded something else. I realised that one truly needed to do what one loved to do and everything else was a big lie.

How do I solve this problem? I mean I can't quit my day job and 'pursue my passion'. Hell, I never even knew what my 'passion' was. Or worse, did I even have a passion for something? Even if I had, it would probably take me ages before I start making a living out of it.

Who am I kidding here? Now let me polish my resume. There’s this company that has promised me middle management…..

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. (Just securing my day job in case my boss is reading!

Warning: The following may not be suitable for everyone. Discretion advised. Names changed.

"Namaste. My name is Tara and I am a sex-worker", she said in Telugu, with folded hands, smiling at me. She looked young and bubbly. That was the first time I had spoken to a sex worker. It felt very unreal and I was unsure how to react. I smiled back weakly.

This happened a few months back when my professor and I visited Andhra Pradesh for a few days to understand the farmer crisis and the suicides. We went on this trip to understand how people in rural Andhra Pradesh (villages in Kurnool district) manage their financial lives. (Read our observations on the financial lives of farmers in Andhra Pradesh here.) Our professor's contact took us to an AIDS prevention organisation. It was an organisation that created awareness among sex workers and encouraged them to practice safe sex with their "clients".

Those 2 hours were the most strangest of my life and I will probably never forget it for the rest of my life. Not just because it was my first interaction with sex workers, that too 6 of them together. But because this interaction left me with some disturbing questions for which one can never find answers in a lifetime.

My simple doubt was they often called prostitution as the oldest profession in the world, didn't they? If this is a ‘social evil’, why has it survived since the evolution of civilisation? There is no explanation whatsoever because evolution automatically phases out what is not necessary. I am no sociologist but I am sure this logic holds good for a society as well.

Look at monarchy, for example. For centuries, we placed our faith on one person and trusted that lineage to be specially gifted and fit to rule us. And then democracy happened. People may argue that monarchy still exists in many places but is it the same as it was, say a few centuries back? The society decided to evolve and eventually monarchy had to change itself.

Or look at other activities that are equally old. Farming has survived because, of course, mankind cannot survive without farming. Hunting? Fishing? These activities have survived purely because there is a societal acceptance for them.

Contrast these with other socially non-acceptable activities. Theft. Or violence. They were rejected right from the pre-historic times. I think that was because these activities left behind a victim and somebody was at a loss at the end of an act.

But who is at a loss in case of prostitution? Why does everyone shun prostitution?

The only reason I can think of is that it comes with a big question of morality. For all the big talk around "freedom of speech and expression" and "respecting individual rights", the society attaches a big label of morality to the act of sex. It does not allow an individual's "freedom of choice" to do what one wants to do sexually and immediately accuses someone of "being with loose morals".

Which brings me back to my question - if an act of "loose morals" is not acceptable by the society, why does it still exist? Why hasn't there been an overwhelming upheaval of prostitution?

In simple words, why has prostitution survived for so many years if it is a social evil? Is it because there is an inherent need in the society for this? (And it would be naiveté to assume that only men are "guilty" of this desire.) Is prostitution really a bad thing for the society?

Tara didn’t seem to think so. She seemed an intelligent woman. She had a daughter and she wanted her to study well. But at the same time, there was not even a hint of guilt in what she said. I had an impression that she was confident because she did not have to rely on anyone else for her income.

Every one of the other sex workers I met that day had a story to tell. Not all of them were the usual tragic ones where they were pushed into this by their husbands or fathers. It seemed more like a choice. There was no way on this earth I could have told that they were sex workers had I met them at a kirana or a tea-shop. They were perfectly normal people. "We tried to rehabilitate them, but they returned to this profession, mostly out of choice", said the coordinator for the organisation. "So we decided to just focus on their health and leave the choice to them", he added.

They earned by making use of what they had. And they felt proud. Much like a physical labourer who uses his physical strength to lift loads and earn a living. Or an actor who displays her body (of course, clothed) to the society to provide viewing pleasure.

But what if the society decided to make it socially acceptable, as it is in some countries now? Would you and I be acceptable to having a sex worker as a neighbour? Would I want my child to grow up in a neighbourhood that carried a board saying "Sex service provided here"? Maybe sociologists have an answer.

