Pedigree

I’ve said it before. To win in the Champions League, besides a million other factors, you need pedigree. Manchester United yesterday showed their pedigree. How do you get pedigree for a team? Well you get a coach who has the ability to buy and train players to be the best, who then mate on the pitch with the ball to screw other teams, creating the necessary pedigree.
Liverpool have pedigree. Not Chelsea. That is why I expect Liverpool to beat Chelsea. Just because you put on a tux and come to the party does not mean you belong there.

Over rated

Among my more modest ambitions is to win an Oscar, a Grammy, the Booker and the Pullitzer. I would add all in the same year, but as an admirer once pointed out, that’s not technically possible. A song, a film and two books are still all ruminating in my creative juices. Meanwhile, I critically appreciate others’ efforts. My eye for sometime has been on Indian writers in English and, English writers of Indian origin; knowing that I might one day make one or both categories. Both have some wonderful exponents. And, some pathetic. And, some over-rated. Like, Jhumpa Lahiri.

Fry that Bhajji

Harbhajan Singh slapped S. Sreesanth. In my opinion, Bhajji should be castrated. I now understand why Matthew Hayden called him an obnoxious weed. Sreesanth of course, is the kind of guy who seems to be begging for a slap most times, but that’s not the point. Conduct on the field is of utmost importance and Bhajji behaved like a typical crass Punjabi, forgive the racial slur. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Bhajji for an interview. He put on a pretty decent show for the press, but one-to-one, you could sense and smell the air of obnoxiousness around him.

Retiring at 45

Just been through another wedding in the family, and as weddings go, this one was right up there with the overindulgence in all good things – food, wine, love, nostalgia, the scraps and the splurging on clothes.
Another family member committed marriage and now that the dust has settled, I find myself struggling to get back into the routine.
Why can’t life always be one big party, with breaks for church and funerals and a little exercise?
I set myself a target of becoming editor of a newspaper by 35. I was at 33. I aim to retire at 45.

On my conscience

I have increasingly become filled with angst over a dire relationship between my creative output and my conscience. I have long wished the two divorced, but they remain more conjoined than two freak twins.
I would have thought that years of consistent anarchy could reduce one’s conscience to a dull blur on one’s emotional state line. However, every time I have a particularly ‘rough’ night, I find myself unhinged by the events the next day. Nowhere moreso, than when it’s time to write. The dull blur becomes a rising tide that all but blocks creative flow to the brain.

Bedside table

You die, alone at the time, in your bed, and a stranger walks in. All s/he has as a clue to who you are is your stuff on your bedside table. What would that stuff say about you?
Growing up in India, I slept a lot on a mattress on the floor, so a bedside table is as recent an occurrence as a bed. I’ve been looking at stuff on my bedside table regularly: an empty whisky tumbler, an overfull ashtray, an empty packet of cigarettes and a stack of books. What would that say about me, I wonder?

Kid talk

I am increasingly of the opinion that you can have the deepest of conversations with children. In fact, the younger they are, the more depth you are likely to experience. I believe this is because the younger they are, the less conditioned they are by their parents, the world around them and their own experience.
I have two children. That I know off (if there are any little bastards of mine running around the world, then come forward now, or get in touch with Madonna). For views on life stripped free of all informed pretension try talking to kids.

Art of listening - 2

There are several variants of rogue listeners and it would delight me if a passer-by here adds to the list below. However, a real treasure in today’s noisy world is the more evolved listener. There are two. One is the type who listens with all his faculties. His/her whole being is attentive to the narration. However, on the path to listenlightenment, the freshman, in his/her mind or heart will internally be reacting to what is being spoken. The guru on the other hand listens completely, without even reacting within. S/he is wholistically imbibing all that is spoken. That’s listening.

Art of listening

Listening is an art. And like all art forms has its share of annoying pretenders. Top among them is the me-too listener. Continuously punctuating the conversation of how s/he went through or thought off or escaped the very same thing. Then there’s the pretender listener, who either has no choice, or has something to gain from ensuring you believe you are being listened to. Over enthusiasm is a dead give away. Lastly there’s the space cadet. Not there at all and will prove it by beaming back into the conversation every now and then with a totally random thought.

The best player in the world

I have been loathe to like Cristiano Ronaldo, especially after he tormented England out of the last World Cup. It took the best football coach in the world, Sir Alex Fergusson to keep him at Manchester United, and ever since, Ronaldo has gone from strength to strength and, from despised to loved to over-awed. He has been knocking on the door of the best player in the world title for most of this year. After last night’s game against Roma, I have to say it, he probably is. Nobody right now in world football is a more complete player.

Chappati

One of the fallouts of building a gigantic, supposedly sophisticated and successful society in the desert, as is with most Gulf countries, is nothing grows on the sand – apart from dates and really bad attitudes. So, to feed your new-found metropolis you have to import everything and in the food sector that generally means not the best or healthiest of fresh raw ingredients is available to the average Ali here. The tragedy for me, who can do, without farm fresh veggies, and with smelly Kiwi beef, is in the form of the humble chappati. The wheat here sucks.