*The title of this piece provides an Oriental twist to the memorable calypso, ‘Cricket, lovely cricket’ by Lord Beginner, celebrating the West Indies’ first ever Test victory over England in 1950 at Lord’s.

The game of cricket and its pundits are spread out like a rash. They are everywhere. Well, perhaps not in North Korea or Easter Island and the like, but certainly in most of the Commonwealth nations, and by a process of osmosis and great migratory movements, even the United States and Canada. They have, notwithstanding their obsession with baseball and basketball, after a fashion taken to the game of ‘flannelled fools.’ I am intrigued by China, and since that country has spread its unwelcome tentacles all over the globe, it won’t be long before the Chinese start discussing cricket seriously. They never do anything by halves, the Chinese. In fact, the incipient signs are already there, as I will reveal presently. We are quite accustomed to seeing Chinese brands sponsoring major sporting events the world over. In India, the IPL and many other high profile sporting tourneys bear the names of Chinese brands of mobile phones and other mass marketed products. Skirmishes on our north-eastern borders continue unabated, but clearly that does not hamper the free flow of commerce.

It should therefore come as no surprise if the popular cricketing term, chinaman, takes on a more literal interpretation once the Chinese start spinning their sinister web over this game. Speaking of the cricketing chinaman, which is a kind of left arm wrist spinner’s mirror image of the right-handed googly, should not the International Cricket Council rename this tricky delivery chinaperson, to keep in step with their own decision to officially change the term batsman to batter? All in the noble cause of gender neutrality, of course.

For now, India continues to rule the roost in terms of world domination of the gentleman’s game, a misnomer if ever there was one, barring some rare exceptions. Domination here refers to the depth of the Board of Control for Cricket in India’s pockets. They are, after all, the fat cats of world cricket. As for the game itself, India’s fortunes have been waxing and waning – top of the class in Test cricket, and inconsistent laggards in white ball, limited overs engagements. Management changes in the coaching and leadership areas point to the churn that Indian cricket is presently going through. The Chinese corporate sector is pumping in massive amounts of Yuan into the game in India but unpronounceable Chinese names are yet to figure in the IPL franchises’ batting order. Some day, in the not-too-distant future, one of the IPL scorecards might well bear the following legend, Ting Shao Xi – caught Kohli bowled Lao Tse Feng 37, but I think that day is still a long way off.

It would not have taken you long, dear reader, to conclude that those Chinese names just mentioned were entirely a figment of my imagination. That said, it might interest cricket aficionados to learn that one Ellis ‘Puss’ Achong of Chinese descent, hailing from Trinidad and Tobago, played 6 Test matches for the West Indies during the 1930s. Interestingly, he was described as a slow left-arm chinaman bowler, who took 8 wickets in his Test career. He boasted a modest batting average of a fraction over 8 runs per innings, and was permanently ‘rested’ thereafter, having got into the history books. I don’t know if the tale is apocryphal, but apparently the Middlesex all-rounder Walter Robins of that era, referring to Achong’s mystery ball expostulated, ‘Fancy being bowled by a bloody Chinaman!’ And that is how the cricketing term chinaman was born. And stuck. The upper and lower case distinction (Chinaman / chinaman) is self-explanatory.

While Ellis Achong was of mixed blood, the Chinese stream of which greatly intrigued and interested cricket historians, Jiang Shuyao is of blue-blooded Chinese stock, the genuine article. He has impressed one and all playing club cricket in England and his batsmanship (battership) has caught the eye. Scoring oodles of runs for Cleethorpes Cricket Club in England, the Chinese star has been clearly enjoying himself. As he says, ‘I like training for one or two hours here. In China we train for four hours, have some rice and then train for another four. And here you can say ‘hello’ to another player in training. If you do that in China you must run 10 laps of the pitch.’ Hard task masters, the Chinese. Whether Jiang Shuyao actually said ‘hello’ or ‘herro,’ is neither here nor there. Can you blame him for preferring the green and pleasant land that is England, to the strict and forbidding regimen of the Chinese proletariat?  

Nevertheless, Shuyao is said to be at the forefront of China’s cricket revolution, and the experts are beginning to describe China as the ‘world’s greatest untapped source’ for our favourite game. Heavens preserve us! Rahul Dravid may be India’s Great Wall, but our new head coach will have his hands full if and when faced with opposition from the real Great Wall of China. As I said earlier, watch out everybody. The day is not far off when India’s leading cricketers, in a reverse flow of talent, could well be signing up for the ultra-lucrative Chinese Premier League. I can even now hear Ravi Shastri’s Chinese counterpart getting excited in the commentator’s box, ‘Tsi En Ting luns in to bowr to Vilat Kohri, who dlives beautifurry as the barr laces to the extla covel boundaly rike a tlacel burret.’ I can hardly wait.

On a more serious note, the ICC has been burning the midnight oil to spread the gospel of cricket to the far corners of the earth. They have worked tirelessly and their efforts are steadily beginning to bear fruit. Countries from Continental Europe and Africa have been taking rapid strides in becoming an integral part of the world cricketing community. Even if it does not quite match the phenomenal progress football has made, it is slowly but surely, getting there. Some of them will fade in and fade out. Others, like Afghanistan will plant their flag firmly on the most sacred of turfs in the world. Frankly 10 or 12 countries battling it out routinely and dubbing it a world championship is laughable. That must change over the coming decades. And if the sheer logic of numbers suggests that the People’s Republic of China is going to have the greatest influence on the game in the future, so be it. They are currently ranked 81 in T20 cricket, but I see that ranking showing a strong upward curve in the near future. They have in recent years produced a Grand Slam champion in tennis like Li Na and there’s plenty more in the pipeline. They are already cock of the walk when it comes to other racket sports like table tennis and badminton and a force to reckon with in football. To say nothing of gymnastics.

China’s entry into the highest echelons of cricket might even foster hope for greater amity between them and the rest of the world, forcing the Americans and the Russians to take to the game. As for our Indian cricket fans, let’s have a little less of the spleen-venting during India – Pakistan encounters. Save your energies for a possible India – China clash at the Eden Gardens. Now that would be spleen well worth venting. One thing we know for sure. Indian cricket fans will never stop watching cricket. Not for all the tea in China.

Death is pretty final….I am collecting vinyl. R.E.M.

78 rpm, what is that? 45 rpm, haven’t a clue. 33 rpm, give me a break. 16 rpm, is this a physics question paper? Something to do with turbine speeds? And it’s nothing to do with one of those Latin American countries that boast of 45 revolutions per minute. Hint: think back, think vinyl. Those of you above 40 years of age, no make that 50 years of age, are probably straining at the leash, eager beavers and quiz-toppers putting your hands up and going, ‘They are all gramophone record speeds.’ You can go straight to the top of the class. Perhaps this is as good a time as any to explain, to those under 30, or perhaps 40 years of age, what gramophone records are. Come to that, one might even have to launch into an involved explanation of what gramophones are. Or were. However, as I am running against the clock to meet a deadline, I will save the lecture on gramophones (or radiograms) for a later date. For the nonce, I shall stick to vinyl records. Vinyl records, what is that, I hear you ask. Now look here my friend, I admire your insatiable thirst for knowledge and your gargantuan ignorance on matters more than four or five decades previous, but you will simply have to let me narrate this story my way. So please, no more interruptions. All, hopefully, will be revealed.

To the smart-aleck who responded to the opening sentence of this piece by identifying those mystical numbers as gramophone record speeds, I doff my metaphorical hat. By the abundance of grey, thinning hair on your pate Sir, I am rightly guessing that you are closer to sixty years old, and thus your familiarity with vinyl records and their speeds comes as no surprise. To those of you who were born during the early 50s or prior to that, all this will be old hat, if you’ll pardon the hat parallel again. That would include me as well, as I am now well stricken, having entered the serene seventies. As for those amongst you of the present generation who consider even compact discs as one with the dinosaurs, pin your ears back, peel your eyes, listen carefully and read concentratedly.

Traditionally, there were always records in my household, as far back as I can remember. That would take me back to the early to late 50s when we were stationed (my dad was an itinerant banker) in Rangoon, Singapore and Kuala Lumpur. At the time they were all 78 rpms, each side ran for not more than three minutes or so and if you dropped them, they broke. I am proud to say I have broken a few records in my time! The stylus attached to the record playing arm had to be frequently changed, else the music would jump scratchily, much to our annoyance. If you had a slightly advanced radiogram, Grundig for instance, you could stack eight 78 rpm records at the same time, and they would play one after the other. Incidentally, these radiograms were designed to blend in nicely with the rest of the drawing room furniture. For the record (sorry about the double entendre again), the music in our home that predominated with the 78s were mainly Carnatic music and Tamil film songs with a distinctly Carnatic flavour. We kids were too young to have a say in what records were purchased, as that was entirely my parents’ province. With the benefit of hindsight, I am glad of their choice of records as that stream of music has always stayed with me, never mind influences that came later on.

