Rajan Bala, Raju Bharatan and Ramachandra Guha Although brought up reading the cricket writers produced by Sportstar and Sportsworld in my childhood days, there is a splendid trio of raconteurs who have a very special place in my heart. They have deeply enriched my appreciation of the game and in particular its unsung heroes.

All 3 had Tamil roots(not that it matters) but spent their careers outside the state. What endears the triumvirate to me is a certain flair and style in their writing that goes beyond institutionalized streams of thought. They don't have the attitude of sucking up to their state players like most Indian journos. I guess it's hard to describe to which state the three had their loyalties, their domiciled state being different from the place of nativity. Probably not being attached to a newspaper gives them this freedom. And finally, nobody covered the Indian cricketers of the Fifties and Sixties like these three have done.

Bala was the first I stumbled upon, during the 1990 tour of New Zealand, when his book "All the Beautiful Boys" hit the stands. It was only in 1999 that I could grab that book. By then I was aware that he was the only hack who had covered both the Pakistan and Windies tours of 1982-83(R.Mohan returned after the Pakistan tour). There's no really doubt about the fact that Bala has a terrific understanding of the technical intricacies of the game, in fact the best you will
ever see. Razor sharp in grasping the nuances, he was often sought by the lesser players for technical feedback and corrections. There was also a subtle hint in his interviews that he resented the influence of R.Mohan in the BCCI and in the cricket-crazy south. I am really surprised that currently the duo work together for The Asian Age.

It was on Day 1 of the Nov 1994 Bombay Test that I came to know of Bharatan, as he debuted for the The Hindu's Saturday's Sports Special. I was naturally attracted to his vividly nostalgic bent of mind and his amazing aptitude for recalling dates of matches and balls faced by so-and-so in such-a-such game. And oh, his puns delighted me no end, "Sip by Pepsip the Sachinks in the armour were seen", "The Iyengarrulous Kris Srikkanth", "The act of the man did jar"(reference to Barry Jarman the match referee). Raju had a nose for exposing intriguing plots. His eyewitness accounts of the 1952 English tour were fascinating. I used to collecting all his newspaper pieces and ultimately made a web page for his writings. Somewhere I had made a Word Document containing 101 of his articles, a lengthy pun-fest interspersed with stats. Raju is also a fine repository of Hindi film music, being a big fan of Asha, RD Burman and Naushad. I think he spent a few years with Filmfare as well.

Guha's name was a misnomer and having read a bit of Raju Mukherji, I mistook him for a Bengali. It was well after I had finished 2 of his books that I had some clue about his antecedents. His vibrant and rich vocabulary and his fluent engaging style captivated me in no time. Guha had the thirst of the seeker and the diligence of the surgeon. No doubt about it, he is definitely the first Indian cricket scholar. Spin and Other Turns was a delightful read where there are some not-to-be forgotten incidents - His eager longing to see a Gavaskar hundred, partly fructifying when he got a ticket to Day 1 of the 1980 Pongal Test, Sunny finishing the day at 92 not out. The next day, he was on the Coromandel Express and while stopping at Vijayawada station, heard the announcement over the radio that Sunny had moved on to an unbeaten 166. Then there is his confession of how Vishy's masterly 222 against England brought his heart back to cricket after a 3 year hiatus in pursuit of communism.

Strange that although TN has produced excellent cricket writers by the dozen, we are yet to produce one decent cricketer of international class(Ramesh is probably the best of all, the rest were quite ordinary and even lucky). 
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  Warne does the trick once again When Rudolf scored a match-saving century in the fourth innings of the First Test at Perth, it reminds one of the 1997-98 series when South Africa visited Australia. On that occasion, the teams were more or less evenly matched with Australia holding a marginal advantage. Kallis with a 4th innings century saved the First Test for the Proteas.

The 2nd Test was at Sydney and I watched pretty much about 90% of the game on TV(I think it finished in 3 days - Sat, Sun, Mon). Australia had a useful first innings lead, when Warne(6/34) went on the attack in the 2nd knock and bamboozled the South Africans. The trademark big spinning legbreaks found the edge to slip if not castling the stumps. Wicked flippers had them popping back return catches or plumb in front. Kallis hit a defiant 72 before a bazooka of a leg break crashed into the top of off stump after pitching way outside leg. Wicket Number 300 for the ace leggie(See Pic).

As the 2nd innings ended in the recently concluded 2nd Test, I was crossing my fingers knowing that the fate of match and series depending on how the Proteas fared against Warnie. Sure enough, he split their defences and the inevitable happened. Now the series is as good as over, the Aussies will be bringing in Macgill as well for the SCG test to drive the final nail into the coffin.

