The Humble Flight

Golden, rise, far in the east

                                A squeak and a giggle

Eyes yet open not

                                Aint no wings, feet feeble

Abode, twigs and straw

                                Cozy, unruffled and serene

Fed, love and care                     

                                Cajoled, find feet and walk

Brawny it grow

                                Majestic wings to show

Endowed with spunk

                                Radiant with splendor

Straw and twigs

                                Now grounded, no keen

Up, up and away

                                Beguiling, kingdom of dream                            

Long was the haul

                                Tryst, freedom, sweet

Days, weeks, months

                                Time, glitter, speed

In weather rough

                                Shoulders broad, brave heart

Winter, spring and fall

                                The mettle, out last

Toughened shell

                                In abyss, the lump it felt

Reach for a nestle

                                Fear allay it rest

Lighthouse in glimpse

                                Source warmth it deal

In pursuit, twigs and straw

                                Ruffle for a humble flight

-Harshad

Till it Ain’t no more fun

Run, run when you amble in fun

Run till it ain’t no more fun

When exhale you can’t

                                Till need no you breathe

When you tire, swelt

                                Till know not blood or sweat

When you injure, limp

                                Till you stand no on heel

When together you two

                                Till left no one with me

When she set you free

                                Till return no you to thee

When trip, you thud taste mud

                                Till muster no courage up

When inside burn, sting

                                Till agony no you feel

When it rankle churn

                                Till you no let it heal

When it inside seethe

                                Till numb go it kill

Run, run when in daylight run

                                Run till it no shine nor sun

-Harshad

Walking away, head held high

Trudging off, head held high

The lasting image of Rahul Dravid for me is not the square-cut off Stuart McGill to seal the Adelaide test win against Australia or the perfect leave off Shoaib Akhtar in Rawalpindi. It’s his endearing effort in the Perth test in 2008, when he was battling for form.  

It was how he approached the sternest test for any batsman on a pitch known for its menacing support to fast bowlers. When the opponents had the artillery of Brett Lee, Michelle Johnson & Shaun Tait, it couldn’t get less daunting.

He was nowhere near his best, but he stayed put and fought intensely grinding the opposition down as only he can and when he got out to Symonds on 93 he had ensured India was in a good position. In the end, what was to be a first win for any sub-continental team at Perth, he was the top-scorer.

What stands out for me was the way he approached adversity, head held high making every effort, drawing every drop of energy from his reserves. They say, a true test of a king lies when he has to walk bereft of his robes; and he did that without letting go an iota of dignity.

He had realized he was the least talented of the lot in his junior camp at the NCA, but he pegged away inch by inch, each step embellished with sweat to carve out a path less travelled towards most deserved greatness.

Everyone around was in the awe of Tendulkar and blinded by the Saurav’s splendor; whereas Dravid seemed always reachable. It took years for people to realize Dravid had quietly marched ahead and was second to no one.  

The admiration of opponents is the best reward a sportsman could get and it was evident in England in 2011, in plenty when each of his innings was applauded by the English who marauded India in the series.

For the man who showed that mortals could touch greatness, it was apt when he said, “I am sad, but Proud”

The sporting arena has lost one of its rare species in the modern world, A true gentleman.

A heart wrenching good-bye to my biggest sporting hero.

-          Harshad

Rolling Stones

Loose from a rock, edges raw and core soft

Bathing in the stream, spirits aloft

Every jump, was a new sight

A roll of dice, with infinite sides

Excited, enchanted and bubbling with zeal

A new dream seemed easy as a peel

Rolled and rolled, mingling with the blue

Grew smooth and round, shiny astound

Seasons passed, and leaps were high

The Alma matter, looked low and shy

The heady mix, a tumble and a thud,

A nasty fall, threw it on the mud

A dent in the shape, and bereft of its gloss

The rolling stone, gathered moss

Dirt and grime, and no sunshine

Every new day, was a labored whine

No sight of sky, and the end seemed nigh

Found itself in destiny’s decoy

A dark sky, thundered and poured

Fields brimming with water, it began to stroll

Slow and steady, reached its soul

Back with the stream, it regained its sheen

A new found life, and a new goal

The rolling stone, began to roll

   

-          Harshad

P.S. This poem was first published at http://harshbadbad.blogspot.com

Mirages are Forever

Glancing at the glimmer of blue,

 The gazelle galloped

It went chasing the blue,  

                            Only to find reaching for

Galloped, galloped till the sun went down,

 And down went the shine

Exhausted and weary,

It settled for the time

It was a new day,

 But legs tired from yesterday

Even the first ray,

Arrives engulfed in hues of grey

Shadows along the way,

                        Brought memories of the night

Bloodied it might be,

                        Head was still upright

The feet are jaded;

But it has stomach for a fight

Another mirage in the way

                        Will chase it with all its might

-        -  Harshad

P.S. Thankful to someone for the title

P.P.S. This short poem was first published @ http://harshbadbad.blogspot.com

Two fountain pens and a story

I was munching on a cold sandwich at 37000 feet above Colorado trying to scribble on a notepad; A paper notepad. I gazed through the windows of nostalgia to a time when a Saturday meant white canvas shoes and shorts. Party meant grabbing a snack at the Ajit Bakery. Horror meant being caught on the wrong foot by Deshpande Ma'am. 12 noon meant being 15 minutes late for the assembly.