A few years down the road, the mini 45 rpms, standard and extended plays came into being. By now, I was in school and being exposed to pop music of the Elvis Presley and Cliff Richard vintage. If it wasn’t the former’s Teddy Bear, it would invariably be the latter’s The Young Ones. These records were made of some durable piece of plastic and were unbreakable, unless you took a hammer to them. As were the 33 rpm long-playing records, LPs, which played for upwards of 45 minutes. Incidentally, I have never come across a 16 rpm ‘plate,’ though the gramophone provided for that speed as well. By now The Beatles, The Rolling Stones and their long-haired rivals had stormed the staid bastions and we spotty-faced teenagers were over the moon, twisting and shouting to the adolescent sounds of Liverpool and London. LPs, however, were expensive at around Rs. 35 a go and not easily affordable during those days. Once in a blue moon, a birthday present from my parents or some generous uncle digging deep into his pockets made my day.

So how did we music-hungry souls go about getting access to these records? Rich friends, if they happened to share your taste in music, were a good source for borrowing records. The BBC World Service radio, with their weekly updates on the latest Top Twenty hits were ‘must-tune-in’ shows and a reliable guide to which bands or singers to look out for. Best of all, in Calcutta (and other metros), we had these well-stocked and well-appointed record shops which we would visit ever so often, primarily to browse and pore lovingly over the new releases. Many of the LP cover sleeves were truly works of art. The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band springs immediately to mind. What’s more, many of these shops had cozy private record-paying booths where you could take a record of your choice and listen to it quietly with headphones provided. I particularly recall, with much fondness, Harry’s Music House on Calcutta’s main street, Chowringhee. They had a wonderful collection of western music – pop, jazz and classical. The well-informed Anglo-Indian lady who presided over the shop, let’s call her Mrs. Harry, was most kind and indulgent. She knew only too well many of us could not afford to buy these records, but she would let us sit and listen to them in these booths for hours. However, if well-heeled customers started trooping in, she would turf us out with a stern, ‘That’ll do for today, young lad, you can come back tomorrow and listen to the rest of it.’ On occasion, she even chided a couple of us for being obsessed with The Beatles. ‘What’s this Beatles, Beatles all the time man, listen to some Frank Sinatra or Connie Francis, no?’ ‘Next time, Mrs. Harry’, we would bleat as we trotted out of the shop sheepishly. Of course, there is no Harry’s Music House any more, or for that matter, New Gramophone Stores on Lindsay Street near New Market and many other similar, friendly establishments. All one with the dodo.

With Spotify and Amazon Music pervading our lives now, any kind of music that we want is available at the tap of a key and for the most part, free to air. Brilliant sound quality, as well. You might say it’s a bonanza, leaving many of us in the now familiar quandary of trying to figure out what to do with all the CDs we graduated to after vinyl records went out of fashion. I am still clinging on to my CDs, and will do so as long as my CD player is still on oxygen and responding to external aids. Did I say, vinyl records went out of fashion? I tell a lie. Ironically, the most expensive items on Amazon, if you go to the music section, are vinyl records. It has great snob value, and there are those who swear that the true genuine sound of music can only be derived from the grooves of the vinyl and a diamond stylus. It’s rather like drooling over a vintage Rolls Royce, the older the better. Perhaps I should rummage in my cupboard to see if there are any old bell-bottoms lying around. I could have them dusted off, altered to suit my present generous girth and have them dry-cleaned. I will cut quite a dash at the next old school boys’ reunion, with Elvis’ Blue Suede Shoes trembling on my lips.

Preface: This is not my usual weekly blog, which is generally slated for Sundays. It being Deepavali (or Diwali), I am reproducing, out of turn, a piece I wrote on this festival a few years ago. Some of you may have read it (you are free to re-read it or skip it), many of you probably not. Either way, I felt like sharing it with my readers on this auspicious occasion. Read on.

I was born into an orthodox Tamil Brahmin family, and nowhere are the hallmarks of orthodoxy more strictly observed than in our religious festivals. The plethora of rituals almost every month kept me in a constant daze, but the culinary feast that followed each auspicious day, was mouth-watering.  Deepavali, or the festival of lights (and noise), perhaps best typified the rigours and rejoicings in households such as ours. In Indian mythology, in this case the Ramayana, Deepavali, amongst other things, symbolically celebrates the villainous Ravana getting his comeuppance against the virtuous and heroic Rama – good prevailing over evil.

Let us examine these rigorous obsequies more closely. Deepavali dawned for our family well before the sun broke blearily over the eastern horizon. We were woken up at about 3.30 am or some such ungodly hour, our faces still deeply sleep lined. Before we realised what was happening, my mother would pour a ladleful of hot nalla ennai (gingelly oil) on our heads, and thereafter over the rest of our bodies. After allowing the sanctified unguent to soak into our system, we had to have our ‘oil bath,’ and try as we might the sticky, oily feeling never left us for days. The shikakai podi (Acacia concinna powder, expressed botanically) in lieu of soap, only added to the pungent, but not unpleasant, odour we carried around for days on end. By half-past four, we were dressed to kill in our brand new clothes, usually a bush shirt and a veshti, which were kept in the prayer room for divine blessings, liberally smeared with sandalwood paste and kungumam (kum kum) the stains of which, like the oil, never left our clothes. After paying our obeisance to all the Gods displayed in the puja room, it was time for some fun, though we were still groggy from sleep deprivation. The cuckoo clock had just tweeted five.

The ‘fun’ consisted primarily of lighting sparklers and bursting crackers, and various other exciting but potentially dangerous playthings like rockets, chakras and phooljadis (flower pots) that could have been seriously injurious to health. I have never known a single Deepavali pass without some poor child sustaining grievous bodily harm. If not properly supervised, irreparable damage could be done to one’s eyes, and the loudness of the crackers’ bursting has caused many a child’s hearing to be permanently impaired. I still believe my brother’s hearing problem was a direct consequence of a pataas going off before he realised the wick had even caught. Thereafter, stuffed with earphones and listening to the brilliant GN Balasubramaniam’s Todi or Kamboji all night long, could only have hampered his auditory canals further. For myself, I exercised adequate caution during the festival, keeping a safe distance from all incendiary objects, even at the risk of being branded a sissy. Discretion was the better part of my valour.

Somehow the time had now crept up to 7 am, time for some toothsome bakshanams – crispy crunchies and a variety of sweet meats. Any other kind of meat was unthinkable! After prostrating before our parents, we were expected to visit neighbouring friends and relatives and seek the blessings of our elders. Our house was also constantly visited by a number of family friends. It was more like a visitation. It must be said that the feeling of gaiety and good cheer was manifest, and the air reeked of a heady admixture of sulphur (from the crackers) and the medicinal but tasty lehiyam, a highly concentrated paste made of clarified butter and all manner of spices, deliciously sweetened with jaggery – a most efficacious digestive. The Ayurveda chappies are making a fortune out of lehiyam.

As the clock crawled towards 10 am, we were all ready for the traditional Deepavali lunch, with all the usual Brahminical fixings topped off with a delicious paayasam. By noon, after the exertions of a long morning, we could not keep our eyes open. The post prandial afternoon siesta was sound and deep. It also marked the end of the festivities, leaving us at a loose end. This is pretty much the way families like ours celebrated Deepavali.

Outside of south India, particularly in the northern states, and through poetic licence, that can be extended to include east and western parts of India (in fact, anything that is not the south of the Vindhyas), Deepavali metamorphoses into Diwali. Diwali, to the best of my knowledge, involves no rigours whatsoever. Only rejoicings, and how! They can wake up whenever they want, do whatever they like, and all the action happens after sundown. While some superficial concession is made for religious observances, the general idea is to have a good time. Good food, teen patti, the Indian equivalent of the well-known gambling card game, Flush or Poker. The traditional Indian milk based stimulant, bhang, is consumed in large quantities and pretty much everyone gets sloshed to the gills. It’s all a bit Bacchanalian, but a rollicking time is a given. Dinner is late and the feast royal, and almost certainly not vegetarian. The sweets are rich and massively calorific. The north Indians don’t believe in doing things by half. They spread themselves high, wide and plentiful. And why not? It is supposed to be a fun festival after all. Rigour is strictly for their southern neighbours.

Days after the festive fireworks, our streets tend to resemble the blood spattered detritus of a battlefield. The red wrappings of the crackers, mangled sparklers and blackened flower pots turn our roads into a red sea. To say nothing of the sulphuric fumes and pollutants that remain heavily laden in the atmosphere. Small wonder the Supreme Court put the kybosh on the use of firecrackers in the capital till November 1.

