Stroke of genius

Brilliant! Having read this piece, I'm not even eligible to comment on it. Once I started reading this, I didn't even breathe until I finished it. Genius. I'm actually in the midst of watching Green Street Hooligans and as irresistible as the movie is, I pause to confirm a date tomorrow with this creature called gorrepati sandeep. Someone I've heard of about a lot but never have actually spoken to. It wouldn't be an understatement to say that Deekshit and probably Raghav worship him and I know they'd proudly accept this. Anyway, he started blogging like a month ago and I generally like his work, especially the carefree, lazy way in which he does that. Anyway, I read his latest piece like 5 minutes ago and I'm in a state of daze. Holy crap! That was amazing. Gorrepati, I bow down to you.

Here it goes.

http://gorrepati-dirtyharry.blogspot.com/2009/10/interview.html

Folks, don't waste no more time and read it. You've sinned enough already without having read it and trust me, you'll feel something you've never felt before.

Pure, naked, fragile hope

This is a dialogue of Sir Walter Raleigh when he meets Queen Elizabeth. When he is telling her that the explorer's only weapon is hope. Amazing dialogue and done extremely well by Clive Owen, from Elizabeth: The Golden Age.

--

You live with fear, in the grip
of fear - fear of storms, fear of
sickness on board, fear of the
immensity. What if you never
escape? How can you escape?
There’s nowhere to go. So you
must drive your fear down, deep
into your belly, and study your
charts, and watch your compass,
and pray for a fair wind - and
hope.
Pure naked fragile hope,
when all
your senses scream at you, Lost!
Lost! Imagine it. Day after day,
staring west, the rising sun on
your back, the setting sun in
your eyes, hoping, hoping -
At first it’s no more than a haze
on the horizon, the ghost of a
haze, the pure line corrupted.
But clouds do that, and storms.
So you watch, you watch.
Then it’s a smudge, a shadow on
the far water. For a day, for
another day, the stain slowly
spreads along the horizon, and
takes form - until on the third
day you let yourself believe.
You
dare to whisper the word - land!
Land. Life. Resurrection. The
true adventure. Coming out of the
vast unknown, out of the
immensity, into safe harbour at
last. That - that - is the New
World.

Spanish workhorse's grit too much for the Swiss artist- Rohit Brijnath

One helluva article which left me spellbound.

---
25 April, 2007

Jimmy Connors the boy is gently tapping half-volleys against a wall, when his grandmother, Bertha, snatches the racquet, and slams the ball violently against the wall, as if to say this is how you play. Recounting this incident in Jimmy Connors Saved My Life, author Joel Drucker defined the attitude of the Connors family: "Tennis wasn't art. It was combat".

The workhorse will smile. He, Nadal, carries none of Connors' discourteousness, but has absorbed his playing philosophy. When he exits matches, like the Monte Carlo final on Sunday, hair glued together by sweat, clothes soiled, it looks as if he has come from battle. Predictably, his favourite film is The Gladiator.

The workhorse knows no other way except giving everything. It's why, if your kid wants to seriously pursue sport, make him watch the Spaniard. His work ethic will either terrify the child into seeking another career path, or drive him forward.

The artist, Roger Federer, is more fun to watch than the workhorse. So are Ronaldinho and Lara. If artists elicit a pleasure the grinder cannot, they are also harder to identify with, their artistry beyond normal reach.

Ronaldinho's magic is beyond mimicking. Federer defies impersonation. Lara's exaggerated flourishes were mesmerising, yet his ability to dominate with such technique was unique.

The Spanish workhorse offers a different virtue, one possible to duplicate.

Not without skills

He is not without fine skills, but is mostly an unbending creature of perspiration, produced from the same factory as Lendl, Gooch, Dravid, Vijay Singh, Keane, Viera, men built with a gift for struggle. Not that genius doesn't work hard, but these fellows must compensate for their absence of genius.

Dravid lacked Tendulkar's facility to flick a good ball for four; what he owned was the patience to wait for the right ball to flick for four.

Keane did not dazzle rivals, he just went at them, repeatedly, a swearing force of nature, till he drove a metaphorical hole through the opposition.

Masochistic marvel

The tennis workhorse is a masochistic marvel, whose ability to punish opponents is born from an extraordinary punishment of the self. To earn that bicep, that movement, that consistency has taken brutal repetition in weight room and practice court. He is best friends with pain. He must be to compile a record streak on clay of 67 matches.

Coaches plead of athletes, "commitment, commitment". They would adore the workhorse, for he lives it. Every single point against the artist on Sunday.

