Very classical, very pristine, very rubbish (roobbish), very soapy, very British

One sure way to tell whether a nation is on the ascendency or descendency is to see how they perform, at the global arena, at their favorite sport(s). That's how the Greeks understood it; and if you look at the performances at Olympic Games in the last 50 or so years, you can tell the difference between India and China...

But be that as it may, let us talk about the servants of the Queen - the British. Anyone who has followed the exploits of the English in recent decades knows it is a bit of a nonsense. Now, I don't want to just bring out the negativities, although there are no positives to speak of, especially since I am not a getting-carried-away English journalist. I even have a soft corner for these sportsmen, especially since I have a habit of rooting for teams that don't win.

Take football for instance: the likes of Shearer, Beckham, Owen, Shelton, Rooney, Sherringham - all superstars on paper - can't win a bloooody international tournament! And most of these guys are already retiring. The only time England won the world cup was in 1966 at home soil. But they have no chance of winning anything outside, especially since they are able find a lot of excuses for their losses. But what makes this worse is their shameless, and quite stupid, media. They look at their sportsmen through high-powered lenses and bloat up what is really a speck. The sportsmen then convince themselves that they really are that good, they roll the drumbeat, but they never come on stage! They end up being whisperers and gossipers applauding a Brazil, a Argentina, a Italy, a Germany, and even recommending them to knighthoods. True servants!

But their cricket team is perhaps worse. The cricket media even. (Recently, I came across a headline on BBC (days before England's tour to NZ)which read: "Sidebottom refuses to be complacent"... is this bravery? who accepts to be complacent, anyway?) The last good English team had Botham, Lamb, Gower and Gooch. Since then it has been a big joke. They have repeatedly convinced themselves that Australia are really interested in playing Ashes against them. And so whenever they lose a series to a lesser team the captain ejects an excuse, "It is a learning experience... we are preparing for the Ashes". Bollocks! The Australian A team of the last 20 years could have beaten any English team of the same era. Yes, the 2005 Ashes victory was a fluke. No wonder all the English bowling heroes of that series are no longer in the team anymore.

The ENG. team's one-day style of playing is again stuck in the 80s. The only change now is that they do not mind wearing colored clothes, and they have stopped complaining that the new white ball swings too much. Not to mention all the tourist-like wicketkeepers and openers of the last decade, who pay a visit to the team and leave for some other business after just one series. Then the ridiculous coach ('Duncan Fletcher' -- was that guy for real?), then Ashley Giles!
And who has not giggled every now and then at their funny sounding names and totally-undeserving-favorite-player-nicknames? Sidebottom, Gilo (who also goes by 'Ash' and the 'King of Spain' - I am so glad there is an 'a' in Spain!), Athers, Banger, Bloodaxe (Ramprakash!). Even their beloved mediaman has a nickname - 'Aggers' - who lacks any independent perspective, but is a cheerleader for the team. Both the team and the media are awakened to reality, when an esteemed rival player (whom they will recommend to a knighthood, I'll bet) reminds them of this. How sad is this?

But let us the enjoy this travesty! The show must go on...

Life's cliches

It is a common cliche to note that the artist needs an occasion or a pretext which inspires him to let his creative juices out. The main fear of the artist is that he will internalize himself, which will result in his creative forces turning inward and burdening his back with a sack full of indispensibles. What lacks a context never takes birth, becomes a scholar, and ends up burning within itself like a dark inextingishable flame.

Perhaps, it is a cliche too to note that almost all of us live life without being born? We - artists without contexts, sailors without seas - we are life's cliches.

Technesse

I have been asked more than a few times, why I don't write down my thoughts.

Equally, I have been suggested to buy a memory storage-device (a kind of personal planner), which will keep track of my impending appointments and schedules, so that I do not miss any of these latter. "It is impossible that you will remember all your future commitments! This little device will remember them for you." But how will it remember? What if I forget to even look into the planner? Who will tell me to refer to the planner about things I have supposedly forgotten? If it is necessary that I should remember here, if my memory is left alone here, then I will dare to remember my entire schedule. Away with the planner!

Technology here as elsewhere quantifies memory. In effect it says, "You should remember only to look into this device... the rest the device does for you. You do not have to remember all those excessive details about your schedules, which is hard and cumbersome for you to remember!" But who says memory works this way - that it has quantitative limitations? Even if it has these limitations, are these limitations been tested? Isn't the limiting line drawn by this technological device, at best, an arbitrary estimation? Arbitrary and seductive, that it seduces the present-day lazy ones to "adjust" their limitations to the line prescribed by this device. What started out as a cushion, an auxillary, an extra-padding, now becomes the combatting device!

But this is not limited to "technology" as in gadgets and electronics. The majority of mankind has always been "technological" even before gadgets were invented. How else does one explain the amazement with which one gapes at a math wizard, who can multiply two six digit numbers in the blink of an eye? Is this amazement not that of a softenend mind which claims appreciation of the other as the consolation of a self-defeat? What next? - writing because one has to think?

Fine line

Sometimes I have a fertile thought, impatient to gush forth. I feel I cannot wait to give birth to it. However, sometimes I block the thought, I distract myself with trivialities and neighbors. Then I grope for the idea again. Where is it? Where is the vigor? Have I lost it? I take a break. I indulge myself with life. Then when the scales are balanced again, I approach it with sobriety. The thought appears many in number. And to my great surprise, the treasured thoughts have become richer, more powerful, more cognizant of themselves. They are no neophytes anymore! They want to come out and take form, but with poise and dignity. Their dances are more rhythmic, even though they are just as fertile as before. They work with me, they do not torture me to let them out. And when they arrive, they drop like pearls! They are the metaphors of my life!
But behold! If I hold these thoughts back, and let them pass through me untapped, they turn out to be old-naggers. They whine that the world has no place for them, and that they are too good for this world. They demand an eye at the back of their heads so that they do not have to squint too much into their past. They become nostalgic pirates!

Yes, thoughts too have their childhood, youth, and their old-age. But a thought can have only ONE of these in its lifetime, not all three of them. It's a fine line.

Moral?

Go under!

What is left now for you to do, except to follow the tunes of that inner jingle which makes you the solitary? Why emerge into the surface before that ceremony is completed? Are you too curious? Or are you too scared that time will fly by without you? Is that even possible?

These surface creatures can detect the need of your inner path, and for that their wisdom is beyond their surface. They reject your sneaky appearance -- 'you cannot be one among us, if the timing is wrong!' they say. 'Go under and beneath, and emerge when it is time for you -- we will meet you there, perhaps in a different form than you see us now'. Why do you blame them for not wanting what they do not deserve? Don't you know the moon wants to shine only when there is no sun? Can you blame the moon's modesty? Is it true you are in love with a pompous moon?

What are you afraid of besides the exploding gush of your own heart? Why do you scream "Aaahhh!" when you are the pin prick yourself? Are you a watchman who cannot stop looking at the clock?

Forget about the arrows of time -- only then will you grow!
The world will wait for you -- eagerly for your show!