IPL-2024 – Some takeaways

The much-awaited finals came to an end with KKR winning the trophy. SRH failed to live up to their batting strength – Travis, Abhishek, Tripathi, Markram, Klassen…, all making it a near cakewalk for KKR. No less keen, Venkatesh Iyer made a mockery of the total, and simultaneously reminded BCCI not to write him off. Truth be told, it was a tame end to a stormy start made on 22 March. 

Some observations:

Everyone was pleased to see Rishab Pant back in one piece. There was no trace of his just having recovered from a major accident. He played his part well to be picked up for World Cup.

Among the 10 IPL teams, RR and KKR appealed to me the most, though I was apprehensive that SRH might walk away with the trophy. Special compliments to RCB for having risen from the bottom to the playoff stage. Indomitable Kohli. Sorry, CSK you missed the bus. Never expected MI to go down to 10.

Among the captains, Sanju Samson, Shreyas Iyer and Gaekwad impressed me. All had the makings of Dhoni – calm and composed. K L Rahul continued to look Lord Budha incarnate. Faf du Plessis was no doubt the captain for RCB, but I found Kohli directing more often. No harm. Too bad that Hardik Pandya who came with a bang last year as captain of Gujrat Titans and walked away with the trophy, could not repeat his performance. As MI captain, he failed the owners miserably. All in the game.

Among openers Kohli proved what he is made up of. Consistency.  Jaiswal’s erratic performance proved that every day is not Sunday. Gaekwad could have done better. Watch out Abhishek Sharma.  Padikkal can settle down to playing for something less than national level. 

Down the order, Suryakumar and Shubam Dube though have earned their berth in the WC squad, should make sure not to lose it. Their performances were wobbly. There can be exceptions to not doing well in a particular game, but not the other way round. Beware of complacency.

Among all-rounders personally I find nothing to write home about. I was pinning hopes on Jadeja. Quite a few in this category might qualify for retirement and possible commentator’s job.

Among bowlers, Bhuvaneswar Kumar and Sandeep Sharma, erstwhile members of Indian squad in some format or the other, can still harbour hopes on getting a berth. Both Avesh and Chahal might seem good at taking wickets but not by giving runs from right, left and centre. 

Ground umpires did their jobs as usual – not without their usual quota of human errors. But such an error on the part of a third umpire may not be excusable. They have umpteen opportunities to check and re-check before giving their final verdict. Many viewers felt some of their verdicts were not beyond question.

The commentators did their job. Run of the mill. I would rate it at 3 out of 5. Though not a fan of Ravi Sashtri, he made some pertinent comments occasionally. 

Among coaches, Ponting seemed watchful. Gautam Gambhir, not known for controlling temper, was at his calm self all through. Sangakkara was vibrant, not failing to take up with umpires whenever a decision was in doubt.

Kavya Maran, owner of SRH, probably in her twenties, was seen in tears when her team lost in the finals. But she never failed to applaud or cheer her team. I would give a special prize to her.

Now, on to the lighter side. Advertisements featuring film celebrities far exceeded the ads by sports celebrities. Some of them have begun picking up the nuances. However, these two groups  put together have deprived the professional ad-men of their roti, kapada aur makan. But survival of the fittest is the name of the game.

The pan masala ad appeared the maximum number of times. But the airconditioning ad wherein Kohli freezes his unwelcome visitors at the click of his remote control, while himself remaining unaffected in the same room, opens new vistas of airconditioning possibility in just one part of a room.   

One for the road. The prize money came up for discussion in the morning walk. Twenty crores to the winning team, and 13 crores to losers, clarified one. How will it be divided, asked another. “In whatever format they do, rest assured, sir, you won’t get a penny out of it,” added the third. 

He’s 91, Going on 92…; Long Live Hari!

Yesterday the Moorthy Clan (named after my wife’s father) witnessed one of its milestone celebrations – the 91st birthday of Hari, the senior-most son in law of Shri Moorthy. I know Hari would revolt at me (and justifiably) for using the term, son-in-law, because he considered himself more a son to Shri Moorthy the moment he joined the family. Hari stood by him like a solid rock. 

Aside his office job, Hari was totally committed to playing flute which he learnt while in Ambalapuza, his hometown. In most Southern temples Nadaswaram is played, but in Ambalapuza, where Lord Krishna is the presiding deity, they play flute. That got Hari interested in it from childhood, and he nourished it to the full - unaided by any Guru. No wonder, in Kolkata he is known as Flute Hari.