I was trying hard to think what I took away from RSMES till date. I could recollect those few moments and incidents over time. But If I could think of anything that I have carried through apart from the confidence, plenty of knowledge and great teachings are the “friends for life” ; something that all of us cherish.


One of us was in 5th-A and the other in 4th-A. It was the TT table that kept us glued. The day started at 6:45 a.m. when we used to meet across the TT table at Deo Sporting Academy. We rushed home only to get ready and come back to our school, with our rackets kept neatly among the crumpled books. If someday the racket didn’t fit in the school-bag, standing outside the classroom for not bringing a book was a more reasonable deal. The TT table, placed at the room beside the Assembly hall on the 4th floor was our object of interest. We hope it still exists. We used to practice in the long recess meant to have lunch and tried to squeeze a game or two in the short recess as well by shoving the compulsory ‘roti-subzi’ in our mouths. Such was the passion and the enthusiasm for the game. The fire still burns on, except for the company or to a certain extent the body’s support. It was very exciting during that time of our lives, or rather, “cool”, to represent the school at different tournaments. To leave the school at the end of 5th period was something, we always looked forward to. We hope, 10 years after we last attended the school, we won’t get into trouble for sneaking out early; not every time for a tournament. It evokes a hearty laugh when we relive those moments.


Inter-school tournaments organized by the District Sports Office used to be even more interesting, when we rode our bicycles long distances to reach the venues; proud to represent our school. With no cell-phones for moms to track our movements 24*7, we were free birds. Our most satisfying performances have been while representing the school. The pain of a nail-biting loss against the reigning champs Somalwar School is still red.


At times, we faced situations best summed up by Abhinav Bindra on winning medal at the just concluded Commonwealth Games which coincided with the cricket teams win, “I would like to be under the illusion that we would be on the front page next day (given the cricket test win)".
Volleyball and Kho-kho were more celebrated at the school then. Things did change in our favor, soon after both of us got selected for the State level tournament. We were really lucky to have the support from our school.


We celebrated with great joy the day when we came to know that our school had won the state level championship in U-17 boys’ category, long after we had passed out. It was a feeling that both of us wanted to experience. The sapling we sowed had borne fruits. Our school became very competitive in all the sports disciplines in the following years. There have been students who have excelled in swimming, basketball, obviously kho-kho, volley ball and aatya paatya. Also, not to forget the table tennis students! By God’s grace both of us got the opportunity to represent Maharashtra at the National Level, at some point of our short yet thrilling professional table tennis careers.


Everyone goes to school to learn countless shlokas of Sanskrit, solve (a+b)^n Group D problems of Algebra or Geometry hoping one of these will surely show up in one’s board exams. Our school taught us, it’s not sufficient to be good at these but all-round development was something which was just as important to evolve us into better human beings.


Today the circle is complete as we return to the same point where we started. RSMES has had an everlasting impact on our lives. Countless memories from school of the caring ‘didis’, the commanding teachers and of course the mischief we indulged into, stand out in our mind till date.
Our School is like a tree’s root, which keeps us grounded and keeps us in better stead for a bigger leap each time we look up.


-- Harshad Deshpande & Arshad Kokardekar.
The authors have been very close friends since 17 years. Reunited recently in NY. This blog was published as a part of a souvenir to commemorate the 25th year of inception of the school.  

Rajini's own country

                                                                 Rajini’s own country

Three panelists faced me from WIPRO in the interview room for summer internships. As I had consumed everything that was written about Retail on their website, I was able to tell them more than few things which they didn’t know about their represented organization. Now I know it’s perfectly OK not to know. Back then, it gave me great confidence. Gauging the general aversion of people from Mumbai towards Chennai he asked me the inevitable.

“We have our Retail practice based out of Chennai. Are you fine traveling there?”