But I have no answers for any of this. Just lots of questions.

I asked him how he saves his extra money as I was convinced he surely would not have to spend Rs. 300 per day. He said “I am not able to save any money. It is really hard to find wage laborers.”

“But we were told the main occupation in this village was wage labor?” I asked.

“That is true, but many people don’t want to work for any more than Rs. 150 per day. I have had many people come up to me say “Give me work for Rs. 150 per day, no more” Even if I offer more work, they are simply not ready to do it” he said.

This seemed totally illogical to me.

“See, the government has subsidized rice to Re.1 per kilogram and so the laborer’s daily household expenses does not exceed Rs. 50 per day. He has enough to eat and his children study in government schools. He even has a free TV these days and he hardly has to spend on anything other than on food. The rest of the money he can happily spend on liquor!” Saravanan explained.

Saravanan’s problems are compounded by his neighbor. The neighboring field has been bought by a businessman who had somehow obtained a certificate that declared the land to be unfit for agriculture. He was going to construct a building there. He has erected a compound wall around his field and the wall deflects the water from irrigation canal on to Saravanan’s field. This floods his field and makes it very difficult to work in.

It means that there is enough work in his field but there are no takers for the job. So I asked him what he does to get the rest of the job done. He said “I have to do it myself. But the job is very painful to do it myself. My equipments are old and are not as effective as I thought they would be.  If I work on the hand-tiller, I have to wade through knee-deep clay for the whole day. If I work on the thresher, then I have to sit on top of it all day to make a decent profit and when I get down in the evening, my whole body aches. In either case, I will be physically exhausted by the end of the day and I can’t sleep at night.  I have to drink everyday to have a peaceful night else I won’t be work in the fields the next day. I am not able to save much because I have to spend about Rs. 150 per day for the liquor. I have invested a lot on these equipments but I am not able to save any money. The laborer on the other hand, has no investment and yet he earns enough to spend it on liquor.”

 “I don’t know what I can do to solve my crisis. I do not want my sons to work for me. I want them to study well. Should I buy more expensive automatic equipment to make my work easier? But I have already borrowed a lot of money and I don’t want to borrow any more until I repay these loans. Should I also sell off my land and move out of my village? I am a proud farmer and I have been doing agriculture since I was 14, I don’t know anything other than farming. I am confused” Saravanan said as we parted.

I was confused too when I left Saravanan’s house. I had a thousand questions in my mind. Is an urgent intervention needed to take high quality technology to farmers like Saravanan? Is there a way to prevent government subsidies from being wrongly interpreted? Would Saravanan or others change their drinking habits if they had proper access to medicines? Would the wage laborers behave differently if there were enough saving options?

Yesterday I wrote a blog in the form a letter to the Indian Team just for fun. In a bizarre piece of coincidence, a Pakistani blogger Maheen Sadiq, had written a similar letter to her team, at about exactly the same time as I wrote. I accidentally stumbled upon her blog and I was touched by it. I was even more surprised by the number of Indians that had commented on it.

I wrote to the author asking for permission to reproduce her letter beside my letter in this blog and she graciously agreed.

This was her reply -

    "That’s very kind of you! I’m so touched with the response we are getting from India. I never imagined my article would cross the border and reach so many Indians the way it has. You guys have been wonderful! .....

    .....Thank you so very much!

    Also, I read your letter and I love it! I’m glad you shared it here. It only goes to show how similar both the nation are! Best of luck in the finals, India!"

A Pakistani guy has even commented on my blogpost. It is, so to say, my first sane and direct interaction with a person from Pakistan. I, obviously, am thrilled with this interaction. Her letter is published below. Whatever the jokers may say about India and Pakistan, it shows that deep down, we are the same.

-----

To Afridi, with love

There’s a lot to be said about the cricket tournament, especially our match against India. And it has a lot more to do with Misbah-ul-Haq and Umar Gul’s bad luck, and Sachin Tendulkar’s good fortune.

Cricket speaks to our nation in a way our government never has.