This is not easy. Sporting contests on an everyday basis are decided not so much by outstanding shots as loose strokes. A small ebb of concentration and a batsman swishes outside off stump; a footballer's focus flickers and his pass goes awry. Players are distracted by exhaustion, losing, stress, let down by weaknesses of character, and so their intensity fluctuates.

Not the workhorse from Spain. He will play bad points but never lazy ones, he will bring the entire force of his passion, intellect and concentration to every point, his mind allows for no compromise.

Perhaps the extra time he seems to take between points is him actually repeating some vow of dedication. He is deeply invested in every shot, he must be, for, unlike the artist, his style wins him few cheap points.

It is a fascinating labour, a devotion that makes the workhorse better, for after stale performances following last year's French, he was unstoppably aggressive in Indian Wells and now Monte Carlo. Undoubtedly clay elevates him, but his sheer power in covering the court, in hitting forehand winners out of position with an abbreviated backswing, produces a reaction no opponent has managed. He rattles the artist from Switzerland.

Barcelona, Rome, Hamburg, the artist has three opportunities before Paris to experiment with a more forceful attack, sliced backhands, more telling returns. He is outside his comfort zone on this infernal surface that hides his brilliance; he is not the best player in the world here.

The workhorse will never equal the artist elsewhere, but here he will enjoy watching confidence bleed from the artist. He will know, too, the artist will come back stronger, bolder. He knows he must be ready to run. He spits in his callused hands and he waits.

---

Look at that. I have never read a piece of writing so powerful and so mesmerising. Yet.

The Train

I wrote this short-story 'round July 31,'07. Prob'ly my first serious attempt into making writing my profession. I think the story's a dud but nevertheless it deserves a spot in my blog for being my first-something ;). I'm no Archer or O. Henry to churn out marks of genius(though at that point of time I thought I was), but still...Here it goes...

And oi, before we proceed, I wanna tell you something about this story. Its sort of autobiographic or rather what I wanted my life to be. You can make it out easily though :D...And this is the same exact version of the story I wrote then, so there are bound to be spelling mistakes and the adolescent expectancy part attached to it. Have fun...

---

The train had already gathered momentum by the time Mohan had locked up his luggage and had made himself comfortable in his First class compartment. He was going back to Mumbai from Hyderabad, where his grandparents lived. He had come to meet the 70-year old couple fifteen days ago and was returning today. He worked as the Vice-President of a major MNC and earned quite well.

He never liked train journeys and knew this one was a particularly long one. He took out Erich Segal’s Love Story from his bag and began to read. He was so completely engrossed in it that he didn’t even realize that the train had stopped at the next station.

“Excuse me, could you move your legs a bit please”, said a woman, who was bent down trying to get her suitcase under Mohan’s seat.

Mohan had not realized that there had been another person in the compartment. So, he jumped a little in the seat. The woman laughed, a high-pitched tinkling laughter, which distinctly sounded like a musical instrument.

“I’m sorry if I scared you. Didn’t mean it”, said she still smiling.

Mohan looked at her and was awestruck. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She wore a cream coloured Salwar-Kameez, her beautiful long flowing hair was pulled back, she wore just a hint of make-up and oh!, that perfume was sufficient to make any man her slave.

“Hello, this is Priya”, she said taking her seat.

A beautiful name for a beautiful woman thought Mohan.

“Hi, I’m Mohan”, said he extending his hand.

She shook it and Mohan instantly felt shockwaves passing through his body.

“So, you heading to Mumbai?”, she asked him.

He nodded and asked whether she was going to Mumbai too.

“No, only upto Pune”, replied she.

Mohan was never actually mad about girls even when he was in his college. He had a strong belief in the notion of “Love at First site”. He always woke up in the mornings hoping that he would meet the woman who was destined to be his wife. According to Mohan, marriages were already made in heaven and it was just a matter of time before he knew who his girl was.

But he had a problem, a very simple one. Mohan felt he had found his life partner in every alternate girl he met. And his friends wasted no time in teasing him about it. Because, as he was usually certified, he was a weirdo.

No girl could put up with him for more than a couple of months and he usually had 4-6 breakups a year.

Well, he couldn’t help it. He was getting desperate. He was crossing 30 and there was already a bald patch on the rear side of his head. But, of late, he started taking more time in verifying whether this girl was actually his girl.

But there was no questioning about Priya. Mohan knew she was born for him. There was no denying it. He just knew that she was made for him.

“So, what do you do in Mumbai?”, Priya asked him.