Adrenaline took over me when I replied, “I am absolutely fine traveling even to the Andamans provided the work is of my interest”

When they announced the list few hours later, I was the one of the guys selected for the management internship program with a cool stipend as well. The project details arrived later and the whole batch had been posted at the WIPRO Bangalore campus albeit I posted at Chennai. The internship duration mid-april to mid-june was the harshest of weather in Chennai with temperatures soaring to higher forties and humidity almost touching the hundred. I was the butt of so many jokes that day in college and the poor girl from Chennai was dragged in them needlessly.

A friend recounted an incident about his mother when he had to travel Trivandrum for some training.

She had said, “Tou tumhe Madrass jana hai?”

“Nahi maa. Trivandrum Kerala me hai”

“Are baapre. Wo tou aur hi Madrass hai!”

Luckily I was able to discover a friend of a friend staying in Chennai which solved my accommodation issues. Slowly I was able to find my bearings at work with the “buddy” assigned to help me out. He was a senior guy abut 38-40 years of age, a run-of-the mill Chennai techie who was more than helpful.

One fine day, he invited me with his team for a movie as a part of ‘project-party’; a concept I was alien to till then. The movie was, “Sivaji- The boss” starring super-star Rajni as he is addressed in that part of the world. The movie was a sensation even before it was released. The frenzy it generated outside the theatre amongst the masses was out of this world and only thing comparable to it was a India-Pakistan match at Wankhede; of-course the animosity replaced by excitement. I was the only one who was to watch that movie for the first time. The number of times one had watched a Rajini movie was directly proportional to the ‘coolness’ quotient of the folks. Summer being in its peak, there was no dearth in the demand of ‘coolness’ in any form.

The mention of super-star Rajini in the titles evoked a stadium like response when people see MS Dhoni walking down the aisles for a toss. The first dialogue by Rajinikanth err super-star Rajini was met with Sachin-spanks-Shoaib-for-a-fierce-square-cut reception. I resembled like doing the most unfashionable act of sitting on the chair while watching the movie where the call of the event was to dance flashing Rajini posters. My ‘buddy’ felt pity for me and volunteered to translate the movie. The gentleman that he was, he translated each dialogue for me as fast as he could. He went a bit too far when he was trying to translate a song.

The movie had everything from comedy-action-drama-tragedy and an ‘aal izz well’ ending. But unlike the movie, the Chennai stint was with more pleasant surprises than harsh ones.

P.S. Age of innocence is lost, when the age of rationalization takes over.



P.P.S The blog was first published at http://harshbadbad.blogspot.com

The Show-aib must go on

                                       The Show-aib must go on

A capacity crowd filled to the brims of the stands. It’s the first over. He comes towards the sightscreen and marks his run up just before the boundary. Waves at the crowd, eggs them up to cheer for him. And off he goes almost like a rampaging train in sync with the chanting crowd. As the chants reach its crescendo, you see the characteristic flourish of the arms and then bang; straight at the batsman’s body. They say the crowd comes to see the batsman but to be able to witness someone like Shoaib in full flow on the field has to be one of the most enthralling moments on the cricket field.

As a Sehwag sends shivers down the bowling lineup, Shoaib used to send shivers down the batsmen up there waiting with their pads on. Ask a Ganguly prior to a match against Pakistan what it is to face a Shoaib with the Islamabad crowd baiting for his throat err ribs. Shoaib has always has been a Shoaib for its impact and it’s not mere speed that creates it. Speed is just a part of it. A bowling machine can deliver speeds exceeding 150 kmph with the trajectories a Shoaib does. But it can never have the impact. The long run up, the persona, the flowing hair, the raging eyes and then the not so distant death knell followed by the soaring eagle celebration is what makes Shoaib what he is.

A friend recollects how Shoaib lifted a hundred thousand Kolkata fans when he single handedly destroyed the Delhi Daredevils lineup of Sehwag, Gambhir, Dilshan and Dhawan. He was the real hero while the Shahrukh Khans of the world and the entire Kolkata Knight Riders entourage could merely watch their aura diminish that evening. The same very crowd which he had silenced few years ago when he had sent back Dravid and Tendulkar bowled all ends up, yes! all ends up in consecutive deliveries and announced himself on the world stage.

Experts opined him to cut his run up, drop his pace. You can’t have a Venkatesh Prasad packaged in those big shoulders and the huge chest. A Shoaib is a Shoaib because he is a Shoaib. He knew he was good and fast and he made sure everyone around him knew the same. The attitude is to him like his arms to his torso. He is like marijuana, gives you a high but not without the bouts of depression. He had said once aptly, “Speed is my talent and I am nothing without it”. Nothing mattered to him but himself.

We might just have seen the last of him against New Zealand when Akmal dropped a couple of regulation chances off Ross Taylor in the beginning which cost Pakistan the match and quite possibly Shoaib his career. He is in the twilight of his career but heart still feels, “The Sho-aib must go on.

