Chronicles of lockdown

As an observer and chronicler of life - with my head so far up my own ass, it has taken me 47 years to dislodge the damn thing and begin to talk instead of fart all the time - lockdown offers interesting social changes.

The Christian faithful listened to the Holy Week sermons, very closely.

‘Live’ streaming services may have more under-30s tuning in to churches than ever before in the history of the Catholic Church.

The fear of death is supreme and can inspire people to impose on themselves the strictest of norms.

Question is, for how long?

Uderzo, au revoir

My aunt flew for Air India.

Every trip back she would bring in the latest copy of Asterix and Obelisk.

From ‘Asterix the Gaul’, to ‘Asterix and the Son’, every single one.

Between the ages of 10 and 14, I had read them all. Repeatedly.

And in the evolution of my own personal style of humour, the battle was between René Goscinny and Albert Uderzo's decidedly French turn of phrases, translated brilliantly by Derek Hockridge and Anthea Bell; and PG Wodehouse’s taciturn, yet shudderingly-powerful snark, Jeeves.

Uderzo won. Woodehouse’s Jeeves a close run in. I did not do Tintin.

PS: Pic credit: Getty

Corona lessons

Somethings I have learned during the time of Coronavirus. 

• My mum, 75, has been washing her hands with soap and water, for at least 20 seconds, from before I was born.
• Flu is contagious, flu can kill you, flu is not to be underestimated.
• Anybody who came from a war-time generation is mildly amused by the hyper-panic, yet is wisely pragmatic.
• Technology, as the general social population understands and engages it, is largely useless.
• Life can quickly be brought down to its lowest common denominator – survive and stay alive.

Evolve to, or evolve from?

The Ig-halo

Odion Ighalo is living not just his dream, but the dream of every Manchester United fan – 500 million, at last count.

Playing, and scoring, for his beloved club.

However, beyond that headline material is the manner in which Ighalo has gone about his job.

Humble on camera, a demon on the pitch.

There is a certain chemistry at play for a club’s legion to fall in love with a player. That is put to the test when the player has a bad run.

That’s when the player’s character matters.

Ighalo has the character to stand the test of time.

Covid 19 vs Cov-WTF-whenever, in Pune

I am standing between friends – Punekars, one a millennial, the other, old school.

The millennial refuses to shake hands.

The old-schooler insists I shake his hand.

Covid 19 vs Cov-WTF-whenever.

The argument on my street is not whether to contract it or not, but, will it kill me?

Old-school Punekar: not a chance. The Indian immune system, old-school hygiene and a mix of what-we-eat-and-our-heat keeps me alive.

Millennial Punekar: cool, let me watch you die. I will not be a carrier.

Me: I am torn between the two.

I shook the old-schooler’s hand…

…and then, cleaned mine with sanitiser.

The Empire strikes back

Cometh the hour (generally, a time of crisis), cometh the Indians; or, as is the snowflakey, politically correct way to put it - cometh those of Indian descent.

Rishi Sunak and Priti Patel lead the UK in a time of Coronavirus, Brexit and Liverpool winning the Premier League.

The Empire strikes back, and how. Impeccable educational credentials for one, Stanford and the like, have been the calling card of every global Indian for the better part of the last 100 years.

Do what the eff you want, my parents screamed, but study.

I look at my son. He’s trainspotting.

Niranjan Prakash, over, but never out

The Niranjan I knew was sore for the most part.

He bitched about me endlessly for the most part.

He was mean, petty and vicious for the most part.

However, he was insanely talented and bewilderingly intelligent. He commanded my attention and respect for that alone.

The maverick, emotionally broken but intellectually too far evolved for today’s snowflake dynamic, would roll his eyes and hit me with a snarky come back as I would try to argue some global socio-political dynamic, or question a deeply Marathi tradition.

Niranjan Prakash, I will miss you. As will my wife and kids.

Apocalypto

I am looking at the locust plague in Africa and the Middle East; the continuous movement of the Earth’s innards causing volcanic eruptions, earthquakes and sinkholes; megaliths of ice melting, and now Covid-19.

Has humanity simply lived itself to the point of extinction? We have busted the environment, that is for sure. Now, it is all about damage control.

And for me, the question is: what future am I leaving to my children?

The apocalyptic nature of these questions is brought on by a very palpable access to information, as it happens, across each metre of the world’s expanse.

The naked truth: Put some clothes on, dude

For the most part, I am a nudist.

I don’t like clothes.

At home, I wear the bare minimum.

I prefer the beach to the mountains for the same reason.

In 45 years of existence, I have never been to a proper mountain, but have been to beaches across the world.

The only thing I wear on a beach are my swimming trunks.

In my teens, my clothes-free existence was bohemian.

In my 20s, a statement of personality.

In my 30s, it was uber cool.

Now, in my 40s, my wife says, it is creepy; “put some clothes on”.

Snowflake...

My school, St Vincent’s High School in Pune, has turned into a snowflake.

It used to be a killer – a tough as death, top of the line, number one school in Pune.

Now, it has fancy fetes; allows cars on the sports ground and generally cares about every politically-correct aspect of life other than the only one that used to matter – excellence.

Par excellence on the sports field, the loss of that dominance is the one that hurts the most.

My grandfather, father, brother and myself schooled at St Vincent’s. Now, my son will finish from there. The end.

I think...

Manchester United were devilishly lucky in the Chelsea win.

Cue my favourite football quote, “I’ll take a lucky manager over a talented one any day,” courtesy Harry Redknapp.

Bruno Fernandes is smooth, really smooth.