And Shahid Afridi addressed the nation in a way our president never has – unselfish, genuine, modest. So when Afridi apologized to Pakistan, millions listened and were humbled by the gesture. Our eyes filled with tears and our hearts with love and a strange kind of sorrow. Shahid Afridi, you need not apologize to the nation. We are proud of you and our entire cricket team! You didn’t bring back the cup, but any excitement, any happiness, any hope that Pakistanis have felt in the past few months is because of your brilliance. We’ve been hearing a lot of “Pakistan needs something to celebrate,” but what Pakistanis really needed was something to look forward to, and the green team gave us that with the anticipation of each game played.

The funny thing about cricket is that it can unite the nation through a victory or a loss. It would have been wonderful to go out on the streets and celebrate with dhols, etc, as we did when we won the 20/20 Cricket World Cup in 2009. But even after our loss yesterday, the people of Pakistan, in their state of disbelief, came out and shared their sorrow. Misery loves company. Cars on streets, people driving around slowly, quietly, patiently. No honking, no cursing, no where to go, no where to escape. It was surreal. This only goes to show what cricket means to us and the massive void it fills for our nation.

Cricketers, you made us patriotic. You made us passionate. You made us proud.

And these precious adjectives are some that Pakistan rarely gets the chance to associate itself with.

So again, Afridi, your apology is appreciated but not needed. You conducted yourself with patience, grace and dignity, encouraging your own with a smile, and congratulating the opponents with an even bigger smile. You didn’t win the semi-finals, but you won our hearts. Thank you for showing the world we are not an aggressive nation.

To Pakistan, I propose this: if there’s anyone who needs to apologize it’s us.

So to Afridi and the team, I apologize for the pressure I put on you to win the World Cup. It comes from my own shortcomings. So lazy and so cowardly am I that I am incapable of creating for myself a reason to celebrate Pakistan. Since as far as I can remember, my patriotism has tenaciously clung to cricket. It is unfair. I know.

To those Pakistanis who thought this was a match between Hindus and Muslims, I’m glad India won. This was never a battle between nations, or a jehad against Hindus. It was a semi-final cricket match, and if a loss is what it took to be reminded of this then I’m glad we lost. Victory would have only made you gloat over something you had wrong all along anyway.

However, if there was one thing I was relieved to discover it was that we don’t hate India. We may hate America, but we don’t hate India. No burning of the Indian flag, no bitter remarks, no threatening reaction. Phew! Just healthy competition and a pure love for the game.

So we don’t hate India. In fact, we hate Zardari. What pleased me even more were the numerous text messages and facebook statuses I came across that poked fun at Zardari. My personal favourite is, “We congratulate India on winning the semi-finals. As a good-will gesture, India can keep Pakistan’s prime minister. And if it wins the finals, we will give our president too.”

Ahhh, Zardari jokes. They never get old. He’s our scapegoat now. It’s his fault we lost. Somehow.

That being said, think. It’s time we stop asking of our cricketers something we should have been asking of ourselves. Or our government. Lets find ourselves a reason to be patriotic and celebrate Pakistan, and let cricket be a sport, not an identity. If we all just took a little responsibility, maybe our beloved team can finally approach the pitch as cricketers, not as soldiers entering the battlefield. We owe it to them.

Welcome back, boys!

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Don't forget to leave your comments here http://www.maati.tv/beta/to-afridi-with-love/

Dear Team India,

It has been a long time since the whole country went to bed with a smile on its face. It still has its smile on, the next morning. I am fully aware that the Cup is not ours yet. That is precisely the reason I want to thank you now, because if you lose, I will forget this moment and look for scapegoats to blame, just like many others.

For many non-believers, this may look silly. After all, it is just a game isn't it? Not this time. No. This time, no one referred to Sachin as Sachin. Instead, he has been nicknamed with a three-letter word that converted the staunchest of atheists to believers of divine power.

When you played well this time, the whole country was happy. Yes, cricket is not everything. Yes, there are many unresolved issues pending. Poverty, education, women's rights… I can go on. But for those few hours when you played, you made us forget our miseries. What else can explain the humble rickshaw-wallah watching you outside a TV shop, waving his towel, breaking into a jig every time you took a wicket?

As much as Sachin himself, you too are a balm of this country. When you played, we forgot the mess our country was in, with one scandal popping up every day. We are on the verge of giving up on our system, despite the so-called "optimism". But you ask us to postpone the pessimism just by a few hours.