So there you have it. Deepavali or Diwali, one festival in the same country, but celebrated in vastly different ways. The way I look at it, each to his (or her) own and there is no room for being judgmental. If the sense of unctuous religiosity is palpable amongst south Indians but missing in the north, the latter makes up for it by celebrating the festival in a markedly Rabelaisian and boisterous manner. Either way, it’s a public holiday and a splendid time is guaranteed for all. Just mind the fireworks.

To all our readers, I extend a very happy, bright, colourful and safe Deepavali. And Diwali.

Postscript: Wherever possible, I have provided instant translations for specific Indian terms pertaining to the festival. If I have missed out on a few, any search engine will unfailingly provide the answers.

One of the earliest advertisements I can recall, and this was much before I took up advertising as a profession, was for Signal toothpaste. The tag line for the brand was, ‘the red stripes contain hexachlorophene,’ which promised to take care of bad breath. Many of us rushed to the nearest provision store (Amazon was not even a twinkle in Jeff Bezos’ eyes) to get hold of a family-size tube of Signal. This was not because we were taken in by the unique chemical properties supposedly contained in those snazzy red stripes, but mainly because we thought those snazzy red stripes were, well um, snazzy. Truth to tell, we had not the foggiest what hexachlorophene was, but it sounded mighty impressive. Chances are all brands of toothpaste contained this chemical, but when one brand makes the claim clamorously and adds some red stripes to it, we will follow that brand to the ends of the earth, like so many mindless and gullible sheep. Are sheep gullible? You can think on that when next you are tucking into your mutton rogan josh.

During my working days at the ad agency, they used to call this the Unique Selling Proposition (USP), a concept that has been consigned to the rubbish bin in subsequent years, I know not why. Rosser Reeves, the ad guru credited with discovering USP, could be turning in his grave. On reflection, I think I know why other ad gurus gave USP the short shrift. There’s not much percentage in claiming bragging rights simply because you were the first to make the USP claim with no genuine exclusivity to back it up. Others will follow, splurge more money and shout even louder, completely drowning out the first mover. It’s not quite the same thing as Edmund Hillary being immortalized as the first Homo sapiens to set foot on Mount Everest with his faithful Tenzing (Sherpa) Norgay hot on his heels. Brands, however, must needs shout from the rooftops, if not from the mountain tops.

To get back to Signal, at the time most toothpaste brands extruded plain white paste from the tubes, and when some new kid on the block startled us with blood red stripes, we were sold. Speaking of which, if our gums were prone to bleeding due to caries or gingivitis or whatever tooth or gum-disorder we teenagers were prone to, thanks to not brushing our teeth after dinner and not saying our prayers before going to bed, the red mush in the paste camouflaged the actual, bloody discharge – an added advantage the advertising campaign failed to latch on to. Other brands promised whiter teeth, stronger gums and killing bad breath (…But no one kisses Katie). Colgate (or was it Forhans?) may have been created by a dentist and we would have died wondering where the yellow went when we brushed our teeth with Pepsodent, but in the end, the red stripes and Signal won the day. Here’s the irony. I once visited a dentist in Calcutta who suffered from an awful case of halitosis and like the advert says, even his best friends wouldn’t tell him. I was tempted to blurt out, ‘Dentist heal thyself,’ but thought better of it as he was holding the pliers. What is more, this Dr. Ghosh (or it could have been Dr. Bose) had this disconcerting habit of tapping the affected tooth and solicitously inquiring, ‘Do you fill pen?’ It took me awhile to figure out he wasn’t asking me about my fountain pen’s ink-filled status, but if I felt any pain! An endearing aspect of Bengali English. Sadly, for the dentist that is, I had to switch my custom to another molar-mangler, after taking the initial precaution of chatting with him at close quarters!

On a quick aside, as we are on toothpastes, another brand came up with a very novel idea. Or so they thought. They advertised heavily exhorting their clientele to spread the paste only up to half the toothbrush, claiming it will more than do the job of brushing, cleaning, removing bacteria, reaching every crevice, and all this with plenty of foam. This way the tube will last twice as long as any other brand. It was a clever ploy but as it happened, too clever by half; and it backfired. The advert worked only too well for its own good. Sales of this brand plummeted owing to the reduced usage. In short, the brand managers and their agency were hoist with their own petard and had to abruptly call off the campaign. Whether the agency was shown the door or not, I am in no position to say. For the record, I can assure you, from personal experience, that any brand of  toothpaste will pretty much give you satisfactory results with just half the brush ‘pasted.’

In case you were wondering, this piece is not so much about the power of advertising (It pays to advertise), as it is about how gullible we consumers can be (like those sheep) when cunningly fed with a good deal of pseudo-scientific gobbledygook on products we use daily. It’s a strange phenomenon that marketers and their advertising agencies have cottoned on to. Sometimes it is not the advertising, but what is on the bottle label or packaging that brings home the bacon. Which is where we enter the brave, new world of medicine, or more properly, medicines. There are those amongst us who know precious little about how our body works and at the slightest feeling of discomfort rush off to our family doctor, if such a one still exists, feeling much better when we come away clutching a prescription. I am a life-member of that club. Not a full-blown hypochondriac but apt to keep taking my temperature six times daily if I am feeling even a wee bit out of sorts. In recent years, I came to learn, after a routine blood test, that my thyroid functions were not quite within the normal range.

This is as good a time as any to confide in your shell-like ear that I had not the foggiest idea what the thyroid gland was supposed to do. (I refused to consult Google as that would have been the death of me). Until my doctor looked gravely at my test results, tapped his nose contemplatively with his pencil, removed his reading glasses (always a bad sign) and declared that my thyroid numbers were not all that it should be. It is one thing if my doctor had said my blood-pressure was high (or low). I could grasp that as a broad concept – 120/80 excellent, 140/90 fidgeting time, 150/100 call the ambulance. However, I was swimming in uncharted waters when it came to thyroid. ‘Should I worry about it, Doc? You can tell me.’ The man with the stethoscope replied that I should worry about it, but all is not lost, and a proper course of medication should set it right, whatever it was.

He then proceeded to gently massage my throat, just under the chin, grunted vaguely to himself and wrote out a prescription for a bottle of Thyronorm 25 mcg, two tabs a day for three months and return for a review. He said nothing more and I decided not to probe further. Best to leave well enough alone. Ignorance is bliss. I just kept popping the pills till my next test. Let me just cut to the chase. These tablets, amongst other things, contain something called thyroxine sodium and evidently my body needs them. Which is all I needed to know, rather like Signal’s hexachlorophene-filled red stripes. When I called my doctor and asked him what this thyroxine sodium was, he told me curtly not to pry into matters I knew nothing about. Some sort of secret ingredient, I surmised. ‘Just take the pills and stop reading the label on the bottle,’ he harrumphed as the line went dead.

So much for the healing touch. The point I am trying to make, in my somewhat orotund way is that, were it not for my GP mentioning those magic words, thyroxine sodium, I might have gone home without feeling any sense of reassurance. The moment I became aware that my thyroid medicine was armed with the equivalent of Signal’s hexachlorophene, my mood lifted distinctly. If I had been appearing for an ad commercial for Thyronorm 25, you would have seen me, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, looking smilingly straight into the camera, my teeth sparkling thanks to Signal’s hexachlorophene and mouthing the words, ‘I have no worries about my thyroid because I take Thyronorm 25 every morning. If you are concerned about your thyroid, ask your doctor to prescribe the same. Thyronorm – with thyroxine sodium.’ Ting-tong! Only I cannot do all that because medicine brands are not allowed to advertise, but you get the picture. Bottom line, I am still no wiser about the functions of the thyroid gland, any more than I am about strontium 90, but at least I am able to sleep better, secure in the knowledge that I have the gland under control, thanks to thyroxine sodium. Mind over matter. As that celebrated wag Mark Twain put it in another context, ‘If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.’

A prefatory note: I wrote this piece exactly three years ago on the shenanigans of the incorrigible cricketer-turned-politician, Navjot Singh Sidhu. For reasons unfathomable, I failed to include it in any of the three collections I published in book form. This column that slipped the net, as it were, was more in the nature of an inadvertent error of omission than a case of it being considered, in any way, shape or form, unsuitable for publishing. With the fiery Sardar so much in the news these days, what with his constant sword-crossing with the erstwhile Chief Minister of Punjab, Captain Amarinder Singh and his maladroit attempts to play the role of king maker, his frequent dashes to New Delhi to confab with the Congress party’s first family, all these have been making headlines and have been faithfully recorded in our avaricious media channels. The redoubtable Captain Amarinder Singh frequently refers to Sidhu as a ‘joker.’ Irrespective of which way he meant it, the cap fits to a nicety, though most of us are laughing out of the other side of our mouths. It was time for redressal, and I present it here, dug out of the woodwork and dusted, pretty much unexpurgated, and suitably embellished. On a fresh reading, what amazed me was that hardly anything had changed during this period and the piece therefore retains its fresh topicality in every detail, despite the passage of time. Read on.