Having witnessed current day stars like Dravid, Tendulkar, Akhtar, Laxman, Kumble, Lara, Harbhajan show glimpses of their prowess, Warnie is one legend I will miss :( I feel happy though for all our Chennaites who saw the great man pick up 6-125 and his 500th wicket at the MAC. 
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  Remembering PV Another year is coming to an end. I guess this is one phase where you can telepathically reach out to all those you have lost contact with, no matter where they are. The New Year brings out feelings of hope for the future and a resolve to forget the past. In that sense, momentarily it unites you with everyone far and near. Deep down, our thoughts and aspirations unite for a fleeting period.

Out of the blue I happened to think about PV. It is now nearly 3 years since I last met or talked with him. I first met him while working in Bombay. The catering contract for our company canteen was won by a nearby establishment. It was a pretty big one started by a mallu restaurateur(?) years ago and professionally very well run.

PV was one among the many young waiters employed in the establishment and one of the few deputed to our office on full time duty. He would turn up at 7 in the morning and stay upto 8 at night finishing his accounts. He would walk through the cubicles morning and afternoon with a small notebook, mentally noting down the orders with the sharpness and retentivity that waiters are known for. All deliveries made, he would amble through the evening at close of day, collecting the cash. Though there were about 4 or 5 waiters on duty, we came to know him as a very quiet, soft-spoken but methodical guy. During the less busy hours, he would saunter around the office unnoticed, quietly taking in the fluster and bluster around every cubicle, briskly swinging into action when someone ordered a snack or a soft drink.

Quick exchanges during the idle hours gave me some insights in the lives of these waiters. They had the natural guilelessness of South Indians finding their feet in the melting pot that is Bombay. Most of them came here looking for a job in the mid and late nineties, while in their late teens. Picked up Hindi, learnt the intricacies of travelling in and out of the local trains, forged a community among themselves, had common hopes and aspirations. The hopes of getting employment in the Gulf having been dashed, either through lack of contacts or lack of avenues. Some had pretty much reconciled themselves, taking strength in the fact that they now had a job that paid them well going by the standards of their native village, hoping that would contribute to the marriage or education of a sibling. The average mallu's will is to some extent steeled by the fact that most of his kith and kin had to scour the length and breadth of the country to get his livelihood.

Language is never a barrier between a mallu and a tam and soon enough during those many evenings when I used to work late into the night, there were ample opportunities to have a little chit-chat with PV. During the days I stayed up late, PV would take pains and get me my dinner before he left. If it had been a night-out, PV would walk to my seat with solicitous enquiries the moment he arrived and promptly bring tea and breakfast. I and my Tam gang would gather for lunch in of the cubicles, and wasted no time in cribbing about the horrendous chappathis, which the Mallu cook would never get the hang of. PV would smile and promise he would instruct the cook to watchfully prepare them for our gang. Each one of us would take turns every week to place the order and foot the bill. Normally PV would give me the figure for the week and I would pay up the amount without looking into the details. Once we had light-heartedly cribbed about the decision to raise the price of each item by 50paise. I later came to know that PV had been billing me with the old rates for around two weeks.

One of the evenings, I was poring through endless lines of code. Current and old hindi hits rang out from the nearby computers. PV hung around my desk, lost in thought. "Sounds like Anuradha Paudwal", he reflected. I turned in surprise and asked him how in the world he recognised her voice. He said he used to be a big fan of music. I turned the topic towards malayalam film music. When I brought in my favorite Ilayaraja, "I've heard his Olangal, Guru, Kaalapaani", he quickly answered. We talked about musical theory and notations and I was quite impressed when he even mentioned Mayamavalagowlai and Sindhu Bhairavi among the basic ragams. Not bad for a Catholic Christian. He told me there was a musically accomplished priest in his village parish who went to Russia for seminary and musical training and came back to set up a music school. He had written some books on classical music theory(PV mentioned there was a good one costing Rs.120 and I told him to purchase it for me next time he went home). He had gone to the priest for carnatic music training at age 10 for a few months. The harsher realities of life forced him to quit and ultimately he dropped out of high school itself. Being the eldest of three kids, he had to support his siblings and parents. Came to Bombay in 1994 at age 17(he was also sharp enough to know the date!). His job was helping his younger brother attend nursing college, while his younger sister worked as a nurse in North India. He would travel to his home once in a couple of years and had not seen his siblings for over 3 years now. Teaching the children's choir at a nearby Malayalee church brought him some supplemental income. I suppose the Mallu parents would have felt secure having their Hindi-embracing kids learning mallu songs under PV.