As Shoba, the not so recent addition to the Hari family, their younger daughter in law, an accomplished vocalist, would vouch: “Chititappa, you may not be served with breakfast or lunch when you visit us, but you are sure to be treated with music”. Very true. It was a real musical fare yesterday after the 91st birthday religious function, when Hari played the opening notes of a song, Srinath (his younger son) picked it up on his violin, and Shoba took to a higher level with her vocal rendition. No wonder, the concluding rendition of Bagyada Lakshmi Baaramma, was followed by a standing ovation. The 30 to 40 minutes of this musical rendezvous was a feast for the ears, before the one to follow for the belly.   

So much was Hari’s involvement in music that he got a fellowship from the Ministry of Culture, Government of India, to do research on the ragas of Carnatic music and write a thesis for posterity. He did with aplomb. Once when I happened to be in Chennai, he showed me this bulky document. Believe me, I had to lift with both hands.  A novice in Carnatic music, except that I enjoy listening to it, I was not hoping to make any substance of it. But no, it was a very lucid presentation. Kudos.

Hari has many feathers to his cap. I can’t recollect all of them. You just visit his living room, and it will be full of trophies and certificates. The most recent one was from the Rabindra Bharati University in Kolkata, where, for some time, he was a visiting professor on similarities between Hindustani and Carnatic ragas. 

These said, any description of Hari would be incomplete without yoga. He is so much committed to yoga that one cannot say with certainty if it is yoga or flute that is his first preference. His answer could be: these are two sides of a coin. Barring hata yoga, I think you can rely on him to get tips on how to get rid of your extra pounds all around, or a back pain, or a stiff neck. He spent weeks in Mungeri Yoga Ashram in Bihar, to legitimize his yoga expertise.

Tall, lean, clad in spotless saffron dhoti, a fitting kurta, sporting a soft overflowing beard (subject to change at will), and a matching freshly shampooed wavy hair at the back, to me he often resembled Swami Chinmayananda.  Yes, in many ways he was really an ascetic. Among his umpteen qualities, I have never seen him judge others, he always believed in minding his business, he seldom spoke unless spoken to, and he was totally committed to his two pursuits in life – yoga and flute – nothing more nothing less.

Hari, you told me on an earlier occasion when I tried to do namaskarams to you both that co-brothers-in-law are of equal status and protocol demands that one should not prostate before the other. Sorry Hari, I am now emboldened and refuse to buy your analogy, and hereby prostate before you and Kamala. (Old timers would recall that on State visits a Prime Minister of a country would be welcomed only by the host Prime Minister. But in Nehru’s case, President Tito of Yugoslavia and President Nasser of Egypt, violated this protocol and received Nehru at the airport. So why not I, a small fry, deviate?)

Timepass chats at SFV park bench

We do our morning walks in all seriousness. In the evenings, it is more a stroll, to meet people and have a chat with co-residents, depending on who sits near you or, more precisely, near whom you get a seat in the park bench. And the person by your side will hold the key for the topic. I would be a passive listener. 

Sometimes it will be on the best Ayurveda treatment for back-pain; or, whether to go for physiotherapy before or after or, instead of, surgery for knee replacement; or life becoming domestic-help-centric… 

On occasions, food will figure in. Suggestions would include engaging a cook and train her on Mor Kozambu, Avial, Mysore Rasam or Vatta Kozambu if the cook is from North; and, on Dal Makhani, Malai Kofta or Palak Paneer if she is from South. Another lady who believes in hassle-free life, would suggest ordering with Zepto or Zomato, and what dish from which restaurant. 

The other day it was on mango pickle - Andhra Avakkai, to be specific. The lady explained how they would go together to market in Hyderabad with a bucketful of water, a hand towel, etc. select the mango (like the Ramkela variety in Delhi), wash it individually, and dry them with cloth.  The cutter cuts them with such finesse that the seeds bail out, the shell portion stays inalienably with the cut mango pieces. Back home they are ready with the Three Mango (?) brand masala, til or mustard oil, and Guntur special chili to get on with their annual ritual. “When marinated,” the lady by now transported to a live situation, “get a plateful of hot rice, add ghee to taste, and mix the avakkai (majorly the masala portion) and eat to your heart’s content.” We too felt we were having an early dinner in the park bench, with just the aroma missing.