You have made us do things that we would otherwise not even dare to do. You almost forced us to bunk work. For a middle class salaried employee, on the day you played, even our livelihood came second after you.

When you played fire with fire against the Aussies, I was proud you did not take things lying down. When you won against Pakistan yesterday, I felt sorry for them. Not just because they played well, which they did, but because we have been in that situation so many times. 

I can’t think of any other bunch of people that can unite a billion of us. If you could log in to facebook or twitter when you are playing, you would know how much we worship you. My friends across the planet stayed up all night or woke up in the wee hours to share their happiness with the world. The status updates and tweets every time God hit a boundary or you guys took a wicket – those were priceless moments. You should see our faces, when we read them and replied and liked them.

Thank you Team India for those countless high-fives, sometimes with myself, sometimes with strangers, but most times with my best friends. Thank you for giving us the swaggers today, that only newly-weds sport the morning after. Thank you for taking me back to childhood when I had no baggage of responsibility pulling me down, just enjoying the game thinking about nothing else. Thank you for the wonderful memories so far.

If (and I hope you don't) you lose, you will be abused, shouted at, hated. I might even join them. As Shahrukh Khan says, Ye khel bada zaalim hai (this game is cruel).

But for now, thank you Team India.

Your fan

  

It is played only by 8 countries in the world and one of them is a group of islands smaller than Goa. Yet M/s ICC and BCCI mess with the happiness of millions of young school kids across this billion plus populated country.

Have you ever had a World Cup that messed with your exam schedule and thereby ruining the very purpose of watching cricket, which is having fun? Welcome to the club.

I was a kid when 1992 world Cup happened and I vaguely remember Tendulkar playing alongside Sanjay Manjrekar (yes, he was originally a player) in dark blues. I also remember Imran Khan’s bowling action in the finals and a vague picture of him lifting that glassy World Cup. I distinctly remember my neighbour “uncle” saying “Pavam England” (Poor England).

But my first solid memory of World Cup Cricket is the 1996 one. It is a World Cup I would never forget. Guess why? That damn tournament was playing into my life, cutting right through my Board exams. “Class X da, your entire life depends on this exam!” my tuition teacher would warn me if he heard me discussing cricket. My parents, who thought they could actually prevent me from watching cricket, refused to give the cable TV connection. (Of course, when the neighbour has cable TV, why would you need one? All you need is an open window). Besides, the world cup was shown in Doordarshan too.

While I was rocking on the chair, mugging the damned Organic Chemistry formulas (which I never ever made use of in my life again), I would hear loud shouts from that rascal “Anna” (brother) who lived two floors above us. “Outtey......” he would shout and I would hear clapping. I would look helplessly around me, look out of the window, look at the book, and then look at the blank TV screen. Then my resistance would fail, I would run over to the TV, switch it on, and then look at my mom, “Just one minute ma”. She would go, “I don’t know, it’s your exam. You study your life will be good”.

Damn. I would hate it when I had to take decisions for myself.

I also remember distinctly I promised my mom, I would study everything beforehand so that I could watch the India-Australia match. I did as I promised and I enjoyed every minute of the game...until Mark Waugh bowled a wide ball to get Tendulkar out stumped on 90 in Mumbai. Tendulkar might have given Warne nightmares two years later but Warne gave me “daymares” during my Board exams. He bowled his way into my question papers and I had to do a Sachin Tendulkar myself (I got a 90 in Science). After my Math paper, my cousin and I did not discuss that famous “balloon” question that made waves in the CBSE Class X exam-talk that year but rather we high-fived again and again talking about Venkatesh Prasad’s terrific comeback at Aamir Sohail in Bangalore.

Two years later, it was not the World Cup this time. I had just finished my other “life-deciding factor”, my Class XII exams. Life decided to bowl me with a googly again. The next day was the famous yet-another-all-important TNPCEE (engineering entrance examination) and the little mas-tard chose to play the innings of his lifetime that would be remembered for the rest of my life (and his and everybody else’s on this planet). He was playing in the middle of nowhere in a desert town called Sharjah. He was playing Australia in between a certain desert storm, which later had to retreat with its tail between its legs. On that day, Sachin chose to show the mighty Arabian desert who was the bigger storm as he pummelled Michael Kasprowicz for two consecutive sixes and “century”ed his way via my brains into history. My entrance exam was spread over three days and Sachin followed to attack me more than he did to Australia as he took revenge on the country’s exam schedule. He blasted his way to second consecutive century and this time, he decided to treat himself on his birthday. It was like he, just a class X educated bloke, was making a mockery out of all of us professional course aspirants, succinctly making a statement that you need not be professionally educated to be a professional!

