Mayank Chhaya Daily

Here is to Shireesh Kanekar

Circa 1985-86 in Bombay (Photo by Palashranjan Bhaumick)

Me: “Hey Shireesh, are you dead yet?”

Shireesh, “I don’t think so but soon. And you?”

Me: “I don’t think so either but soon.”

Shireesh beat me to it today in Mumbai.

In a way, this opening greeting on my last phone call to Shireesh on July 12 sums up our relentlessly freewheeling friendship of close to 40 years. We spoke quite regularly and almost every conversation would start with what to a third person might sound like a random, disjointed memory without any context. However, for the two of us it was like picking up threads frayed over nearly four decades and weaving them back into charming nostalgia.

I am bursting with memories of our enduring friendship. There are too many to talk about here. Quite remarkably, more than 90 percent of them are uproariously hilarious and quintessentially of the Shireesh-Mayank dynamic. Let me just reminisce about two, both dating back to 1985-86 period.

Shireesh’s many friends and readers would know that he was a passionate admirer of Dilip Kumar’s. This little vignette is about the three of us. It was sometime in 1985 that I was conducting a phone interview with Dilip Kumar from our office on Nagindas Master Road in Fountain, Bombay. Since we had no air-conditioning, the window overlooking the road was open. Just as I was about to conclude my conversation, I saw Shireesh on the road on his way to the office.

I told Dilip Kumar, who knew Shireesh as an unbridled admirer, to hold on while I told Shireesh who was on the phone with me. I shouted from the window. Shireesh stopped in his tracks, literally in the middle of the road, struck a perfect Dilip Kumar pose and said, “Kaun kambakht hai jo bardash karne ke liye peeta hai….” It was the iconic line from the thespian’s masterful 1955 film ‘Devdas’.

I told Dilip Kumar what Shireesh did, and he guffawed and said, “Un ko kahiyega yun sadak ke beech khada rehna kafi khatarnak hair phir kyun na who mere liye ho. (Tell him it is hazaradous to stand in the middle of the road even if it is for me.)”

***

Both Shireesh and I had the reputation of being uninhibited and spontaneous. This bit is an instance of that and one of my all-time favorite memories.

Four years before John Keating (a superb Robin Williams) stood on top of his desk in ‘Dead Poets Society’ (1989) to tell his students not to conform and develop a different vantage point on life, there were us, Shireesh Kanekar and I.

On a whim one afternoon in 1985 I told Shireesh, “Why don’t we stand on this desk just for the heck of it?” Shireesh agreed instantly. I, of course, had a history of standing on my desk and chair for no identifiable reason well before this picture was taken by dear friend and terrific photographer Palashranjan Bhaumick.

To balance the sheer oddity of two adults (Shireesh was 42 and I was 24) standing on their desk in their office in the middle of a busy day at work, we had decided that we would make our pose look as purposeful as possible. From what I remember of the conversation prior to this particular shot we decided that while we would make it look as if standing on one’s desk was all in a day’s work for us, we would not make it look as if we were mocking the world. I think the picture does a fairly effective job of capturing that sentiment, thanks to Palash’s outstanding framing. The idea was not to say, “Look we are so cool that we stand on our desk” because we were, in fact, that cool.

There were others in the office of the Gujarat Samachar newspaper on Nagindas Master Road in Fort area of Bombay but I suppose they were used to our ways. We had set up a specialized English news service called Syndicated Press for the newspaper group with the eventual aim of starting a full-fledged wire service but that never happened. In retrospect, one could say that an aspiring wire service where the staffers stood on their desk rather than work at it did not have much future. It folded up in less than two years despite the fact that we had enlisted about 20 leading newspapers as our subscribers. Most of them just would not pay on time, if they paid at all.

If memory serves me right, just as we finished taking the picture and were about to dismount, the owner and editor of the newspaper, Shreyans Shah entered. Accustomed as he was to our quirks, he still looked rather stunned. So much so that he did not say a word then or ever after that.

***

On Shireesh’s passing, I feel cocooned in his warm memories, emerging from which what I most remember are a million laughs and guffaws and smiles.

Your eyes. What else is there in the world?

I am not an expert at pickup lines but "I love your eyes" is now such a trite pickup line or a conversation starter.

As a single man, who has permanently renounced romance, my interest in lovely romantic lines is entirely poetic. Speaking of poetic, Hindi cinema songs. If a Hindi cinema song gives me a couple of memorable lines, even one memorable line, I am happy. Those who know Hindi cinema songs would know that lyricists have produced some of the world's greatest romantic constructs. For instance, this morning while on my walk I was listening to songs from the 1969 movie 'Chirag' written by Majrooh Sultanpuri and composed by Madan Mohan. 