Navjot Singh Sidhu strikes again. The garrulous Sardar has, once more, put his foot in it. Dropping another brick, adding to the many he has already dropped with metronomic regularity. At this rate he could easily build a decent-sized brick house. His latest faux pas has been to claim that he greatly prefers Pakistan to south India. And why this strange leaning towards our hostile neighbour in preference to his southern brethren? Can we then deduce that he prefers the rest of India to Pakistan, or is that debatable as well? Apparently, his inability to converse in Tamil or, come to that, Telugu, Kannada and Malayalam, is a major handicap, whereas in Pakistan he can let loose a volley of the choicest invective in Punjabi, and no questions asked. Then there’s the food. Clearly India’s former opening batsman has had it ‘up to here’ with idli, vada, dosa, thayir saadam (curd rice), sambar and other such southern vegetarian delights. He would prefer tucking ravenously into aloo parantha with a generous helping of chicken tikka masala on the side. One sees his point, up to a point, but still…

It was barely a few weeks ago that Sidhu went on a hugging spree in Pakistan at Imran Khan’s Prime Ministerial investiture, drawing the ire of most right- thinking Indians, and deeply embarrassing his Congress party cohorts. His brave, though lame attempts to explain away these gestures as being all in a good cause to further Indo – Pak relations, fell on deaf ears. Hugging former cricket mate and now Prime Minister Imran Khan is one thing but embracing Pakistan’s top military brass is brazenly pushing the envelope. India was not amused. Now we know the real reason why he keeps haring off to Pakistan at the drop of a turban. He loves their cuisine!

Now here’s a man who, in his early cricketing days was dubbed by many commentators as ‘the stroke-less wonder’, for his limpet-like ability to stay scoreless at the crease for interminably long periods. In fact his extreme caution while batting was admired by many who felt that that was the way Test cricket should be played. Later on, Sherry Paaji, to employ his affectionate moniker, became more adventurous, regularly dancing down the track and depositing the ball into the stands. The great Shane Warne was the victim of some of Sidhu’s fancy footwork. As an aside, one cannot forget the stormy petrel Sidhu’s intemperate walk-out from India’s touring party in England in 1996, owing to an unseemly spat he had with his skipper, Mohammed Azharuddin. Evidently, Azhar kept abusing Sidhu, and who is to say he did not have just cause? Those never-ending wisecracks and jokes alone would have got the skipper’s goat. It was during this twilight phase of his career that Sidhu found his true calling, that of a cricket commentator and talk show host. In present day parlance, Sidhu 2.0.

The term ‘Sidhuism’ was thus born. From the commentary box, Sidhu would bombard us with a barrage of cringe-worthy aphorisms and silly shibboleths. This made him the darling of some sections of the viewing public, but his incessant banter and thigh-slapping recourse to English, Hindi and Punjabi jocularity began to pall. Unsurprisingly, languages from the south of the Vindhyas were conspicuous by their absence in Sidhu’s lexicon! Those of us brought up on a diet of John Arlott, Brian Johnston, Tony Cozier and Pearson Surita, found Navjot Sidhu an unbearable pain in the cervical and gluteal areas of the anatomy. However, to redress the balance and be even-handed, there are many who loved his corny and overwrought witticisms. Check out some of these classic Sidhuisms for yourself, dear reader, and make up your own minds.

The third umpire should be changed as often as nappies and for the same reason / Wickets are like wives, you never know which way they will turn / There is a light at the end of the tunnel for India, but it’s that of an oncoming train which will run them over / The way Indian wickets are falling reminds me of the cycle stand at Rajendra Talkies in Patiala….one falls and everything else falls / The ball slipped from his hands like butter from a hot parantha.

As Sidhu has now entered politics (Sidhu 3.0) with a bang, here are a few of his non-cricketing gems – Politics is not a bad profession, boss. If you succeed there are rewards. If you fail you can always write the book / Experience is like a comb that life gives you when you are bald / A hair on the head is worth two in the brush. Not sure what he meant by the last two epithets, unless it was an oblique reference to how politics can lead to hair fall in double quick time!

Whichever way you try and explain or deconstruct this maverick cricketer-turned-politician, Navjot Sidhu continues to defy definitions. At times forced slapstick, oftentimes embarrassingly unfunny, Sidhu’s main problem appears to be that his motormouth moves a tad quicker than the messages his brain signals. This leaves him constantly in the horns of a dilemma – of thoughtlessly shooting his mouth off, only to repent at leisure. His peerless batting partner, Sunil Gavaskar, had Sidhu sought his advice, would have told him to watch the ball hawk-eyed, and then decide whether to play or leave the ball alone.

It paid Gavaskar rich dividends. Sidhu should apply the same principle when he decides to talk to the media. To cite the recent incident, Sidhu should have paused and said to himself, ‘Idli, vada, sambar, they make me sick to the stomach, but I must respect my fellow cricketers from the South like Srikkanth, Sivaramakrishnan, Venkataraghavan, Laxman et al, who consume them by the banana leaf-fuls every day. I should not hurt their feelings. When I go back home to Patiala or Ludhiana, I shall gorge on chicken tandoori till the cows come home, if you’ll pardon the mixed non-vegetarian culinary metaphor.’

There you are, Sherry Paaji, a little thoughtful reflection and you would not have been hitting the headlines for all the wrong reasons. Now go home and write 100 times, ‘I will not speak ill of idli and dosa. I will also not mention Pakistan as long as I live, and no Pakistani shall ever feel the warmth of my dubious embrace ever again.’ In fairness, Mr. Sidhu, you will surely appreciate that your ill-advised, lovey-dovey gestures with the top brass of Pakistan will surely put the kybosh on any vaulting ambition you might nurse to become the Chief Minister of Punjab. As for your anti-masala dosa stance, you take such a position at your own peril if you are entertaining hopes in the future of strategic tie-ups with Stalin and his party apparatchiks, as indeed the rest of south India. Apropos nothing, I end with one of Navjot Singh Sidhu’s more opaque quotes, An idle mind is where mischief hatches eggs. Make of that what you will!

Postscript: Dear reader, that was then and this is now. Three years down the road, Navjot Singh Sidhu continues to rivet our attention with every move he makes and every hackle he raises. The more things change the more they remain the same. Or as the French put it so lyrically, ‘plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.’

Let’s hear it for India’s top gun industrialist. Mukesh Ambani’s personal net worth has crossed $100 billion. He joins Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg, Warren Buffet and a handful of other worthies who have worked their way up to the top of the wealth ladder. The list, recently put out by the Bloomberg Billionaire’s Index (calculated on a daily basis), has the Reliance Group boss clocking in at eleventh place in the pecking order, which contains mostly American magnates of proven pedigree above him. Ambani’s compatriot Gautam Adani, while not quite snapping at his heels, comes in at a creditable number 13 with a value of around $78 billion.

It is significant that no Chinese name figures in this hallowed list till number 15, well below the $100 billion mark. One would have thought the likes of Jack Ma and a couple of others would have been automatic shoo-ins. There could be valid reasons for this conspicuous absence. Firstly, China’s financial position is beginning to look alarmingly dodgy, threatening instability across the globe. Remember, when Wuhan hatched the virus, the rest of the world contracted Covid, and we are still struggling to shake it off. Secondly, the Chinese powers-that-be have instructed their well-heeled citizenry to part with their hard-won cash and distribute the largesse among the poor – Capitalism meets Communism at the crossroads. This might have created a major dent among China’s billionaire club members, rendering them hors de combat, in so far as making it to the top of the world billionaire list is concerned. So, for the moment, we raise a toast in honour of the elder Ambani sibling.

