I’m not a cricket fan. At least, not in the way that a large part of this country seems to be. I played a bit of ‘colony cricket’ as a lad — who hasn’t? — but vastly preferred basketball, badminton, table-tennis, and volleyball. I’ve never watched a game from s stadium seat, but have watched my share of the game on TV, and watch bits of cricket on the office television happily enough, now that I don’t have a set at home, but if I had my druthers, a nice escapist movie works better. I read reports and analysis, and follow a few exceptional cricket writers, but that reading is more for the writing than the game. And I couldn’t care less if the BCCI’s team wins or loses.
What I can say about Rahul Dravid, therefore, would be shallow, because it would not begin to be knowledgeable and affectionate about his cricket, which defined him for all of us.
My far more knowledgeable colleagues have been engaged in heated debate (on our private newsgroup) on the man’s legacy and his place in the pantheon, but this being a hectic time for the crew, with the Budget around the corner, no one has had the time to do a connoisseur’s take just yet. So I will play curator instead, and extract from and link to some excellent pieces from around the Web.
But I’ll venture to say this first. Dravid epitomises the ideal of the sportsperson. He played hard, without being boorish, respected his opponents without conceding an inch of ground, put it all on the line for his team-mates, leading by example. That he retired when he did, without pomp and long farewell tours, while people still “‘asked ‘why?’ rather than ‘why not?’” spoke volumes for his character. He is a gentleman to the bone, and everything he does spells class.
The writer CLR James asked, “What do they know of cricket who only cricket know?” I’d wager that very few top level cricketers would know the quote. And that Dravid would be one of an even smaller group who’d know that the line was after Kipling’s “And what should they know of England who only England know?” Dravid always came across as a complex, curious, well-rounded personality, of someone who could talk about many things, with understanding and compassion.
I’ve had few sporting heroes — Muhammad Ali, Prakash Padukone, Michael Jordan, Sunil Gavaskar, Carl Lewis — and Dravid is one of them. He’s younger than I am, but I can say this with certainty: when I grow up, I want to be like Rahul Dravid.
If the old-fashioned among us have a quaint notion of whhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifat the athlete should represent, then he met it for us. Greatness can be worn gently, a man can stay true for 16 years to the idea that desire and sportsmanship, ambition and etiquette, are not virtues in conflict. We needed a reminder that even amidst the over-indulgence and over-worship of modern sport a man need not lose himself.
There is a normalcy about him that is almost abnormal. There are public figures who go out of their way to put you at ease, but the effort is palpable. Dravid does it just by being himself. There is no affectation and artifice to it. Not that he is unaware of his stardom or is falsely modest about his achievements, but he can step outside all that and connect with the world at a real level.
It’s almost as if he leaves that part of his world behind him when he leaves the cricket field. And perhaps that’s why he can see the cricket world from the outside, reflect on it objectively, and see the ironies and futilities of stardom. It’s a rare and remarkable quality. It has helped him engage in relationships in the outside world without baggage.
Greatness in batting, specially in the last 20 years, has been associated with masterful aggression: Lara, Tendulkar, Ponting. In the same period, Dravid (along with Jacques Kallis) showed us masterfulness of another sort: great defensive batting put to winning ends. Dravid’s originality as a batsman needs an essay to itself; suffice to say that by melding Gundappa Viswanath’s wristy genius with Gavaskar’s monumental patience and poise, he became that remarkable and original creature: a stylish trench-warrior.
In particular, I remember two shots of Dravid’s. The first, when was closing in on a century in Adelaide, the scene of his most famous innings. Jason Gillespie had just bounced him, and Dravid looked a bit rattled. Gillespie repeated the short ball again, and this time Dravid took him on with the hook. It wasn’t connected perfectly, but sailed over the fielder at fine leg to bring Dravid his century, one that turned into 233 of the most fabled runs ever scored by an Indian.
The second shot he played during his colossal 270 in Rawalpindi to drive India towards a rare series win in Pakistan. He was batting on about 220 – I am not sure – and played a drive for four past extra-cover off Danish Kaneria. Dravid was sapped, mentally and physically, and stooping over in his crease; but the way he planted his front foot forward and drove that ball with all the basics intact was stirring.