Yesterday, we had just completed our day’s quota of walk and were looking for a seat to relax. It’s summer vacation; children are playing with gay abandon, and parents are watchful for their safety. Hence it was house full.

Luckily, we saw two ladies getting up. We walked towards that bench. One of them changed her mind on seeing us heading and sat back. Probably she wanted to chat for a little while more.  She extended a spontaneous smile. 

As though to explain the reason for holding a walking stick with four-leg support, she began unfolding her life. “My husband died of cancer early in life, leaving me to fend for myself and three small kids. For over 35 years my legs stood by me to weave sarees and dhoties to support my family. The legs have since worn out and I need a walking stick for support.”

Regardless, she felt happy and proud that she braved life and reared her children. They are now settled well in life.  Her solitary grouse was that her children - and grandchildren - are busy at home in their own ways and have very little time for others. Yes, from the way she began the moment we sat by her we could guess how badly she was starved for company. May be why she stayed back to have a bonus chat.

Now time for her to ask about us. We shared that our children and grandchildren are abroad. I saw a sudden glow in her face. She felt one up. “In my case, I can at least see them move around the house,” she said, now beginning to count her blessings.

Probably she had already overstayed her evening-time-out session. A few more minutes, and chances are her daughter/son would have deputed grandchildren on a search mission. We parted ways. A few steps, and she turned back, called my wife and whispered into her ears something. 

Way back to our lift, curious as I was, I asked my wife about it. “Oh nothing.  She said, “on reaching home do ‘drishti’ for both” - the age-old method of holding a handful of salt and rotating it back and forth around one to drive the evil away. 

Until now we thought we only envied others.

How my Mother Met Father (Dug out from archives))

It was the 1960s. Balu Chittappa, my father’s uncle, was living with his son in Muzaffarnagar, UP. He stayed with me in Delhi for ten days for a cataract operation. While Uncle returned to Muzzafarnagar with bright eyes, he left behind equally bright memories of our family history, one of which was how my father and mother met each other. 

My mother belonged to Kizakkanchery, a small village in Palakkad. Her father was an advocate who practised in the Sessions Court in Palakkad. He belonged to a middle class family. 

In sharp contrast, my father’s was an affluent family - filthy rich by the then standards. They had wholesale and retail textile business with establishments in Palakkad, Coimbatore, Ernakulam, Chennai and Mumbai. 

My paternal grandfather, the architect of this ‘empire’, died suddenly in his forties. It is believed that if the marriage of a son is performed within 60 or so days after the demise of his father, it would be deemed to have been solemnized during the lifetime of the deceased. So began a frantic search began for a bride for my father. 

A girl was identified - in Bangalore. The date was fixed with great fanfare.  At the last minute the girl’s parents backed out. This hurt the family’s prestige – a proposal from such a rich, philanthropic family was being rejected. They became adamant that, come what may, they would solemnize father’s marriage on that very date already fixed. Efforts intensified. Someone suggested a girl with good family-credentials, the Karikkar family (my mother’s), in Kizakkanchery, 20 miles away.

Kizakkanchery is a very remote sleepy village. So, on the rare occasions when a bullock-cart made its foray into the village with the ox’s sedative steps, at least one representative from each house would greet it at the front yard to ascertain who the visitor was. And a horse-driven cart with bells jingling around its neck and foot-tapping rhythmic gallops was a sure bet to trigger the ladies to abandon their kitchen, to have a glimpse of the guest. 

Thus, when my Dad and his core-group made their way into the village, with the burring sound of the car engine audible from afar, the whole village was agog – only nadaswaram (shehnai) was missing. Unperturbed and absolutely clueless, my mother, a young lass, was playing merrily with her friends ‘paandi’ - hopscotch, or Langdi. 

Strangely, they asked her where the Karikkar house was. Playing vigilantly, she casually directed them, and busied herself completing her turn. Ten minutes later she was summoned, was escorted to her house via the neighbour’s backyard for any make-up that was possible at such a short time for such an unscheduled visit. “Oh, she is the girl. She was the one who gave us the direction to the house,” the head of the visiting family said.

They gave the green signal instantly. My Mom’s father was however hesitant, apprehensive of the vast economic gap. Ultimately, he agreed.