The thing of it is, I am not quite sure how I am supposed to respond when the newspapers decide to headline Mr. Ambani’s prodigious pole-vaulting to the top of the financial tree. All these years, this wunderkind from Gujarat was chugging along at a measly $80 or 90 billion, somehow making ends meet in these difficult times. Now that he has crossed the Rubicon, perhaps never to return to his humble sub-hundred billion days, the Indian media naturally goes gaga. Will this accretion of a piddly $20 billion or so to his asset base change his lifestyle in any marked manner? Will he add a few more floors to his state-of-the-art mansion, Antilia (puzzlingly named after a phantom island, Antillia, in the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Portugal and Spain) in Mumbai? Mr. Ambani’s Antilia is spelt with one ‘l’ less than the mythical island, doubtless with numerological issues in mind. Speaking of which, meaning no disrespect to Mr. Ambani or his architect, I think this ‘most expensive residential complex in the world’ is a startling eyesore and a blot on the Mumbai landscape. Strong and sensitive men passing by will flinch and avert their eyes. Extreme ostentation triumphs over understated elegance. From a distance the tower looks like a series of misshapen, misaligned matchboxes piled, higgledy-piggledy, on top of each other. Antilia is futuristically equipped with all the mod-cons that one can possibly imagine, not forgetting the three helipads, but wild horses will not drag me into the sacred interiors of this modern art monstrosity. I should be paranoid about a strong wind bringing those matchboxes tumbling down. Not that I am in any imminent danger of receiving an invitation to dinner from Mukesh and Nita.

That said, the Ambanis can pick up a few more football or IPL franchises, which will greatly add to their prestige without, in the least bit, creating a ripple in their balance sheet. Manchester United is having a hard time of it these days in the English Premier League, notwithstanding Christiano Ronaldo’s late recruitment. I would strongly recommend to Mukesh Ambani that he send his best brains to Manchester to get a due diligence done on MU. And if funds permit (that’s a laugh), he can also cross the Atlantic and take a dekko at a couple of NBA outfits. That will complete the picture. And if he feels up to it, he can emulate Richard Branson and Jeff Bezos and explore outer space, if he is not susceptible to vertigo.

Meanwhile, I had prepared a questionnaire containing some probing queries and mailed it to all the $100 billion moghuls. Predictably, none of them bothered to answer. I doubt if my mail even got to the spam bin of their inbox. However, I did receive a response and I cannot swear to its authenticity (my friends say it’s a fake), from the secretariat of the Chairman of the Reliance Group of Industries. I had requested for an online video interview with the great man, but I was met with a polite rebuff. So, I shot off the questions, which were answered without the employment of the first person singular. Which leads me to believe that it was not Mukesh Ambani himself who was drafting the replies, but one of his many bright, young executives. One can only hope that it had his imprimatur. Importantly, it was agreed that we would conduct a ‘live’ online chat. No video, so I was still in the dark as to who I was chatting with, but spontaneous give-and-take ensured reactions on the hoof, adding to the surprise element.

‘Mr. Ambani, warmest congratulations on achieving this tremendous landmark of crossing the magic figure of $100 billion. What are your immediate reactions?’

‘You know, we at Reliance believe in excellence in everything we do. Our Father (who art in heaven) always inculcated in us the spirit that we should not be chasing turnover and profit for their own sake. Rather, we should serve the people of India and the nation as best we can and the numbers will take care of themselves. That is our guiding philosophy.’

‘When you say “we,” don’t you mean “I” Mr. Ambani?’

‘When we say “we”, we mean “we.” You journalists might choose to call it the “Royal we,” but in the words of the popular 70s hit song by Sister Sledge, “We are family.” That is the Reliance family which encompasses the Ambani kith and kin as well as the shareholders and hundreds of thousands of people who are employed by us directly and indirectly. We are one, big happy family.’

‘That is hardly surprising, Mr. Ambani. Why would you all not be happy with the kind of dividends and profits that are declared by your company year on year? In fact, for sheer scale and glamour, your Annual General Meetings can vie with the Oscars evenings in Hollywood.’

‘If you say so, but that was more a statement than a question, albeit a rhetorical one. Again, you appear to be obsessed with profits, dividends and so on. Resist this tendency. Reliance is like a huge banyan tree the seeds of which Our Father first sowed. Today that tree has grown so large it provides shelter and comfort to an entire generation.’

‘In order to achieve the kind of success Reliance has enjoyed over the decades, surely there are many government functionaries over the years you must have been in the good books of? What was your secret when so many other business houses have struggled to come to terms with the capricious policies of the government?’

‘We are not sure what you mean by “in the good books of” but over several decades, Reliance has always respected governments of various political hues, as we have contributed to the state and central exchequers massively by payment of taxes and levies. Your employment of the word “capricious” is inappropriate. We have enjoyed nothing but the warmest and most cordial relations with all arms of government machinery.’

‘Then Mr. Ambani, are we to understand that getting into the exclusive $100 billion club is nothing earth-shattering for you? That it is just small beer, another normal milestone, a part of your everyday duties and concerns?’

‘My friend, we have said no such thing. Do not put words into our mouths. And please don’t bring beer into it, small or big. As I said before, every single person in the Reliance family strives for excellence. The process is the thing. The results take care of themselves. If that means, crossing an important landmark, we are happy.’

‘You are beginning to sound like M.S. Dhoni. Perhaps you should have signed him up for the Mumbai Indians at the first IPL auction.’

‘There we agree with you. That was our one big miss. The Chennai Super Kings pipped us to the post, but then, you can’t win everything. What is more, our Mumbai Indians have done us proud over the years, and we have no complaints or regrets.’

‘One last question, Sir. This humongous empire you and your “family” have built, do you think it is all just maya, an improbable perception, that you will suddenly wake up and realize it was all just a dream?’

‘You know, “the perception of reality is more than reality itself.” That is a quote from the film “Billionaire Boys Club.” If all this is a dream, then we have dared to dream and make it all a reality. We believe we have answered enough questions for one day. We must rush. Time is money for us. However, can you tell us how many zeroes there are in 100 billion?’

‘Ah, um, er….’

‘We thought so. We bid you good day.’

‘Thank you for sparing the time, Mr. Ambani, if it is indeed you. Will call you again when you reach the number one spot in the multi-billionaire club.’

Postscript: I am now more than certain these answers were not provided by the famous scion of a famous family. I mean, Sister Sledge? Billionaire Boys Club? Give me a break!

The term ‘batsman’ has been amended to the gender-neutral term ‘batter’ in the Laws of Cricket to stress the importance of the women’s game, the Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC) announced recently.

As an avid cricket aficionado, I have been in recent times turning my mind over to the subject of cricketing nomenclature. In particular, I am greatly exercised over this tendency of our cricket correspondents and commentators going all gender-neutral, calling those who wield a cricket bat, men and women, ‘batters.’ Let me state my position, straight off the bat as it were, that I am not in favour of said mode of address. Call me old fashioned and conditioned, but as I see it, that is just plain batty. What is more, batter does not sound right. The resonance is simply not there. Cricket is an elegant and refined game. The word batter puts me in mind of inelegant things like a battering ram or the semi-liquid flour-mix which forms the cooking base for baking various items of confectionery, not forgetting our own staple idli and dosa. You cannot blame me if I cringe every time I hear Graeme Swann or Sunil Gavaskar going, ‘the new batter taking guard is Dhoni.’ This batter abomination has been going on for a few years now, tentatively at first and rapidly gaining momentum, but the final nail in the coffin was hammered, or rather, battered in by the MCC and seconded by the International Cricket Council (ICC) just a few days ago. From their lofty perch at Lord’s, cricket’s officialdom formally blessed the term batter, in the overall interests of gender-neutrality. Which pretty much seals the issue, regrettably.

Lest you, dear reader, should be under the false impression that I am some kind of MCP who hates the idea of women playing cricket, perish the thought. Nothing could be further from the truth. I am very much the preux chevalier in this regard. Women have been playing cricket since the mid-18^th century, and the first officially recorded women’s Test match was played in December 1934 between England and Australia in Brisbane. They’ve been around, the cricketing ladies. I yield to no man (or woman) in my admiration for women’s cricket. The in-born grace and elegance they bring to the game is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Mind you, some of the girls from the countries who play the game at international level, have taken avidly to the gym – (weights, sit-ups, bench-presses et al) in right earnest and developed beefy physiques the better to batter the ball to all parts of the field. In particular, those from the western hemisphere who are preternaturally well-endowed. In contrast, petite sportswomen (sportspersons?) like our very own Smriti Mandhana and Mithali Raj are fine exponents of the delicate art of batsmanship. A subtle late-cut here, a delicate leg-glance there, a veritable feast for our eyes. And there, almost serendipitously, I chance upon my primary point d’appui. In the natural flow of my argument, I employed the term ‘batsmanship.’ Under the new dispensation, would that be considered an unpardonable solecism? Should I have properly said battership? I rest my case. ICC, what say you?