These two shots came in different circumstances, and showed two different shades of Dravid. It is hard to imagine him playing an aerial shot, that too with a horizontal bat, when so close to a century. That too when the bowler had just mouthed him off. But Dravid did it, and on that day succeeded. It was one of the rarest instances of him sending a message back to the bowler, in anger. The shot in Rawalpindi came after he had crossed his double-century and was sagging. But even when his body was showing signs of collapsing, he stuck to what he knew best. That, it was as if he was saying, is how you play a cover drive. These two instances, for me, encapsulate Dravid.
You are too conveniently slotted as a specialist batsman. I disagree. That’s too simplistic. For me, you are an allrounder – not in the way our limited imaginations defines an allrounder but in a broader, more sweeping, sense.
I find it hard to think of a more versatile cricketer. You were one of our finest short leg fielders. You were, for the most part, a remarkable slip catcher. You have opened the innings, batted at No.3, batted at No.6 (from where you conjured up that 180 in Kolkata). I’m sure you have batted everywhere else.
You have kept wicket, offering an added dimension to the one-day side in two World Cups. You even scored 145 in one of those games. You captained both the Test and one-day teams. Sure, things didn’t go according to plan but you were a superb on-field captain. More importantly you were India’s finest vice-captain, an aspect that is often conveniently forgotten. Jeez, you even took some wickets.
There’s something unique about this. In Indian cricket’s hall of fame, you can proudly share a table with Gavaskar and Tendulkar. But you can also share one with Kapil, Mankad and Ganguly – cricketers who excelled in more than one aspect of their game for an extended period of time.
One word has attached itself to Dravid wherever he has gone: gentleman. The word is often misunderstood. Gentlemanliness is not mere surface charm – the easy lightness of confident sociability. Far from it: the real gentleman doesn’t run around flattering everyone in sight, he makes sure he fulfils his duties and obligations without drawing attention to himself or making a fuss. Gentlemanliness is as much about restraint as it is about appearances. Above all, a gentleman is not only courteous, he is also constant: always the same, whatever the circumstances or the company.
In that sense, Dravid is a true gentleman. Where many sportsmen flatter to deceive, Dravid runs deep. He is a man of substance, morally serious and intellectually curious. For all his understatement, he couldn’t fail to convey those qualities to anyone who watched him properly.
And the last word from his wife, Vijeta Dravid, in this eloquent piece. Here’s an extract:
People always ask me the reason for Rahul being a “normal” person, despite the fame and the celebrity circus. I think it all began with his middle-class upbringing, of being taught to believe in fundamental values like humility and perspective. He has also had some very old, solid friendships that have kept him rooted.
He is fond of reading, as many know, and has a great sense of and interest in history of all kinds – of the game he plays and also of the lives of some of the world’s greatest men. When he started his cricket career, he had a coach, Keki Tarapore, who probably taught him to be a good human being along with being a good cricketer.
All of this has given Rahul a deep understanding of what exactly was important about his being in cricket and what was not. It can only come from a real love for the game. When I began to understand the kind of politics there are in the game, he only said one thing: that this game has given me so much in life that I will never be bitter. There is so much to be thankful for, no matter what else happens, that never goes away.
Cricket has made Rahul who he is, and I can say that he was able to get the absolute maximum out of his abilities as an international cricketer.
What next for him? I know he likes his routine and he’s in a good zone when he is in his routine, so we will have to create one at home for him. Getting the groceries could be part of that. A cup of tea in the morning for his wife would be a lovely bonus, I would think, particularly now that he doesn’t have to take off for the gym or for training at the KSCA at the crack of dawn.
More seriously, though, I think he will spend time relaxing and reading to let it all sink in a bit. He has loved music and wants to learn how to play the guitar. Then perhaps he would like to find something that fills in at least some of the place that cricket occupied in his life, something challenging and cerebral.
I’ve been online since the mid-90s. The first thing I did on the Web? No, I didn’t visit the Playboy site. I got myself a Hotmail address. (Then I visited Playboy.)