There is an enduring gem from that movie that goes, तेरी आँखों के सिवा दुनिया में रख्खा क्या है (Your eyes. What else is there in the world?") Now that is one heck of a romantic line unlike "I love your eyes." In that song Majrooh Sultanpuri produces a couple of lovely imageries. 

पलकों की गलियों में

चेहरे बहारों के हँसते हुए

है मेरे ख्वाबों के क्या क्या

नगर इनमें बसते हुए

My translation is serviceable because it does not do justice to the original thought.

In the fold of your eyelashes

Spring blossoms and smiles

So many varied places of my dreams 

Flourish in them

Admittedly, a bit overwrought but that's the point of the expression of this particular kind of romance. Sultanpuri, a preeminent lyricist and poet, then wraps up the thought with these lines.

येह उठे सुबह चले

येह झुके शाम ढले

मेरा जीना, मेरा मरना

इन्हीं पलकों के तले

As they rise, dawn rises

As they lower, dusk falls

My life and death

Are under those lashes

For me the most memorable lines here are the opening one-- तेरी आँखों के सिवा दुनिया में रख्खा क्या है (Your eyes. What else is there in the world?") and है मेरे ख्वाबों के क्या क्या नगर इनमें बसते हुए (So many varied places of my dreams flourish in them). If if in three and a half minute song a lyricist can produce a couple of memorable lines, it is a great ratio.

Sultanpuri and most of his contemporary lyricists/poets routinely produced enduring lines effortlessly like an assembly line. I have said this many times before and do not mind saying it again. Hindi cinema songs and the astonishing range of human emotions and situations/conditions they capture have no peers in the world. 

 

 

Some observations about Djokovic versus Alcaraz

Carlos Alcaraz with the Wimbledon cup (Photo: www.wimbledon.com)

I do not say this with the advantage of hindsight. I was saying it throughout Sunday's grinding five-setter at Wimbledon, pitching an icon in the making against an icon crumbling. Despite some characteristically brilliant tennis, Novak Djokovic appeared to be fighting himself throughout the nearly five hours of the clash of wills.

There were several moments when Djokovic looked defeated on his face if not in his game. Sometimes it appeared as if while his arms and legs were playing some exceptional tennis purely from muscle memory, his mind seemed to have stepped back. 

The 20-year-old Carlos Alcaraz had all the nervy energy and swag of a 20-year-old despite being efficiently slaughtered in the first set by a tennis great 16 years his senior. Even in the second set things seemed to be going well for Djokovic. He was up 3-0 and it appeared that he might wrap it all up in a clean three-set win. However, Alcaraz surprised and frustrated him by winning the second set 7-6.  His backhand that won the set was pure tennis artistry. 

The third set was what turned out to be the longest game in the history of the game with 13 deuces. The draining 32-point, 25-minute back and forth in that set could have been a final by itself. That too Alcaraz won 6-1, figures which do not do justice to Djokovic's sheer staying power. It might be useful to bear in mind that Alcaraz was serving at 130 mph plus with forehands at 100 mph. 

Ideally, I should not have been invested in either of them from an emotional or a sentimental standpoint. One is a Serbian and the other Spaniard. I am an Indian American in Naperville. Geographical affinities had no role to play. The only affinity that I always exercise is who is playing better--Djokovic or Alcaraz. That said, I was rooting for Djokovic even though Alcaraz was clearly outperforming him. For reasons, which I cannot explain because they are not clear to me I very much wanted Djokovic to win just for the sake of it. While his loss here would not in any way diminish the greatness that he has already attained in the sport, a win here would have enlarged his halo. 

It is undeniable that we witnessed the rise of a possible new superstar in Alcaraz but greatness, unlike stardom, is about the ability to sustain excellence over a long period of time. By that measure, the true comparison between Alcaraz and Djokovic would be when the former turns 36 and has a matching or a better record to show for himself. For now, Alcaraz is on a trajectory towards likely greatness. 

After seven titles, five of which in a row, at Center Court Djokovic does not have anything left to prove. Yesterday's match was merely to play atop that glorious legacy but unfortunately his mind did not seem to be where his arms and legs were. It is possible that we witnessed the rise of a new superstar in Alcaraz's spectacular victory but, like I said, greatness, unlike stardom, is about the ability to sustain excellence over a long period of time.

 

Some observations about Jonny Bairstow's stumping

Not that anyone has asked me but I am going to venture my opinion about the Jonny Bairstow dismissal nonetheless. If you are not into cricket, you might wonder who Bairstow is or, for that matter, what dismissal is or, even, what cricket is. In that case, this post is not for you.

For the record, Bairstow is an English cricketer who was stumped by Alex Carey, who is an Australian wicket-keeper. If you are not into cricket, you might wonder what stumped is or, for that matter, what wicket-keeper is. In that case, this post is not for you.