Now my mild rant against the use of the term batter will obviously raise hackles and the pertinent question as to how we should actually address girls who wield the willow. Fortunately, the term bowler is inherently gender-neutral anyway, so there’s no issue there. I think conventional wisdom avers that ‘batswoman’ or ‘batsperson’ is too unwieldy, and that we should arrive at a common terminology for both sexes. Well-intentioned which, as everyone knows, is also the road to hell. To draw on a parallel, has the corporate world agreed on what the Chairman of a company should be called if the post was occupied by a woman? My superficial research informs me that such a person is also widely referred to as Chairman! On occasion, Chairperson. Or simply, the Chair, and you cannot get more neutral than an inanimate object for sitting purposes. ‘The Minutes of the Meeting clearly states that the Chair was most displeased with the second quarter financial results, as she pushed her chair back violently and stalked off the board room to powder her nose.’ Bully for you, Madam Chair.

Here’s the thing. If I were sitting on the executive committee, or whatever it is called, of the ICC, the meeting might very well have proceeded on the following lines. The President or the Chairman (it is a he), would have called the meeting to order.

‘Gentlemen and Lady, since we have just the one present, we are called upon to take a decision on this vexed issue of the correct descriptor to be used to address women cricketers when they go out to bat. This will be viewed as a permanent guideline for cricket writers, commentators and the cricket world in general. After considering all options and painfully protracted deliberations, we have come to the conclusion that the term BATTER best meets the case. On the assumption that we are unanimous on this matter, I propose that we adopt this as a formal resolution. All in favour please raise your hands.’

I wade in here aggressively. ‘Not so fast, Mr. Chairman. You were too quick off the blocks to assume unanimity. I beg to differ. I think batter is such an ugly, unbefitting term. It goes against all the canons of this great game of cricket. It semaphores aggression and in time, will inculcate a crude and pugilistic mindset amongst our men and women cricketers, to say nothing of the boys and girls. God knows there’s enough adrenalin and testosterone visible on the field of play whenever a decision goes against a player. Must we encourage further pugnacity by using common nouns like batter with all its pun-induced negative associations?’

The Chairman was getting hot under the collar. ‘Do you have a better idea? It’s all very well for you to come over all high and mighty, but we have been threshing this subject out for three years now without reaching any positive conclusion. Batter is the one word that embraces both the sexes without the need for complex prefixes or suffixes. It is not only a better idea, but the batter idea. I am putting it to the vote.’

‘Just hold it right there Sir, if you please.’ It was me again, horning in. ‘Notwithstanding your better and batter idea, I have what I think is a fair suggestion. Which is that we continue to address the men as batsmen and you can call the women batterinas, which will subliminally remind us of graceful ballerinas. Come to think of it, all these years we called the ladies batsmen as well and they had no problems with it. Now all this neutrality shoo-sha has muddied the waters, and the ladies feel they should be called something else, and if batter is the best you can come up with, it’s just not good enough. Really! And kindly refrain from quoting out of context Shakespeare’s A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’

The Chairman then continued, ‘We are all impressed by your erudition, but why don’t we ask our sole good lady representative on the board what she thinks. Dear lady, can we have your considered view on the matter, please? Do you fancy batterina?’

‘Mr. Chairman, your rather patronizing way of saying “Dear lady” irresistibly reminded me of the fictional Sir Humphrey Appleby from the Yes Minister / PM franchise, but I am going to let that pass, like the idle wind. On reflection, I do rather fancy batterina, as suggested by our friend from India. I can even now hear Harsha Bhogle, “Smriti dances down the wicket like a ballerina and straight drives for four. What a batterina!” A novel, innovative and decidedly feminine term. The girls will love it. Let’s go for it, I say.’

‘We can’t just “go for it” dear lady, sorry, madam. We have to take a vote of all the members present and that is the only democratic way of arriving at a proper decision.’ Under his breath, the Chairman was heard hissing, ‘Batterina, my foot. Over my dead body.’

The vote was duly taken, the proposal to change the terminology to ‘batters’ was passed by majority vote with only two dissenters. That is how matters stand. I don’t know about you, dear reader, but I shall continue to call male cricketers at the crease batsmen. I have yet to decide on the female of the species, but for the nonce I will go with batters, just to show there’s no ill feeling. If my writing and commentary contracts are all withdrawn as a result, so be it. See if I care.

Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been.’ – John Greenleaf Whittier

As you age irrevocably, well into your dotage, you start to think more about things. All sorts of things. Could I have handled things differently, should I have handled things differently? Should I have considered a career in medicine, healing the sick and the lame, instead of landing up in an advertising agency helping to promote cigarettes, soaps, tea and tyres? I was a mean off-spinner as a teenager. Why did I not think of cricket as a potentially profitable livelihood? The answer to that question is not far to seek. There was no IPL when I was viciously turning those off-breaks. What I meant to say was that the off-breaks were vicious, not me. If you want me to be brutally frank, the god-honest truth is that my off-breaks never turned at all (just went straight on), and ironically that is how I deceived most batsmen who kept playing for the turn, poor saps. Cunning, I call it. Then again, I may not have made obscene sums of money thanks to there being no fat cat sponsorships those days, but look at Sunil Gavaskar. Same age as me. Extended his career brilliantly as a commentator and sports management consultant, and the best hair job in town as well. I could have done that, barring the hair job (I am quite happy with my shock of distinguished silver-grey hair, thank you). All else failing, I could have been a writer. If only I had started writing a novel around 50 years ago, who knows, by now I might have been the toast at various literary festivals, holding forth (and fifth) with great elan, my name being spoken of in the same breath as Salman Rushdie. Look, if I am going to indulge in pipe dreams, I might as well go the whole hog. Instead, I write trite columns like this one, hoping a handful of staunch followers will actually read them and post a ‘like’ or ‘thumbs up’ on Facebook. That’s pitiful, that is.

As that opening paragraph was becoming a tad too long, I must provide a separate segment for music, another passion. I was not a bad singer, even after my voice broke at the age of 15. Terrible thing this business of the voice breaking. For days on end, you are not sure if you are a soprano, an alto or a tenor, a kind of vocal schizophrenia, till it finally settles into a reedy tenor. Notwithstanding, I was an ‘A’ singer in the school choir, if you must know. At home, my mother forced Carnatic music down my throat, but in retrospect I am eternally grateful for her insistence. We are a family devoted to that arcane art form (my nephew is a top-flight Carnatic musician). I guess what I am trying to say is that, whether I crooned Paul McCartney’s Yesterday at parties or Tyagaraja’s Entaninne sabari in the raga Mukhari at family get-togethers, I drew generous applause from those two very different circles of audience, not forgetting the odd geometry box as a consolation prize at our local club. Not that I had the foggiest notion of what to do with set-squares, protractors and compasses. Actually, I am guilty of false modesty here. I did once take part in ‘The Sound of Music’ national talent contest and won third prize. One of the judges told me I could have won first prize, were it not for my ambitious attempt to reach an impossibly high octave in the girl’s part in ‘You are sixteen going on seventeen.’, and coming a stunning cropper. Putting all that to one side, the final verdict was, ‘He could have been a singer but didn’t quite put in the hard yards.’ Yet another instance of (sigh), ‘if only…’

However, without getting all maudlin and soppy about it, I am quite happy with my lot. Advertising was an exciting profession to be in during the 70s and 80s, and a bit during the 90s as well. Earned my keep, met many interesting people, not the least of which was my wife. She was not my wife then, of course, but you know what I am getting at. All right, I should have said ‘my future wife,’ thanks for nothing, you pedants. I could have also said ‘alright’ instead of ‘all right’ and the pedants would have been up in arms all over again. One has to be ever mindful of these sneaky devils who were once proof readers at publishing houses or ad agencies, and who take perverse delight in pointing out that you’ve got it all wrong with your apostrophes, colons and semi-colons. Ask me, I am a card-carrying member of that dubious and painful club.

All in all, while I am enjoying my early years of retirement, I think the verdict on my life could be summed up with a simple ‘He has done all right.’ (Here we go again!). That doesn’t sound like much, I admit, but if doing all right was good enough for the Right Hon. James Hacker from the brilliant Yes Minister / Yes, Prime Minister television series, it’s good enough for me. Not perhaps quite an Einstein, Fleming (the penicillin chap), Bradman or Dylan (Thomas or Bob, take your pick), but can’t really complain. Sometimes, when our ad agency bagged an important client after days of blood, sweat, toil and tears, life got momentarily pretty exciting. Drinks all round and so on. The simple point I am striving to make is that you should be happy with your lot, if you have made a decent fist of it, and not worry too much about what might have been. Sure, who would not like to have been a Federer, but if the lord above gave you a backhand that was non-existent, you might as well just sit back and enjoy watching the balletic Swiss genius at work. A similar analogy can be applied to cricket. If you are incapable of dispatching a juicy full toss to the boundary, you are better off enjoying Geoff Boycott’s classic description of that sorry state – ‘Me grand mum would have hit that for four with a stick of rhubarb.’ Get the picture?