After that, whenever I would see some nice sounding song in Asianet, I would ask PV for the filmography. He would not fail me with the details of the film. PV knew pretty much everything about Kerala politics, literature, cinema, media, etc. His omniscience came out in unassuming fashion whenever I drew him into a chat. MRF, The Week, Manorama group, he knew them all and their little histories. Even mentioned that Meera Jasmine grew up next door to his cousin! But he never rambled on aimlessly, only speaking when he was pressed for info. Sometimes, I would spot him going through The Times of India at the reception. He would diligently ask me the meaning of words he couldn't understand. I told him I regretted not having any contacts in the Gulf who might get him a better job and one befitting his acumen. He said he was working on a degree through correspondence, and god willing, would find the funds to finish it quickly.

One Saturday I and my roomie asked him to visit our flat and spend the day with us. He turned up immaculately dressed. We roamed around and visited some fast food joints and had a sumptuous lunch. Returned home at noon. I and my roomie took a siesta while he spent the hours eagerly tinkering with my new keyboard and my room-mate's guitar. Evening I got some milk and biscuits and went to prepare tea, despite PV's protests. "You're doing this for me all year, let me do this for a day", I insisted. The evening got over and soon it was time for him to leave. I hoped the day seemed to him like one from the distant past, where he would mill around the backwaters and green fields near his home. The next day being Monday, I was back to attending meaningless code reviews and he to serving tea and meals.

Few months later, it was time for me to leave Bombay. PV attended my farewell dinner but I really couldn't spend any quality time with him. I came back a few months later on a visit, just for a day. There was a mega sale from some garment exporter and a Book Expo in the nearby complex. Shopped all morning and evening picking up lots of clothes and books. Called up PV and asked if we could meet for a few minutes. We met on the road in front of his restaurant and chatted for a few minutes. He couldn't join us for dinner as he was on duty that night. I handed him a colorful shirt I had purchased for myself that morn. I was hopeful of more visits to Bombay and we split on a high note. But things never turn out as one wishes. In a trice, I returned to South India after a good many years. I was soon travelling around and living among suitcases.

Another year rolled by. By then, most of my colleagues in my company had moved out of Bombay. It was a cold October morning in Colorado and I was staring into the monitor, dreading the approaching winter. Click! An Outlook envelope popped up in the taskbar. The last of the loyalists in my ex-company had sent me an email, "Do you have a shipping address in Bangalore or thereabouts? PV from our canteen just returned from Kerala. He has purchased a book for you." 
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  A rare pic: The Aandavans of Alwarpet  
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  Random Jottings : On friendship This evening, I sat back in office for a few hours with one of my colleagues. He was going on a long trip with his wife this weekend and we burnt a CD with 150+ Ilayaraja songs to occupy his mind during the long drive.

We are as different as chalk from cheese. He is very much a creation who thrives on instinct. While I am the incorrigible analyst who would think four times before making a decision. Although we both had similar views on a few things, the contrasts are quite striking. And despite all that, we were very comfortable with each other. It was fun to talk with him for hours - I would normally stroll to his desk at around 4 in the evening and we would chat animatedly for an hour before leaving for the day. It would be typical of him to bounce from topic to topic in that exchange, while I would be struggling to explore every subject from its very origin and take it logically to its grave. But he did have a patient ear and I could even afford to go on a philosophical jaunt at times or take a U-turn and reveal my coldly pragmatic side. Either way he was receptive. The fact that he had a short attention span suited me, I could press his buttons and get away with it.

This makes me wonder - why are we comfortable with some people and why not with others? Why is it we are more tolerant, receptive and accomodating to some and not so with others?

In my early days, I was a sucker for what I would call "Friendship-at-first-sight". Whenever I had to start life in a new environment and I saw someone interesting(i.e, possessing the qualities that I strongly approved), I tended to be really nice and give a lot more latitude in my interactions with that person than usual. Ultimately we would end up being close friends. I guess most of my close friends were "won" this way. That pretty much taught me - friendships are a matter of choice. No matter how stark the differences, you can still forge out a really good relationship with anyone if you want to. IF YOU WANT TO. You can put up with anyone in this world.

As the years passed and my interests and outlook broadened, I was less picky. I pretty much realised that every one of us is a hypocrite with a Hitlerian and Gandhian streak existing side by side, each of them wrestling with each other. Life ultimately is a series of never-ending compromises. There are no absolutes. There is nothing repulsively bad in any individual. Individuals make choices depending on how their environment and experiences condition them. Once I reached this state, I dropped my guard. The realisation that everything-is-grey became such an overwhelming obsession that I would become guilty whenever I was extra-nice towards someone. I started killing any hint of emotion and preference I saw in myself.