“Well, I work for Infosys…Vice-President.”

“Ahan…surprisingly you don’t look so boring”, she smiled.

“So, what do you do?”

“I’m a Fashion Designer”.

“So, a beautiful woman designs beautiful clothes…I see.”, he said shrugging and trying to act innocent.

She laughed, her beautiful, clear laughter and again Mohan felt that it sounded like a musical instrument. Mohan was ready to let his life pass by him while he was looking at her laugh.

“What book is it that you are reading?”

He showed her the cover of the book and she looked quite amused.

“You seem to be quite romantic.”

He smiled at her, his typical boyish innocent smile, which disarmed so many women. And thus, continued their conversation. As the beautiful landscape passed outside their window, both of them were engrossed in their conversation. They seemed to be feeling at home right from the moment they set their eyes on each other. She laughed at his jokes and all Mohan wanted to do was look at her face till infinity.

They talked about everything under the sky and Mohan’s belief that she was destined to be his grew stronger. They had lunch together and as Pune approached, they exchanged their e-mail addresses.

Pune was just fifteen minutes away and she got up to pack her things and Mohan got up to help her. Just as he was about to bend down to retrieve her suitcase, their heads hit and their faces came very close. The sparks flew off the two pair of eyes and they moved away instantly.

“Sorry”, they muttered to each other.

The train halted at Pune and Priya got up to leave. Mohan didn’t want to part with her but he knew it was only a matter of time before they became together forever.

The train halted and she got up to leave. They bid goodbyes and promised that they would stay in contact with each other. Just before she was about to leave the compartment, she looked back at him and he could no longer contain himself.

“Priya, just a second…I want to tell you something. I think I’m in love with you and I want to marry you”, he said earnestly, looking into her eyes.

“You see Mohan, even I like you but I need to ask my husband’s permission before we get married”, she said smiling at him and holding her left hand from which gleamed a ring.

Mohan gaped at her and no words came out of his mouth.

How could this happen?

“And even if he permitted me to marry you, I would still have another problem…I love him more than anyone on Earth.”

And without another word, she left the compartment. Mohan couldn’t believe his ears. Tears were welling up in his eyes. He felt as if God had betrayed him. He ran up into the bathroom and cried. He felt let down by everyone. Just a few moments ago, he felt he couldn’t have been happier and now it was as if he was carrying the grief of everyone in the World. He didn’t know how long he cried. Then he washed his face and reflected with Shakespearen allegory that life was like a train and every woman he met were like railway stations. He had to continue his journey until he reached his destination. A ray of hope filled his heart and he felt better.

By the time he came out of the bathroom, the train was already moving at a very high speed. He got back to his compartment and saw a very beautiful girl sitting in the seat from which Priya had just vacated. He got back to his seat and looked at her. She indeed was very beautiful.

“Hi”, said she. ”I thought no one was here…anyway I’m Rani” and she held out her hand.

“Hi, Mohan”, and he shook her hand.

He glimpsed at her left hand and she was not wearing a ring. He looked upwards, to God, and smiled.

He never realized that his next station was so near.

--

Okay, now that you are done with the story, I have a few confessions. I don't know if you liked the story or not but when I was reading it today (prob'ly the first time after that day), I felt really nice about myself. I realised that the story's really stupid with all those Bollywood-y names and the VP of Infosys being so lame, but I like the innocence of it. I hate to admit it that I can no longer think in those terms anymore. Either consciously or not, I have started complicating things.

Life is not so straight for me anymore. I've started dividing people into different categories and there's in-built polymorphism in me :D. And thanks to one of my all-time favs, The Catcher in the Rye, people seem so phony these days. Wateva, maybe this is just a phase or maybe I'm seeking higher truth, I have no idea.

All I can do is connect the dots backwards.

Death Speaks

The following story, Death Speaks, is probably the best example of the simple act of story-telling. I came across it in an edition of Jeffrey Archer's collection of stories, originally an Arabic fable but translated into English, and was awestruck by it. Never before had I read a story so short and simple yet so powerful and enchanting. Here it goes...

---

Death Speaks

There was a merchant in Bagdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, Master, just now when I was in the market-place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there death will not find me. The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the market-place and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning? That was not a threatening gesture, I said, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Bagdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.

If

man i love this poem like hell...prob'ly kipling's best work...from the first time i read it, i fell in love with it.. and i aspire to be this guy, the perfect man... :D..i still dream abt is sometimes, me listening it for the first time in my school days... brilliant... hats-off kipling atta boy :D...

-------

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!