In his celebrated essay, The Superannuated Man, the essayist, poet and antiquarian Charles Lamb, wrote this memorable sentence, ‘I had grown to my desk, as it were; and the wood had entered into my soul.’ Had I heeded my father’s advice and opted for a career in accountancy (he was a banker of some repute), I might very well have echoed Charles Lamb’s sentiments. He (Lamb that is, not my father) toiled for 36 years at the East India Company behind a desk, which explains his deeply felt cynicism.

Those of you, like myself who devoured the works of the Master, P.G. Wodehouse, will also be aware that he worked briefly at the Hong Kong & Shanghai Bank in London, a job he intensely disliked. Being a purveyor of humour and unlike Charles Lamb, he chose to put a mordant spin on it – ‘If there was a moment in the course of my banking career when I had the remotest notion of what it was all about, I am unable to recall it. From Fixed Deposits I drifted to Inward Bills – no use asking me what Inward Bills are, I never found out….. My total inability to grasp what was going on made me something of a legend in the place.’ Contrastingly, Nobel Laureate and poet extraordinaire, T.S. Eliot found his eight-year career at Lloyds Bank of London a soothing spur to his poetic pursuits. ‘I am absorbed during the daytime by the balance sheets of foreign banks. It is a peaceful, but very interesting pursuit, and involves some use of reasoning powers.’

 I can fully identify with the quandary in which Lamb and Wodehouse found themselves mired in. I manfully struggled through to obtain a university degree in Commerce when I would have been much better off taking Literature. Perhaps my dad had visions of his son following in his banking footsteps. Even today, if you asked me to analyze a bank reconciliation statement, you will find me gasping for air. All of which, of course, eminently qualified me to join the advertising profession, the primary sine qua non for which was to be in possession of a good English diction, an awareness of where the apostrophes were to be placed and above all, to be able to down three large rums (or whisky) straight up and be able to walk in a straight line or stand up erect and say, she sells sea shells on the sea shore. If you could play a bit of golf, you went straight to the top of the class. The rest you picked up as you went along. I may be accused of mild exaggeration, but as the saying goes, in vino veritas.

Seriously though, I guess the point I am driving at is not to look back regretfully at what might have been. Rather, grab whatever comes your way and make the best of it. If that sounds a wee bit preachy, so be it. As the late British comedian Peter Cook (alter ego to Dudley Moore) once said, “I could have been a judge, but I never had the Latin for the judgin’.” Likewise, if only I could have actually turned my off-breaks, who knows what heights I might have scaled. Quite so, but having stumbled into advertising and now having become a maddeningly obsessive blogger, I am as happy as a lark. That does not stop me from day dreaming. In the words of the Bard of Avon, ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’

The President of the United States of America, Joe Biden, recently had the world in splits, embarrassingly so, with a stunningly casual throwaway line while addressing the Australian Prime Minister, Scott Morrison. It happened at a joint live video communique announcing the formation of an important defence strategic alliance between the United Kingdom, Australia and the United States. Joe Biden took over the microphone, virtually that is, from Britain’s PM Boris Johnson, thanked Boris, tactfully refraining from commenting on why Boris had not combed his hair that morning, then turned to the screen displaying the Aussie PM and said, wait for it, ‘And I want to thank that fellow Down Under, thank you very much pal.’ Collapse of stout party, as the venerable Punch magazine used to put it. To Scott Morrison’s credit, he was very diplomatic about the whole faux pas, and in statesman-like fashion, dismissed the incident as one of those things that happen, and that one should not make much of it. That was very large of him but the media had a field day, wondering if Biden’s shocking memory lapse was a portent of more sinister things to come.

For now, Mr. Biden would do well to firmly commit to memory the names of all the world’s leaders he is likely to meet during his tenure as POTUS. The last thing we in India want is for him to address our Prime Minister thus, ‘Gee whiz, what’s that guy’s name with the long, white beard? Thanks for everything buddy.’ No, no. That wouldn’t do at all. No siree, Bob. After all, when his predecessor, Donald Trump last visited India, even his carefully crafted and presumably rehearsed speech found him comically floundering with some iconic Indian names. Try this on for size. ‘Swami Vivekaamundan, Soochin Tendalkar and Virot Kohli.’ I guess we should be grateful that the former President did not say, ‘That Swami feller with the orange tunic and turban.’

American leaders dropping bricks in public fora is not a new phenomenon. On rare occasions this may happen due to an unfortunate slip of the tongue, but more often than not, lack of adequate preparation bordering on carelessness and callousness is the prime cause. Without wishing to rub salt into the wound, Joe Biden again takes the spotlight for an earlier gaffe. In 2008, while campaigning in Missouri, he exhorted Senator Chuck Graham of Columbia, who had been wheelchair-bound since the age of 16, to come forward and take a bow. ‘Chuck, stand up. Let the people see you.’ For one mad, fleeting moment, the public wondered if Biden was possessed of some divine power to perform a miracle cure. America is full of such charlatans. ‘Could he part the waters, make our Chuck walk again?’ That was not to be. Red faced and realising his goof-up a bit too late, he tried to make amends asking the crowd to ‘stand up for Chuck.’ The crowd were already standing and Chuck was still sitting in his wheelchair, a wee bit miffed, I shouldn’t wonder.

Yet another American President, Ronald Reagan, who has appeared in a few Hollywood films in his time, got his roles mixed up on one notorious occasion. Taking part in a sound check shortly before his weekly radio address to the nation in August 1984, Reagan decided to have some fun and announced with much histrionic fanfare, ‘My fellow Americans, I am pleased to tell you today that I have signed legislation that will outlaw Russia forever. We begin bombing in five minutes.’ Unfortunately for Reagan, a recording of this flippant and not awfully funny, sound check was leaked to the Russians, who decided to put their defence forces on high alert. Frantic behind-the-scenes diplomatic efforts prevented what could have turned into an ugly situation. Why do so many of our world leaders fail to be mindful of errant microphones which are either accidentally or, at times, deliberately left switched on? That said, as lay people we should not complain as such unintended bloopers provide us with much comic distraction.

One would have normally credited former US President Barrack Obama with tact and good sense and the ability to mind his Ps and Qs. However, he too fell victim to the ‘hot mic’ syndrome on one occasion at a G 20 conference during a private chat with the then French President Nicolas Sarkozy, just before the scheduled press conference. The assembled reporters were handed translation boxes but were told not to plug their headphones in until the leaders’ backroom conversation had finished. Several people ignored the instructions and heard Mr. Sarkozy talking to Mr. Obama about Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu. ‘I can’t stand him anymore, he’s a liar,’ Mr. Sarkozy said. ‘You may be sick of him, but me, I have to deal with him every day,’ replied Mr. Obama drily, clear as a bell for every reporter to faithfully record. Sacré bleu, about sums it up.

In case, dear reader, my observations thus far have led you to believe that American Presidents have cornered the market on public brick dropping, that is far from the case. `Even the normally understated and extremely tactful Queen Elizabeth of Great Britain had a blushful moment some years ago. The 95-year-old longest reigning British monarch made a blooper when, in a rare diplomatic solecism, she was caught on camera referring to Chinese officials, characterising them as being ‘very rude’ during President Xi Jinping’s state visit to the UK. Coming from the Queen that was almost the equivalent of top swearing. Unfortunately, her remarks were recorded by the official Royal cameraman, which then raises the pertinent question as to how it was leaked to the avaricious British fourth estate. Doubtless the concerned cameraman would have been rigorously questioned by the Palace, his camera taken away and sacked. ‘You will never hold another camera in front of royalty ever again.’ So, he scoots off and joins The Sun or Daily Mirror, tasked with shadowing the royal family wherever they go, armed with a state-of-the-art, long-focus telephoto lens camera. Many a royal has been caught unawares by prying cameras doing unroyal things they would rather the public be blissfully ignorant about.

India has had its own share of prominent personalities who did not quite think through what they were saying, and tended to come a cropper under the unremitting glare of the media. Former senior Congress leader, the much- respected Ghulam Nabi Azad, provided an original twist to the concept of family planning and how best to execute his ambitious programme in a hugely populous country like India. During his tenure in 2009 as Health and Family Welfare minister, he turned the spotlight on the implementation of a massive rural electrification programme to achieve the desired results. You heard right. Electrify the nation and our population growth will decline dramatically! Give the man his due. He had a credible explanation. The minister gave it as his considered opinion that in many backward and rural areas of our country, the lack of electricity meant people had nothing better to do after dusk and invariably resorted to sex for entertainment, which is a necessary precursor to a burgeoning population. If electricity was widespread, people in small towns and villages can visit community halls and watch television till late into the night, the minister opined. By the time they return home they will be too tired to indulge in love making and will make straight for bed to catch up with their beauty sleep. A truly original thought! One wonders why successive governments waste their time and resources towards educating our folk on family planning, contraception and the like when all it needed were millions of television sets placed across the country and the requisite power feed to run them for the diversion and delectation of our outback, small town denizens. Unfortunately for the minister, the numbers indicated no dramatic fall in the population figures. In fact, one could go so far as to say that the romantic antics of our film stars and starlets only enhanced their innate tumescence.