My 1999 World Cup memories are as dull as the English weather where it was played, partly because my first year engineering exams were taking place and partly because Sachin lost his father. While I was mourning for his personal loss, he decided to teach me how to be determined in a manner that he has copyrighted for himself over the years. He cremated his dad, went back to England and in the next match he hit a century against Kenya in the company of Rahul Dravid. Our practical exams were in progress then and cell phones were not even existent for us middle-classers then. While we were pretending to discuss the titrations in the chemistry lab, we would actually bribe the lab assistant to secretly let us listen to the radio hidden inside our lab coats.

Exams chased my World Cup viewing pleasure again in 2003 when I was in my first year MBA. Though the tournament started a bit early that season, it perfectly coincided with my crucial exams. I was sick of this battle between books and bats and balls. I actually lost a bit of interest in my exams and after completing every exam at the University of Madras campus, I would cross the road and head into Marina Beach and sit down for the rest of day, watching the match on the giant screen with my friends. If anyone had to give us a spanking for treating our exams with such disdain, it had to be Ponting. He pummelled us with so much authority that I couldn’t help but think that he was actually admonishing us for neglecting our studies. When he belted Zaheer into submission, it felt like my teachers were caning me for my behaviour. I was expecting some nirvana when Sachin walked into bat on that fateful final but....the less said the better.

2007 – I was originally supposed to be working but I chose to take a break and appear for the Indian Civil Service exam. Again perfect coincidence with my exams and this time, I was serious enough to set my priorities right. I chose cricket. As what would be a definitive warning to get me back to study for something as serious as Civil Service, the Indian team bowed out in the first stage. While I should have rightly stayed up late night burning my midnight oil to make sure I made my way into the Indian bureaucracy, I instead stayed up late only to watch Bangladesh beat us, forcing me to forward that famous SMS about Greg Chappel asking Bob Woolmer (may his soul rest in peace) to ask the pilot of their flight to hold on for a day, so that both teams could return home in the same day.

Now, four years later, for the first time in my life I have no exams staring at me when the World Cup is playing. How will the experience be? I have no clear memory of how it used to be!

Mom says no girlfriend, If God was a banker, An Indian in Cowboy country, Keep off the grass - these are some of the names of books you will come across if you walk past the Indian writing section in the Landmark bookstore. I recently saw a news feature that said publishers were encouraging about 250 new age Indian authors because their regular authors are slowing down (of course they are getting older!) and they also feel that this new genre sells better than the classic stuff. These authors are young, well educated, and can write about stuff the youth are interested in - jobs, career, relationships, girlfriend, sex and of course "life and its deeper meaning".

Leading the pack are the studs from IIMs (thanks to Chetan Bhagat) and joining them are folks from other B-Schools, followed by other young professionals. Of this lot, the ones that particularly stand out are the banker boys. It's sort of interesting how young twenty-somethings end up writing on "profound" issues like "the higher calling" and "true search of happiness", interestingly mixing these with issues that the contemporary youth has to deal with. And in many stories, either the author or the protagonist or both are bankers.

For example, Karan Bajaj (whom I also like), an easy-read writer, has already written two books on happiness and soul-searching (Keep off the grass and Johnny gone down). Amish, an IIM-C grad has written what has now now become a best-seller "The Immortals of Meluha", an interesting attempt on Indian mythology and Samit Basu, an Electronics and Telecommunications Engineer has written a new best-seller "Mom says no girlfriend" (Is life all about having fun? asks Samit).

How are these professional folks able to write so well? Aren't they supposed to be doing more boring stuff like dragging excel sheets? How did they suddenly become creative?

I should be able to answer that question. After all, I was a banker myself. And the truth, my dear friend, is that bankers have every reason to make excellent authors. Wanna know why? Read on.

