The Lesson of Experience!

The advent of the Internet today has transformed our very lifestyles and culture. The way a person looks at himself is hardly connected (even remotely) to the way a self-respecting human being considered his image to be just more than a decade ago. The world is virtualised beyond all logic. College boys become alluring models/divas and the like online while some adults project themselves as young students. While internet was conceived as a servant to smoothen the routine roughness of life, it has silently pulled the caret from beneath our feet, toppling us beneath itself, all the while unbeknownst to us.

This semi-bombastic spurt of thought was a consequence of one of the absolutely-pointless-pastimes of our generation today - begging for likes on Facebook! I was wasting my theoretically precious time in the pursuit of casual views (hits) on an activity of my virtual self on this social network. As expected, the post received no notes of appreciation, no clicks, no comment chains that it purportedly deserved. I considered the meaning of this and thought about how I react to a similar work by my friends. Do I canvas 'likes' for them, do I involve myself in comment wars with (un)known persons? Do I signal ostentatiously that 'I have read your article. It is great! kudos! Blah Blah Blah...' ? On second (the more realistic) thought, I realised I do no such things. A Friend posts something, I read through it and I push it aside and move back to kill the rest of my time. Then why should I expect different from others? Are we not all the same, social and political (i.e. pointless) segmentations not being considered? 

It was then that I decided follow Lord Krishna's diktat about bothering about one's work and turning a blind eye to all else, etc. I will post articles henceforth doing only minimal publicity (i.e, posting them on my social networking face(-book)s) and will not fret and flounder around with its associated notifications. Let the material find its way into people's notice. I shall not judge another's articles/creative publications by the number of flaunty numbers attached to it, but only by its value. I will not live my life on a billboard! 

                                                   Creativity is Dead! Long Live Creativity!

From Just a few Words to a Flood of Memories...

It has been a very old habit of mine to read the newspaper in what I call the Arabic fashion - back to front. Whenever the newsboy would throw in the paper onto our verandah, on those days that I would be at the scene to pick up the daily dose of world, the first (and incidentally, the only) segment I would scan was the sports page - especially so on the occasion of a cricket match - irrespective of the contestant sides.

I would enjoy looking at the entertaining encounters between batsmen and bowlers and reading through their histories - a practice that I religiously follow to this day.

Just an hour ago, when scanning espncricinfo.com - one of the world's best cricketing almanack, archive, scoreboard, statistics screen, etc., I happened to see an interesting piece titled 'Life after Hussey' describing the veteran left-handed finisher's impact and influence on Aussie cricket and how it would affect their forthcoming tours of India and England. This led the grey cells to think of a corollary. It was then that I began to reflect on the entertaining clashes lined up in some previous Indo-Aussie matches. An adjective filled piece on Tendulkar vs. McGrath/Gillespie/Lee (Many others, sometimes all together) and Ponting vs. Kumble/Zaheer/Irfan (sometimes all of them together) would always be dancing to attract my attention. I wonder what will I read in these columns in the near future? 

There was a time when just reading those words would bring back old, vague memories of high-tension cricket, high-adrenaline action, and a true Titanic Clash (with two meanings)! And of course, one high-pitched voice going stark-raving mental in the commentary box with every stroke, dismissal and appeal. You will agree, wistfully, yet morosely that clashes today are a little less animated.

In the light of the fact that Indian World Cricket, in all formats is metamorphosing in humongous proportions, these little columns reflect on the path that lies before the young, unbaptised willows and leathers. They, in a sense, project the goods that each team brings to the turf. We had a repeat of the Last-ball morale-crunching six; we saw again the batting decline in our own backyard. We saw a World Cup resurrection again (though the synonymous matches were interchanged a little). We saw, again, the rise of the Proteas. We saw the fall of a superpower. Adding to it all, following the recent (heavy-)weight losses undergone by most teams, (I am convinced) we are about to see cricket itself reborn in a cycle that will take us back to the late 80s, only with a little more colour and (ultra-high) clarity, but with newer, greater and more taxing challenges.

Let us hope for a new Tendulkar, a new Dravid, a new Ponting, a new Flintoff to fill the old gaps, just like they original ones once filled in for Vishwanath, Gavaskar, Border and Botham. I now wait eagerly for the day when that little column fires me up before watching a match. Three greats have retired, be it on a national or an international stage. I now await the resurrection.