On the subject of population control, here is a quick aside. The late Sanjay Gandhi was ‘credited’ with promulgating the disastrous ‘nasbandhi’ or forced sterilization programme during the late 70s to keep India’s population growth in check. This was during the infamous Emergency and the policy had his mother, then Prime Minister Indira Gandhi’s blessings. Free transistor radios were distributed to those who offered themselves to be thus humiliated. Informed reports also attributed the aggressive intervention by ‘western loan sharks’ like the World Bank and the IMF in the government’s misguided programme, which cost the Congress Party dear at the hustings.

Saving the best for last, three of my favourite gaffes come from the late Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, who was famously adept at saying the wrong things at the wrong time. For which reason, the British media declared him a national treasure! In 1969, on an official visit to Canada, he quipped, ‘I declare this thing open, whatever it is.’ On a state visit to China in 1986, he told a group of British students, ‘If you stay here much longer, you’ll all be slitty-eyed.’ Later in 2003, he told the President of Nigeria, who was attired in his traditional, flowing robes, ‘You look like you’re ready for bed.’

In sum, we should all be grateful when our leaders go off script, as it gives rise to so much mirth and merriment.

(A one-act play. With apologies to Tom Stoppard)

The curtain rises and on stage are two beds in a nursing home. Lying on the beds are two very ill middle-aged males. At the foot of the beds hang two boards with the same bold legend on each, ‘Rosencrantz – Nil by mouth, Guildenstern – Nil by mouth.’ IV drips, tubes and clear, plastic bags carrying all manner of liquids into the patients and more tubes and bags conveying other liquids and semi-solids coming out of the patients, are visible. Flashing, beeping monitors overhead keep them constant company.  It seems only a matter of time before they are carried away in body bags. However, they are able to speak, just about. For the benefit of our readers, it should be said their feebleness in speech is dramatically raised to what all theatre buffs call ‘a stage whisper.’ Loud enough for the audience to hear, and on the printed page, for us to visualize.

Rosencrantz – ‘Good morning, Guildenstern. First off, is it morning, afternoon, evening or night? They keep the curtains drawn all day and all night.’

Guildenstern – ‘I am going by my body clock. And in my present, enfeebled state, that is not ticking with Swiss precision. If push comes to shove, I’d hazard a guess and plump for late afternoon. Pre-dusk, kind of.’

Rosencrantz – ‘You are not being very helpful. At least, if they wheeled in porridge, eggs and tea, I’d know it was breakfast time and I could keep tabs from thereon. This “nil by mouth” nonsense with all the tubes and everything, along with the drawn curtains, makes a mockery of time consciousness. Why don’t they fix a clock on the wall, preferably one with a cuckoo?’

Guildenstern – ‘A cuckoo clock. Nice idea. It will hourly jolt us awake if we drop off into a near coma. Actually, we should be grateful we are conscious at all. Why are you so obsessed with the time? It’s not as if you have an appointment to keep. I mean, we are virtually strapped to these hospital beds for ever and anon. Me, I keep myself entertained, when I am not sleeping that is, watching these liquids racing up and down the tubes. Very soothing to the nerves. I have asked the duty nurse if she could see her way round to providing coloured liquids. Bit more psychedelic. Blue, red and orange sludge squelching around the tubes in tandem.’

Rosencrantz – ‘You are a weird one, Guilders. And while you’re about it, why don’t we ask the nurse to place the beeping monitors somewhere in front us, instead of behind us where we can’t see them. Not only would that be helpful in keeping tabs on our pulse, BP, oxygen levels and so on, but all those coloured flashing lights and metronomic sounds they produce, along with your multi- coloured liquids, would turn this place into a medical discotheque. Cheer us up no end. Why, even our playwright, Tom Stoppard worked it into our play, “The colours red, blue and green are real. The colour yellow is a mystical experience shared by everybody.”’

Guildenstern – ‘Good point, Ros. If they can play some bouncy, instrumental music along with all that, we may not actually be able to get up and shake a leg, but we can try and move side to side in rhythm. I’ll speak to the nurse when she’s here next with the bed pan. Music wise, what is your preference? Easy listening from the 60s like The Shadows, The Ventures or something more avant-garde like, say, Weather Report? It’s all there on Spotify, so no problem.’

Rosencrantz – ‘What on earth are you rabbiting on about? They can play our national anthem, for all I care. We can’t stand up anyway. Or even sit down come to that. To get back to the point, Guilders, did it ever strike you that we can ask the nurse what time it is? Why did we not think of something so obvious? And why no television?’

Guildenstern – ‘Your memory is shot to pieces, Ros. You did ask the nurse, last time round. And you know what she said. In fact, she didn’t say it. She actually sang it, a snatch from that old Cyndi Lauper hit Time after Time – Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick and think of you / Caught up in circles confusion. Very cheerful, I don’t think. And since you ask, television is too depressing, as they have only news channels.’

Rosencrantz – ‘But very appropriate. The nurses here are quite strange. They don’t give you a straight answer to any question. I once asked one of them if we will ever get out of here. Dead or alive. You know what her response was? And I am quoting verbatim. “Look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else. Tom Stoppard.” I could not make head nor tail of that. What did she mean “Tom Stoppard?”’

Guildenstern – ‘Come on, Ros. Surely, you can’t be that forgetful. Didn’t you pop your memory pills this morning? Stoppard is the chap who wrote both of us into this play. You said it yourself just a short while ago. We might have been two minor players for old Shakespeare, recruited to stick our knives into Hamlet, and in the process, get our own heads chopped off, but this Stoppard chap detected hidden potential in the two of us and made us the heroes of this play. London’s West End simply couldn’t get enough of us. And I am sure we conquered New York as well.’

Rosencrantz – ‘Of course, it’s all coming back. “We’re actors — we’re the opposite of people!” What a line that was. The audience was rolling in the aisles. I am so glad you reminded me of who we actually are. Actors! So why am I getting so depressed. Is this a one-act play, a black comedy, or will there be an interval? I can’t wait for the curtain call, then we can get in front of the screens, bow to the audience two or three times, and saunter off to the pub for a quick one, after the thundering applause dies down.’

Guildenstern – ‘Look, let’s not get carried away. I am still not absolutely certain if at this very moment of my speaking to you, we are in Tom Stoppard’s play or if we are actually two terminally ill patients in a dank nursing home struggling to figure out what time of day or night it is with only colourful tubes and flashing monitors to keep us company. And not a cuckoo clock to be seen for miles around. And waiting for the Grim Reaper to claim us for his own. Then we will get carried away. Ha ha. As Mr. Stoppard wrote on our behalf, “We’ve travelled too far, and our momentum has taken over; we move idly towards eternity, without possibility of reprieve or hope of explanation.” Let’s just chew on this situation for a while. Perhaps it’s all a dream.’

Rosencrantz – ‘And here I was dreaming of retiring to our dressing rooms after the curtain call and sipping champagne with the rest of the cast, meaning those two nurses. The director would have been there, of course. Perhaps, even Tom Stoppard. Bouquets of red roses all over the place. Not forgetting the throng crammed outside the doors for selfies and autographs. I mean, if I am dreaming, I might as well go all the way. That line he gave one of us, I forget who, was a classic.  “Life in a box is better than no life at all, I expect. You’d have a chance at least. You could lie there thinking: Well, at least I’m not dead.” If you ask me, I am betting that we are just play acting. Don’t you agree Guilders? Guilders? GUILDERS!’

(There’s no sound from Guildenstern’s bed. Not even the faintest comatose breathing. Rosencrantz looks up at his friend’s monitor. Just flatlines.)

Rosencrantz – ‘Maybe that’s why they call it “theatre of the absurd.” And why call it an existential drama, when I am not even sure of our ability to exist? What was that our celebrated quarry, the Prince of Denmark said, in the deft hands of the Bard – “I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.” When the curtain rises, I’ll know if all this was a bad dream, will my partner Guildenstern continue to remain inert and lifeless, or will he jump out of bad and break into song, “Oh, what a beautiful mornin’,” from Oklahoma. Not that he has the slightest clue if it is morning, evening or night. For now, I can do no better than to end with Stoppard’s own final line written for us, “We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.”

(Stage lights off, curtain comes down, hall lights on)