P.S. Yes, I am a biased Shoaib fan - hadu

P.P.S. This was originally published at http://harshbadbad.blogspot.com



Fairer Sex, Fairer Chance

Fairer Sex, Fairer Chance

Circa 2000, in a discreet house, an alarm bell rings, a figure wakes up with a sound of few bangles tapping the alarm button. As the sound of the bangles trail towards the kitchen, the lazy guy in the bed envelopes itself in the quilt for comfort.


The tic-tic of a gas lighter ignites the stove and the day in the life of an Indian woman. The breakfast is prepared; children are readied and sent to school. Then it is time for the Indra Nooyis and the Kiran Bedis to brace up to shatter the glass ceilings of the bastions of men. The sun rises with a day and sets with the eve but the day of an Indian woman rises with the sun and sets when the moon is smiling with might.

She is the light who ignites the day in the house. She is the thread with which the family is woven. She is the pillar of the value system of the family. She is the stem on which the kids bloom. She is the backbone of a husband braving winds. She is the sail of the daughter making waves.

She is a Indira who ruled; She is a Saina who personifies skill; She is a Sonia calling the shots; She is a Niira anchoring the deals; She is a Crane Bedi (Kiran Bedi) wielding power; She is a Aishwarya Rai mesmerizing the tinsel town; She is a Sudha Chandran who cast her spell; She is a Asha Bhosale who enchanted all her way; She is a Kiran Majumdar Shaw at the helm of an self made empire; She is a Chanda Kochar on whom the ICICI banks.

These women have prospered not in-spite of India but because of it. The values, the exemplary courage and unwavering grit have been in the blood of Indian women. The eight arms of goddess Durga aren’t there for nothing. She has always been managing all the chores and come out blazing her way on top.

She neither needs a favor nor a helping glance; Just an equal chance!

-hadu

P.S. – I am not into any business related to cosmetics, spa, healthcare etc. (- This piece was an entry to women’s day blog

P.P.S – This post was originally published at http://harshbadbad.blogspot.com

A nation bereft of it's soul

A nation bereft of its soul

As we enter into the New Year, we shall see a thousand new write-ups on New Year. We will have a thousand new resolutions to break. The trend suggests hordes of new scams will get unearthed. New accusations will be made. New culprits would be identified. New scapegoats would be found.

There was a time when we had become habitual of bomb blasts till the dogs themselves were targeted either in parliament or felt a threat when the high and the mighty were targeted in Mumbai. Now as the congress celebrates its 125^th year of existence and brandishes its achievements, I feel they should question their very reason of existence; if it has changed or badly abused. The same holds true for every other political party. In the eyes of the common man who wants to be lead; a politician is an abuse. He votes because he wants to participate in some way or the other in the process of the democracy that has been handicapped and compromised to the core. We are a handicapped democracy because we are broken to the hilt by every person who came to power.  We are compromised because every pillar that was put to strengthen the democracy; be it the parliament, the judiciary, the bureaucracy and the Defense Forces have not been spared from accusations of corruption and nepotism. How worse it could get if a former CJI is allegedly accused, a Prime Minister is pulled up by the SC for alleged inaction and delay, an industrial house till now considered a true nation builder is dragged into a scam and the media supposedly found hand in hand with all the parties.

We have become a country bereft of a hero in the real walk of life. We are a nation of billion without a leader whom everyone wants to follow. We are lead by the government because we don’t have a better choice. Dr. APJ showed us a glimmer of hope, but the collective will of the dogs meant he too was rendered out of the system. Every honest man thinks of himself as being incompatible to be a part of nation building. A billion dollar business is not about something that is radically new but about how an established conglomerate bends the regulations to multiply his wealth. Mind goes back to 2001 and sometimes tries to take only possible positive if the attack on parliament was a success. A lot of bad brains would have gone to dust. As a nation we are robbed of any hope from our leaders who have rendered “hope” as just another four letter word.

Much is said about the new generation that can bring about the change. A generation which starts its life with an admission to a play school with a capitation fee and a degree college with a management fee has ingrained the idea “money talks” too deep in them to bring about or even allow a change to happen. No amount of “Jago-re” is going to help the country of the corrupt. 

That is why we look to someone like Sachin to worship us. A Sachin to give us hope. A Sachin to make us happy. We know cricket is just a tiny part of it. Life shows us at instances like the one in Mumbai on 26/11 the littleness of things like cricket. But it can at least give us some unadulterated pleasure minus Pakistan.

The New Year would be good even if the days of gloom pave a way for a dawn to bring closer the idea of India as it was dreamt to be.

-          -Harshad

P.S. It’s possible for one to be proud of his Nation and detest it’s unworthy rulers.