Anthony Martial is useless at hold-up play, but running at defenders he is lethal.

We need Matic and Mata, as the experienced war-horses who have won stuff. Their influence is vital.

I would rather Utd destroy Arsenal, with the same regularity, than Chelsea.

They keep saying Klopp is like Fergie; and it sickens me.

Atletico Madrid will defend for 90 mins at Anfield. And win.

It's the kids, goddammit

I have faced many a life-threatening situation – metaphorically, emotionally, mentally, and in reality, physically.

What set me apart was my ability to look the situation in the eye, take a deep breath, and tackle it; icy blood flowing through my veins; cold, killer.

At the age of 47, for the first time, I am traumatised.

My kids are rendering me a hopeless psychopath.

I am emotionally broken.

What happened?
I was not prepared for them to grow up. 

Forever 12-years-old, at the max… turns out they do grow up.

If you’re a parent, know this. And be ready.

Ole, Poch and the soul of Man Utd

Mauricio Pochettino as Manchester United does not work for me.

At stake in this transition period is the soul of the club, to be defined as the mystical union of fan and team, translating into belief, fervour, expectation and achievement, as undeniable elements of the
experience.

Any one of the above, without the others, makes the experience incomplete.

The least important is achievement (see Man City).

In the hands of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, the soul of the club is safe. And nurtured.  And growing. Evolving.

Unless we are soul-changing (see Chelsea), Poch is not the man for Manchester United.

#CatholicTwitter: Where's India?

I am tracking Catholic Twitter and #themedianuns  and the aggressive Bishop Baron, and am impressed with the general sense of social media accomplishment that the church, at least in the West, has achieved.

In Africa, India and Brazil, where the numbers exist in the Catholic world, I am still unaware of any major social media outreach plan.

I could be wrong, but in India, for sure, the clergy is not setting any agenda on online. All the clergy are online though; especially the nuns.

Can a person pray online? Can God be found and encountered online? What’s the catch?

Politics!

When I left Pune 13 years ago, Shiv Sena was the rabid beast that the polity was considering taming to ensure protection from… in retrospect, I’m not sure what now. 

There was Pakistan and “outsiders” and a general sense of, “we need a guard dog.

Now, in Pune today, Shiv Sena is the saviour from the pet animal that turned rabid – the BJP.

Sharad Pawar pulls the strings, as he has (I am told this by folks properly in the know), since he took over from YB Chavan (which is before even I was born, so eons ago). 

Politics!

A light in the darkness?

I was alive when Cristiano Ronaldo signed for Manchester United.
I was around when the likes of Henrik Larsson and Michael Owen and Zlatan Ibrahimovic signed.
I am here now, as Bruno Fernandes has signed and, I have not seen an outpouring of celebration quite like this for any signing Manchester United have made. Ever.
The measure of happiness is to be judged as a quantum of frustration and desperation the fans are feeling right now.
The tunnel is still dark. Maguire is a faint light. The rest flicker and then go dark.
Bruno Fernandes offers us hope again.

Rebuild, rebuild, rebuild

Man Utd repeatedly tore open Man City.
Man Utd repeatedly tore open Liverpool.
We just don’t have the quality, yet, to convert that dominance into goals.
James is learning. Greenwood is learning. AWB is learning. Williams is learning.
Ole is learning. 
Every other player of note is injured.
Fred is Sir Give-a-lot.
Martial is crap - the kind of crap that you need in a team, however.
The rest? Flush ‘em. That we all know.
In terms of a rebuild, however, I am happy with where we are.
David de Gea won us the game last night. And Matic.

Stand by your man (utd)

For millions of Man Utd fans who do not live in the UK, the question, why do you support the club?, has always been a tricky one to respond to; for me at least.

Because they were the best.

Because footballers and managers can inspire fandom.

Because of a philosophy (play youth), style (attack hard and fast) and character (Cantona & Rooney, in particular).

What happens now when all is lost?

Why would I support the Red Devils now?

Because the only time support matters is when it’s all going to pieces.

Stand by your club. No matter what.

The Kobe I knew

Everybody and their aunt mourns the loss of Kobe Bryant. As do I.
I know one person who went from being a Kobe fan, to being inspired, against all odds to be part of the NBA; first as a strength and conditioning coach, and now, more of the basketball-whisperer.
The Kobe fan did not live in the US.
He is there because Kobe inspired him.
Now, get this, this guy worked for the Lakers when Kobe was there. That is the power of influence.
Somebody from nowhere is somewhere today because Kobe Bryant played basketball.
That is true inspiration.

Surrender and prayer

I flew to Manchester. In the offseason. Just to sit in the dugout.
I mentally scarred my son, when he, at the age of five, suggested that Chelsea had his attention.
I gave up the chance to watch Messi ‘live’, simply because Barcelona had beaten Utd that year in the Champion’s League final.
I don’t live in the UK, but I have lived Manchester United for the last 25 years.
The club is delinquent. And creatively bankrupt on the field.
I can only respond in the same manner by parents responded to my delinquency. Surrender and prayer (I’m sober).

AWB can now dribble... all else is misery

Joy is shortlived.
I'm unsure if it's me hitting the middle-ages as a 46-year 60-year-old; or my 19-year-old daughter and 16-year-old son flushing every value and principle their mother taught them down the toilet just to yank my chain; or my wife, in essence, looking at me and believing 20 years ago she made the biggest mistake of her life - marrying me.
Joy is a short-lived experience for me nowadays for all of the above.
But, primarily, because I am a Red Devil.
My youngest daughter, 12, holds promise and hope, as does AWB. All else is misery.