That Hotmail address is rarely used now, drowning under ever-increasing volumes of spam. But right from then, and through Yahoo, Mail.com, and sundry other addresses, one damn mail keeps landing in my inbox.
You know the one I mean. It starts off with the assertion that some unnamed German magazine had published a list of facts that deal with (and the mail gets all breathless and all-capsy here) ‘WORLD HISTORY FACTS ABOUT INDIA.’ Why is the alleged Germanness of the list supposed to add to its cred? Why could they not be from an Indian source? Who knows? But I digress. The thing about the list that most got my goat was except for one, every ‘fact’ was about events hundreds — if not thousands — of years in the past. Aryabhata inventing the zero was one the first items in the list. Not all the items are gospel truth, by the way; some are shady, some unverifiable, some just plain wrong. (Judge for yourself; if you’re one of the half-dozen people on the planet who hasn’t had it inflicted on them, the list is reproduced here.)
But that, and the shaky grammar apart, fercryingoutloud, have we done nothing of note since then? (It’s almost as irritating as those Indian newspaper headlines whenever some third-generation Indian-American kid wins so much as a spelling bee. Good on the little tyke, but isn’t it a bit pathetic to be seeking a slice of glory achieved so far from the benign influence of India? But that rant can wait.)
So, when we sat down to think up our current issue’s cover, and our capo di tutti capi, Indrajit Gupta, outlined the package, explaining how all the pieces built a picture of a possible scientific renaissance in India, one of the first thoughts that sprang to our lips was “Finally! Enough about Aryabhata!” For once, there was very little debate, and that’s the line you’ll see on the cover of the issue.
But why am I going on and on about something that our able editor has covered far more succinctly — and calmly! — in his editorial? It’s because I’d like to propose a little meme.
If you know of Indians doing really cool things in the world of science, stuff that will make for a better India, a better world, post about it via Twitter, Facebook, Google+, or whatever you social media poison is.
On the 25th January, with the dust from the Jaipur Literature Festival still not settled — actually with the festival being dismantled around our ears — I chatted with Sanjoy Roy of Teamwork Productions about the events of the five days just gone by. Aside from a look back at the festival on the whole (which I’ll post shortly) we spent a fair amount of time discussing what had overshadowed almost everything else that happened. Here’s the audio file.
The file has been lightly edited, to remove extra-long pauses, ums and ahs, interruptions, and, as far as possible the sound of metal being bashed around as the framework of the tent over the front lawns was being taken down. Apologies for the not-quite-pristine state of the audio.
JLF on the weekend was exhausting. The crowds poured in, unmindful of the furious discussions churning behind the scenes about the absence of you-know-who, the readings from The Satanic Verses by Hari Kunzru, Amitava Kumar, Ruchir Joshi and Jeet Thayil, the subsequent departure from the festival of those four writers as well (they were requested to leave for their own safety), the statements of solidarity being made from the stage at most events.
***
The lines to the registration desk alone snaked backwards as far as the main road. Every event was packed to overflowing. The organisers claim 18,000 people entered on Sunday, and I believe them. And the enthusiasm was major. That Chetan Bhagat would have a full house was a given. That Oprah Winfrey’s session had mammoth attendance was only expected. But to have a thousand-odd people wait patiently for A C Grayling to reach the venue (“Delayed flight” … “He’s landed!” … “He’s out of the airport” … “He’s on the road” … He’s here!”) so his already postponed conversation with Steven Pinker could start, now that’s something. Your correspondent was lucky enough to find a crate to sit on by the sidelines for that one. And that’s all the sitting he did for the day.
***
The crowds meant that people just stayed put through breaks between sessions, just to have a seat. It meant genteel stampedes between each set of events as those who didn’t have seats at the event they just came from trudges hopefully to other venues, bumping into those who were doing the same thing from those venues. Authors, however, were whisked efficiently from one stage to the next, then to the book-signing tent and then their next engagement, so efficiently that one suspects that Diggi has secret underground passages known only to the organisers.
