Thin Red Line

Passing by a colony of hutments on my way home today I saw two small girls crying as it poured lightly, whether it was because their naked bodies were freezing in the drizzle or the fact that their parents weren’t around I couldn’t tell. Nor could I find the compassion to provide them some cover. I felt a strong urge to photograph them.

It would have made a compelling picture, they were hugging each other as no one else paid them any attention, framed right it would be one of best photographs. I forced myself on before I could dig out my camera. Apart from the fact that photographing individuals in the nude without their consent is just one step short of full-blown pornography, I realized that whatever my intentions, I would be exploiting them. I would be taking advantage of their helplessness and the fact that they were just too young to understand what was happening around them. All they wanted was to find their parents and someplace warm. This, and not the fact that I’d be risking permanent damage to my camera and being mobbed by the morally sensitive pedestrians, is what made me abandon the idea. Of course, not doing anything to help them is another story.

Ever since my dead-brained principal told me that I’d never make a good journalist if I kept taking the easy way out (her version of the story and opinion is completely irrelevant, for her the best sources are those that hold office and not ordinary observant individuals), I’ve thought a lot more about things that I hoped wouldn’t come up ever again. I thought I’d put to bed the good journo - bad journo argument (which lasted all summer) before deciding to study journalism. I’d convinced myself that no matter what the consequences, I wouldn’t sell out, that I’d rather quit than be forced to turn a paparazzo. I was confident I’d research each of my stories carefully and thoroughly and never lift phrases off press releases, I wouldn’t exploit someone just to get a story and if someone got run over I’d first get them to a hospital than make them the next day’s news. But here it is, the age-old debate has reared its ugly head once more. All it took was a careless remark and a moment’s indecision.

I never expected to fall back this easily, never thought I’d be re-examining the line between news and exploitation. The problem is the same but this time the solution is different. A simple exertion of will power will put an end to this for good. Tonight I will know if I can resist the call.

Viva Espana! Viva!

I like to think that Spain will not be the third European casualty of the 2010 FIFA World Cup. It was bad enough watching Italy slump to a 3-1 defeat against Slovakia last night. I’m no Italian fan but it still hurts when a team that comprises Pirlo, Cannavarro, Gattuso, Buffon, Camoranesi, Chiellini and Iaquinta flop on the grandest stage of them all. It’d be nothing short of catastrophic if Chile does that to Spain tonight.

I’m not Spanish, not even remotely and live in dumpy city (long live Bombay!) more than 6000 miles away from the Promised Land (Spain). I’ve been supporting the national team since 2007 and danced myself crazy when they won EURO 2008. They’ve been underachievers and underdogs for as long as they’ve been playing the sport. It’s only in the last couple of years that they’ve finally played to their potential. And they’ve carried that into the World Cup, threatening to sweep away all opposition with their slick passing game.

But Switzerland stood in the way. Or rather, my mother allowed Switzerland to mess up the match. Everything was going fine, Iniesta and Xavi were supplying Villa with enough ammunition every time they went forward. Of course the finishing was nothing to write home about. But then, my mother asks why the Swiss haven’t scored yet. In the next three seconds, Gelson Fernandes skipped past Puyol and Pique and scrambled the ball into the net.

I’m never going to forgive her for her ill-timed remark. She cost Spain the match, but refuses to admit it. Thank god Spain played Honduras while she was sleeping. But I think I’ve identified another potential threat: - popcorn. Teams I support tend to lose while the corn’s popping. So there won’t be any food on the table for tonight’s match, not even orange juice or a 5-Star crunchy. I’m going to sit in my favourite chair, refuse to answer any calls and hope all goes good. Viva Espana! Viva!

Return of the Dhruvster

I never thought I’d run into him again. Not after I nearly broke his leg (at least in my head). But there he was, sauntering in my turf, down my stairs, in Maaaay College. Shock didn’t quite cover my reaction. This was a dumbstruck, eye-popping stare that should have turned him to dust.

Just as I was about to demand what he thought he was doing here and whether he’s lost his way, he comes up to, throws around a smile and tells me he’s a student here! He dropped out last year only to return this year. I tried to be as pleasant as possible, in a non-menacing way, but it just wouldn’t come. He went away just as my jaw was getting sore from all that grimacing.

He turned up again the next day. This time I was delighted to see that his left arm was in a cast. His full sleeves were covering it the other day. I flashed him an ear-to-ear monkey grin in greeting. He wouldn’t be playing football anytime soon but hoped to be fit in time for the university season to begin.

So see the situation couldn’t be better. Not only am I his senior but get to use all my influence within the college to get him trouble, get pushed off stairs, stuck in lifts etc. Must remember to tell the coach and his teachers to give him hell, graduation year is going to be one heck of a ride!

The Partnership Continues

For some godforsaken reason, BATA hasn’t received its usual supply of POWER shoes from its ‘warehouse’, the reason it seemed as though POWER had gone off the market for good.


Even then, they were nice enough to save one last pair of gaudy brown shoes and I gratefully bought them. Only Rs. 300 changed hands, half the price of the previous ones. So the new ones aren’t much to look, they fit funny and size 10 just manages to keep all my toes in. The colour isn’t exactly inspiring but blends well the post-rain litter on the streets. The sole is jazzed up with funny white protrusions that are supposed to fulfil some kind of acupuncture treatment on the go. On the whole, it’s a great bargain, an okay fit, not at all inconspicuous (in fact, if the folds of my pants didn’t cover them, I’d look more mismatched than crusty the clown), but the important thing is that I did find the shoes and the Partnership is alive and should regain its former glory when the warehouse decides to deliver their consignment after we’re finished with the rains.

Here are a couple of photos of my latest acquistion for your viewing pleasure only. Make what you will of them, the comment boxes need filling anyway.

  

 
 
 

The Power Partnership

My friend Radhika and I wear identical shoes. The only differences are in size (I’m an 11 and she’s somewhere close to half of that I think) and in colour (her are grey and mine green). But the large POWER logo on the front strap really stands out and when we put our feet together to display it to unwitting strangers it looks really cool.

It was a complete coincidence, one day, about a year ago; we suddenly noticed we wore the same shoes. It was the nice and right kind of weird. It felt like the perfect testimony to our friendship, the kind where we don’t have to talk to each every minute that we’re next to each other but still knowing that we’re around for each other even though we’ve never let on as much aloud. The shoes are just one of many things that go unsaid between us.

And now, that’s under threat.

Each day that goes by without fresh punishment being inflicted on my pair is a miracle. The side straps are frayed and hanging on by a few threads. The bottom is slowly peeling apart and every step I take is carefully measured and taken with extra precaution. I’ve been looking for a replacement for three days now and so far it looks like no one sells this model now. Also, no one seems to stock anything larger than a size ten these days, but that’s beside the point. I could easily buy one of those new Sparx shoes (as I clearly need to) but then the magic of it all will have died. It will no longer be one of many things that Radhika and I share. It would sadden the heart if it happened and I’d hate wearing them. If I do find what I need, i don’t care what size it comes in, just as long as the POWER PARTNERSHIP doesn’t die.

Harrison Ford vs. Dennis Quaid

It took the credits of 2002’s The Rookie to tell me that Jimmy Morris was played by Dennis Quaid and not Harrison Ford as I’d believed the past hour and half. Then again in Vantage Point, this time it took me only 40 minutes. These two should come with a nametag.