On day 5 of the current Ashes series between England and Australia the other day, Carey ran Bairstow out just as he had stepped out of the crease after apparently thinking that the ball was already dead. If you are not into cricket, you might wonder what Ashes is or the crease or the dead ball is. In that case, this post is not for you. The stumping has pissed off England while Australia seems fine with it. England concedes that the stumping was legit in as much as it is part of the rules of the cricket but argue that it goes against the spirit of cricket. 

Those who know cricket would understand the expression, "That's not cricket." It flows from the idealized view of the game where there is an expectation of gentlemanly or womanly behavior outside of what is codified as rules under which players adhere to a certain genteel spirit of the game where rivals do not make a dick move like what Carey did to Bairstow when the latter thought the ball was dead. Or did Bairstow think the ball was dead? I don't know.

The problem with this debate is that the spirit of the game is such a nebulous concept and can often be up to an individual to decide what that spirit is. It is not laid down in black and white. In contrast, the rules of cricket are laid down in black and white; I mean in black letters on a white background. By those, Carey was perfectly justified in stumping Bairstow the moment he stepped out of the crease. In ducking a short delivery from Cameron Green and letting it fly to Carey behind the stumps assumes some measure of intent on Bairstow's part.

In other words, as far Bairstow was concerned, the ball was dead and done with. When he stepped out of the crease, he did seem to tap the ground with his shoe, more evidence that he was not intent on scoring any runs. And yet Carey threw the ball at the stumps and knocked them down. Could it be that between Bairstow stepping out and Carey throwing the ball, there was such a short time that neither realized what the other was going to do? Perhaps.

So have I resolved anything here? Of course not. I am merely flaunting my knowledge of cricket.

On Guru Purnima, I profusely thank myself

India's is celebrating "Guru Purnima" today. Many on Facebook and elsewhere are overcome with piety thinking about their various gurus. They attribute impossibly lofty virtues to them. I am not even remotely one of them. Instead, I look at the mirror on this day and profusely thank myself. I am my guru. 

Let me reup a post I wrote on September 5, 2011 to mark Teacher's Day. Substitute guru with teacher. It is more or less the same thing. 

***

I want to thank all my teachers for playing absolutely no role in shaping me.

The chorus of cicadas that I hear in my left ear permanently these days is perhaps the only enduring legacy from my school days. That’s where a middle school teacher called Shukla (I do not remember his first name) slapped me when I was in the sixth grade. My transgression? I got my report card signed by my mother a day earlier than I was supposed to.

I am sure the world abounds in great and noble teachers (read gurus). It is just that none of them taught me. Most of my school teachers were not necessarily bad. They were just plain forgettable, except Shukla who is still ringing in my memory. I am willing to concede that the less than happy memories of my teachers is more a reflection of who I was as a student than how they were as teachers.

People, especially in a country like India where tradition demands that teachers/gurus be practically worshipped, forget that they too have all the human frailties. Their needs are no less than yours and mine. Their motivations are no less base or selfish than ours, nor are they any more lofty. It is easy to attach improbable nobility to certain professions such as teachers or doctors when all they are really doing is living their lives the best they can like the rest of us.

This morning I saw messages of genuine gratitude that people have expressed on Facebook for the role their teachers/gurus played. Some of them speak of how their teachers/gurus molded their lives and made them better human beings. I do not mean to be an ungrateful SOB but after rummaging through my brain for more than five minutes I did not discover anything uplifting.

Apart from Shukla’s slap, another lasting memory I have of a teacher is one about Panubhai in the ninth grade. Panubhai taught us English, mainly in Gujarati. I had to reformat my brain soon after leaving high school to be able write what vaguely resembles the English language. Panubhai played no role in it.

What I remember of Panubhai is an expression on his face that forever foreshadowed a rebuke. Once he told me in his rather unpolished Gujarati: “Ala khoti chaddi pehri ne ayo chho. Chal ghare ja tu.  (Hey, you are wearing wrong shorts. Go home).”  Instead of the standard Khadi blue shorts and white shirt that was the school uniform, I had worn a pair of shorts made from stretchable polyester material that had briefly become popular in the 1970s. I did not intend “briefly” as a pun.

Some 50 years after the incident, I have still not resolved how from his teacherly perch some 20 feet away, he could see my shorts. I am not even going to ask the more important question of what he was doing looking at my shorts so closely.

The last lasting memory of any teacher is my organic chemistry college professor who was blissfully unaware of the existence of the Z sound in any language. We would be particularly tickled every time he explained the composition of benzoic acid. He had this habit of stretching “ben” longer than necessary and then finishing it with “joic” inordinately emphasized. Many of us lived in the vain hope that some day his “bennnn” would conclude with what our profane minds had already concluded it with. It was logical that this professor’s zeros were jeros.