***
It seems clear that the Festival has far outgrown Diggi Palace. As charming as the venues are, and though there was now more than 30% more space than last year, though entry was restricted to those who registered, though security was tight, the popularity of the event has meant that everyone has less of a good time, except possibly the book store and the folks with the kullad chai concession.
***
By Sunday night, I was tottering — and that had nothing to do with the Glenlivet consumed at the Penguin party on Saturday and the mulled wine at the Hatchette do on Sunday — and had the beginnings of an upset tummy, thanks, I suspect, to the festival food, which swam in oil and spice. A recent knee injury barely recovered from only made matters worse. And the final straw was finding my notebook missing. Somewhere in the grounds of Diggi Palace, my notes from three days have been trampled into the dust by all those 18,000 people. I wound up in bed for most of Monday.
You felt his presence as you worked past armed policemen and road blocks at the entrance of the lane that leads up to the Diggi Palace’s portal. You felt it in the metal detectors and frisking as you walked into the registration tent, more so because this was the first year that JLF required registration. Which didn’t keep away the crowds: every venue was packed. The number of journalists registered — over 700, said the Press Desk — hinted at big things expected. And in the schmooze areas, at the bar, at the buffet tables, you heard his name.
Of course, he was mentioned in many events too. (I’m told the topic came up in just about every event, but I can’t say for sure. JLF has four events going on simultaneously most of the time, so one has to choose what to attend. And then, of course, the festival has far outgrown its venue, so most events were packed. But on that, another post, later.)
And then, of course, there were the ‘ambush readings’ which were much in the news today.
Later in the night, the organisers issued this statement.
This press release is being issued on behalf of the organizers of the Jaipur Literature Festival. It has come to their attention that certain delegates acted in a manner during their sessions today which were without the prior knowledge or consent of the organizers. Any views expressed or actions taken by these delegates are in no manner endorsed by the Jaipur Literature Festival. Any comments made by the delegates reflect their personal, individual views and are not endorsed by the Festival or attributable to its organizers or anyone acting on their behalf. The Festival organizers are fully committed to ensuring compliance of all prevailing laws and will continue to offer their fullest cooperation to prevent any legal violation of any kind. Any action by any delegate or anyone else involved with the Festival that in any manner falls foul of the law will not be tolerated and all necessary, consequential action will be taken. Our endeavor has always been to provide a platform to foster an exchange of ideas and the love of literature, strictly within the four corners of the law. We remain committed to this objective.
Here’s the statement he issued via the organisers of the festival:
Statement from Salman Rushdie
For the last several days I have made no public comment about my proposed trip to the Jaipur Literary Festival at the request of the local authorities in Rajasthan, hoping that they would put in place such precautions as might be necessary to allow me to come and address the Festival audience in circumstances that were comfortable and safe for all.
I have now been informed by intelligence sources in Maharashtra and Rajasthan that paid assassins from the Mumbai underworld may be on their way to Jaipur to “eliminate” me. While I have some doubts about the accuracy of this intelligence, it would be irresponsible of me to come to the Festival in such circumstances; irresponsible to my family, to the festival audience, and to my fellow writers. I will therefore not travel to Jaipur as planned
And here’s a recording of Sanjoy Roy reading out the statement, with additional remarks from Namita Gokhale and William Dalrymple, the festival’s directors.
A major flashpoint ahead of the Jaipur Literary Festival has been avoided with a jittery Rajasthan government on Monday persuading organizers to ask Salman Rushdie, the main draw at the book-lovers’ jamboree, to call off his visit.
Rajasthan chief secretary Salauddin Ahmed is learnt to have called the organizers to discuss Rushdie’s presence that, sources in the state government said, would have created a huge security risk, given the threat of protests by Muslim groups.
We asked Sanjoy Roy of Teamwork Productions, organisers of the Festival, for clarification. He SMSed back: *
Salman will not be in India on the 20th as per his new schedule. The festival stands by its invitation to Mr Rushdie.
Update: Our colleagues at IBNLive have a story up, in which they quote Namita Gokhale, one of the Festival’s directors as saying:
“Salman Rushdie is attending the Jaipur Literature Festival but he will not be there on the opening day.”