Everything was organized for the marriage in a chat mangni, phat shaddi style, giving my Mom very little time to get even her marriage dresses stitched. For the ceremony where the bride bids farewell to her village friends on the eve of the marriage in an open hired car, father’s family arranged for a huge elephant. Expectedly, she refused to mount it, still in her teens. Pressure was brought to bear on her. It was a five-day long marriage. She was lean then, and he on the Dara Singh side. (They chose to rob each other’s figure in later life.)

**********

As fate would have it, decades later when my wife and I were attending a temple festival in my father’s village, we bumped into a lady, and her son of my age, from Bangalore. We got acquainted with each other, and he casually mentioned that his mother was to have been married in this village, to someone from ‘a’ VKR family, and introduced her to us. On elaboration it turned out that she was the one to have been married to my Dad. Curious to know, I asked her why she refused the proposal.  “Even in the wildest of imaginations I could not agree to cook for 30 or 40 persons day after day, let alone take charge of the coffee/tea sessions,” she confided. Yes, the same reason that my Balu Chittappa had cited.

Back home when I narrated this to my parents, my Mom said, “Lucky lady; escaped unhurt,” side-glancing at my Dad with a tinge of taunt.

A Busy Day Yesterday

Yes, we were pretty busy yesterday. By ‘We’ I mean, the members of the SFV Vedic Chanting Group. First, we attended the Extra Ordinary General meeting on the dot, not excluding a learning session on GST.

Unfortunately, we could not stay till the end as we had to attend a concluding ceremony at our friend’s place in Alder. Mr Radhakrishnan lost his wife in their retirement home near Coimbatore. He is here for the obsequies. To him probably goes the credit of having started the WhatsApp group, Daily SFV Sr Citizen, which is going strong.

Though the loss of one’s beloved after long years of togetherness is irreparable, we were somewhat relieved to see some smile on Radhakrishnan’s face when he saw the full strength of his “TVS group” in attendance for the bereavement. One among them, known to me, took out the wallet from his pocket and showed me his black and white marriage photo where most of them, now septuagenarians or octogenarians, were found sporting burly hair, bell-bottom pants and sideburns. He explained who is who among those present now, occasionally lowering his voice to say, “he has since become dearer to God,’ and so on. Part of life.

The lunch at the Subhasweekaram was entrusted to the priest’s brother. Once again, he proved he is here to stay in business. Kudos.

It was time to go home for a power nap before we assembled to chant Rudram, Chamakam and suktams in the evening since it was Pradosham yesterday.

For the uninitiated, Pradosham is connected with Lord Shiva. If what someone clarified to me is correct, it is on this day that Lord Shiva does his Thandavam to appease Parvathi whom he had displeased on some count. So, all the Gods and the entire devalokam would wait with awe to watch this performance.  Precisely why it is auspicious between 4.30 and 5.30 pm

Normally we hold our chanting sessions on Mondays, Wednesdays and Pradosham days – 10 days a month in members’ house in alphabetic order. This time, as on a few earlier occasions, a co-resident had requested us to perform it in his house. 

He is Gururaj Sastry, in Pine block. Yes, the same tall, sober, pious looking person who doesn’t miss his morning walks, sun or rain. He was in Delhi for years with a leading national daily when he chose to retire and settle down in Bangalore. But alas, someone from the media got a scent of it and grabbed him. There he is, back to work again – this time as a consultant for a South-based group.  

Aside the chanting group, Gururaj had invited his friends and relatives – a house-full attendance, to be precise. So, it became imperative for the Group to perform well. And so we did - to the best of our poor ability. 

Nice to see that he has done up his house very well after he bought it some time ago, what with an airconditioner in the hall, intricately carved dasavataram (on rosewood?) decorating the wall…

At the end of the chant Gururaj asked us if he could serve prasadam on plates. “We would prefer if you can pack them,’ I clarified. “After all, someone is waiting at home; if not for us, for the parcel we carry.” 

Tell me, wouldn’t you agree that in being busy we are only a shade less than Modi ji? That is a different thing that at each event, he looks fresh as though he had just returned from a month-long vacation, and we, having just finished a marathon.

I don’t particularly recollect who said that it is the busiest man who finds time for everything.  We may not be so every day. But we were, yesterday.