Bankers can be very creative

If you thought otherwise, you are mistaken big time. Unlike common belief, bankers are one of the most imaginative folks. How else do you think we could manage to poach clients from another bank, without actually giving any real value addition? Imagine the amount of effort it takes to convince a client to close the 50-year relationship with his existing bank and switch over to our bank. And what do we offer him once he is with us? The same old service (in fact much horrible than his bank's) and higher interest rate charges than he was getting in his bank!

"Sir, they are not giving you multi-city cheque facility, we give you multi-city cheque facility across our 1000 branches!"

And then the poor client would eventually realise that since all his operations were in the same town, he has no need for a multi-city cheque! And wait, its not over. My bank would charge him extra because this feature is "enabled" for his account, irrespective of whether he uses it or not.

Now to offer someone something that they don't even need requires some serious creative thinking!

Bankers can bombard you with graphic descriptions

The authors that can give a graphic description of their story's setting are the most fascinating ones to read. And that is precisely what bankers can do. We can bombard the client with so much rhetoric and unwanted information that we end up convincing the client that we are folks with some serious knowledge whereas their current banker is a novice. The following examples are absolutely real and I collected these gems during my stint in a bank.

"Sir, you have to understand our current credit situation. Since Basel was introduced, our credit off-take has been so high that we are over-leveraged right now. Any lending at lower than our prime-lending rate is a crime and could lead to some serious Asset-Liability Mismatch" - All this to a small scrap iron dealer who protested that our interest rates were actually a lot higher than promised.

"Sir, you don't understand the investment scenario in electronic industry. Our portfolios have been rebalanced. Do you know who is Canon's biggest competitor today?"

The poor computer dealer at Ritchie Street shakes his head in awe "No. Is it Nikon?".

"Its actually Nokia. See how situations have changed? We cannot give you this cash deposit facility for free"

And my favourite

"Sir, our global investment policy does not allow us to fund for eucalyptus oil manufacturing. This is in line with our environment policy and this is a decision by our global office." 

Bankers have a clear plot

All bankers stay ruthlessly true to their plot. Each of us would have our own plot, but we stay true to it. Now the plot can be anything. The most common one being "to become the regional topper" which means killing everyone in our way - it doesn't matter if he comes from the same bank, doesn't even matter if he is my brother - just need to get my name to the top of that MIS excel sheet.

For some, the plot is even more direct - higher incentives. This bunch of "high achievers" are the smartest in the market. They know how much incentive they want and they have a clear strategy - Target a few regular "high value clients", convince them to take more loans from us, and chill out for the rest of the season.

What did you say? The true purpose of banking is to fill financial needs of those that need it? Whoever said that!

What bankers don't experience

And of course, writing a book stretches those brain cells that have forgotten how to write. The only original piece of literature that we ever got to wrote was those leave letters. In fact, not even that. Most of the times, we just go to "Sent items" and find that last sent leave letter, change the date and send it again. Can't blame us, we are used to it.

Every time there is a credit proposal, we end up facing demonic pressure from our boss to submit the proposal to Credit department. I would never know why my boss always wanted to give out those loans in a hurry. It's not like he wanted the client's Balance Sheet to improve overnight or anything. But he still pushed us to submit the Credit Memo to the folks at Credit the minute the deal was closed. So guess what we did?

Right, we just opened the last submitted file, changed the names, dates and a few minor details and forwarded it to Credit. And then we go back to step 1 again. (Step 1 is where we get creative again. Please see top to understand the process flow again.)

What follows next is a two part story, running parallel like railway tracks, never meeting. While one half of our personality becomes confident and goes back hunting clients, the other half is exactly the opposite - lose all self-esteem and literally fall at the feet of Credit to sanction this "case". (That story is a separate blog post!)

Writing a book is the perfect let-out and a good way to experiment all them suppressed vocabulary and writing skills. This is also a great way to keep testing those hard-learnt grammar skills in school. (FYI, my English teacher would embarrass the crap out of me in front of the whole class if I made a grammatical error.)

Every time a banker drags those excel cells, he is desperately looking for a small cell to write something on his own. Something that he feels like expressing. So the next time you see those new-age-banker-turned-author written books, go ahead and pick them up. Their authors have been desperately searching themselves in those excel sheets.