* In an earlier version of this post, I missed out on the words “on the 20th” from Sanjoy Roy’s message. Apologies. And, er, I also misspelled Salman Rushdie’s name in the post title. The horror, the horror.
The Election Commission’s order to cover up all statues of Uttar Pradesh Chief Minister Mayawati, and her party symbol, the elephant, has caused some consternation. One sees the logic, and one holds no brief for Ms Mayawati. Nevertheless, in the interests of fair play, one recommends that symbols of other political parties (PDF, scroll to page 79) in UP — and elsewhere — be similarly obscured.
So:
• All lotuses in all ponds should be covered, lest they give the BJP free publicity. (We recommend little gauze bags, so that some air and light get in.)
• Sickles should not be used: in cornfields, since that is an obvious advertisement for the Communist Party of India; and near hammers, because that’s a plug for the Communist Party of India (Marxist).
• All alarm clocks must herewith be banned. They ring for the Nationalist Congress Party. Tell the boss that when you’re late for work.
• Also to be kept away from the impressionable public eye, or to be covered with tarpaulin: bicycles, bows and arrows, hurricane lamps, spectacles, rotary dial phones, busses, lions, the rising sun, incandescent bulbs, torches, roosters, conchs, mangoes, weighing scales (the manual kind; you can go ahead with the electric variety), umbrellas, tops, hand-pumps, leaves (in pairs), three-petalled flowers, and a number of other fairly mundane items (see link above for the list).
• And, of course, since it just wouldn’t do to let the Indian National Congress get away with it, you, yes, you, every one of you, will, until after polling day, kindly keep your hands in your pockets.
We’re going to be at the Jaipur Literature Festival later this month. We’ll be blogging and tweeting from there, and we hope to snag you some interviews as well. Let us know who you’d most like to hear from. Here’s the schedule.
One of the events at the festival is the announcement of the winner of the DSC Prize for South Asian Literature, which, at US$ 50,000, is the richest literary prize in this part of the world. The jury — Ira Pande (chair), Dr. Alastair Niven, Dr. Fakrul Alam, Faiza S. Khan, Marie Brenner — short-listed six books:
• U.R. Ananthamurthy for Bharathipura (Oxford University Press, India, translated by Susheela Punitha)
• Chandrakanta for A Street in Srinagar (Zubaan Books, India, translated by Manisha Chaudhry)
• Usha K.R for Monkey-man (Penguin/Penguin India)
• Shehan Karunatilaka for Chinaman (Random House, India)
• Tabish Khair for The Thing About Thugs (Fourth Estate / HarperCollins-India)
• Kavery Nambisan for The Story that Must Not Be Told (Viking / Penguin India)
(More about the books and authors here.)
Who would you wager on? Leave your votes in the comments.
We — our media, but also our chattering classes, as visible on social media — call him God. We say he is gifted, that his skills are superhuman, and that his records will never be broken.
I'm Editor, Special Features, at Forbes India and ForbesLife India. I also handle social media for both publications.
In previous lives, I was a space seller, PR consultant, advertising creative director, voice-over artist, RJ, TV host, web producer and content architect, freelance travel writer, columnist, consultant to NGOs, some of them simultaneously and often for real folding money.
I've been blogging since 2003, and have co-founded the South-East Asia Tsunami & Earthquake and Mumbai Help blogs (which, with other similar initiatives later became the WorldWideHelp group), and the writers’ community, Caferati. I'm a keen student of collaboration and online culture. I've also been co-curator of the Literature section of the Kala Ghoda Arts Festival since 2006.
You could also follow me on Facebook or Google+.
Khushnood,
The piece does address the point. Which is that what Tendulkar has achieved is a result of a process and a set of circumstances that created the phenomenon that he is; that while he is an extraordinary mortal, he and his achievements aren't supernatural, and can be emulated by others...
Khushnood,
The piece does address the point. Which is that what Tendulkar has achieved is a result of a process and a set of circumstances that created the phenomenon that he is; that while he is an extraordinary mortal, he and his achievements aren't supernatural, and can be emulated by others; and that those circumstances and processes are likely to create more like him in the years to come.