Then of course there are those roller-coaster relationships. There would be people with whom the overall vibes were good. But sometimes the more close you get, the more the contrasts will stand out. This was the most frustrating part. And in such cases, I would begin my subtle experiments. It did prick me inside that I was treating a human as a guinea pig. But honest to God, I genuinely believed I had the welfare of that person in mind and I was doing it in his/her better interests. I would keep our interactions to all the agreeable things and keep all conflicting issues away. Pretty soon, we hit a few peaks. Sometimes, during our good times, I would feel like looking my pal in the eye and saying, "You know what, you are a mere pendulum oscillating on your emotions. A human laugh-o-meter. Nothing more. I kept all hotbed issues away and we've having fabulous vibes the past few weeks. Did you realise that you are just floating inside a soap bubble. You might as well have hung around with a slick-tongued salesman or an air-hostess who tickles your ear and you could have had a swell time!".

But few more of this experiments gave me a new realisation - that I was who was trying to play God and it's high time I mighty well stopped it. Stop trying to turn people into carbon copies. Accept the fact that each human is an insecure creation of shaky preferences on the inside. Forget those jarring notes and focus on their good side. Of course there are some tough cases but then, the majority are still good with wholesome motives on the whole. The tough intractable humans are usually the ones who have the deepest insecurity within themselves. The stiff exterior is just a cover-up for a fragile mental composition. Therefore, just be good, have honest intentions with everyone and on the whole, life will be fair.

Getting back to the evening, as we packed our bags and wished each other happy holidays, I remarked to my pal that the evening twilight and our conversation on holiday eve took me back to those Friday evenings in my childhood days - when distances were larger, when there were no vehicles or telephones, when I would hang around till 5PM in school with a close pal, and we would roam all over the school in eager conversation, with a touch of dismay that the weekend was putting a minor break on our companionship, and ultimately catch the last bus to our respective homes. We discussed a bit about our childhood friends and how we would never meet them again. As we hit the road, my friend concluded "Times have to change, life goes on ultimately, on the whole it treats you well if you treat it reasonably well. It's a difficult but fair life after all". As I smirked in the darkness having elicited a philosophical quote from my pal, the light turned green and it was time to move. 
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  A gutsy analyst How extremely fitting it is to follow a post on Bharathi, with one on Anita Pratap, a journo who fulfilled the very qualities envisioned by that fiery bard in modern Indian women!

While Indian art has often given the short shrift to its exponents belonging to the fairer sex, the print media is happily one where the malaise seems curbed to some extent. Considering that not long back, Indira Gandhi had gone as far as to gag the freedom of the press, women scribes have made rapid strides indeed.

Surely the mid-eighties was the high point. Even as Tavleen Singh was taking on the violence in Punjab, Anita Pratap was zeroing on in the hotspots in the Sri Lankan jungles. Barkha Dutt kept up the tradition with her fearless coverage of Kargil in the late nineties.

More about Anita. After a glittering academic stint with no less an institution than Loreto, Calcutta, Anita went on to work with Sunday, Indian Express, India Today, TIME and also was the chief of India's operations with CNN. (If I am not wrong, she was associated with Star News as well). But even more impressive are her journalistic forays - first hand accounts from the battlefields of Sri Lanka, Afghanistan, Kashmir and the North East. She was probably the first journo to interview Prabhakaran as the LTTE supremo. In the aftermath of the Black July riots of 1983, she was one of the rare scribes to interview Jayawardene and Narasimha Rao, the then Home Minister who was immediately dispatched to Sri Lanka when tamil lives, homes and businesses were being burned(The pic shows Anita with the soldiers in Kashmir).

She has handled her personal storms adequately as well. Married to Pratap Chandran in the 70s, a shaky divorce, her son Zubin went on to attend National Law School, Bangalore, currently married to Arne Walther who was formerly the Norwegian ambassador to India.

Looking forward to my copy of Island of Blood, which should be arriving in a couple of weeks.Promises to be a gripping read.
Click on the first pic(top left corner) for a peek at the contents and first chapter.

Anita's interview with Prabhakaran(1984)

Interview with Anita(2001) 
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  Rarest among jewels It was the first and only time they met each other. And it all lasted for barely an instant.

The year was 1919. MK Gandhi was in Madras at the residence of Rajaji, drumming up support in the south for his Civil Disobedience Movement. Rajaji, Satyamurthy and other leaders were in serious discussion with the Mahatma. Suddenly, a disorderly maverick with unkempt hair, long beard and flaming eyes stormed into the room. Exhibiting a brazen urgency, he walked straight upto the Mahatma's bed and before anyone could react, sat next to him. He looked straight into the great man's eyes and shot forth a question:

-"Mr.Gandhi, I am speaking at the beach in Triplicane this evening. Will you preside over the function?"

Gandhi turned to his secretary Mahadev Desai and found he had a previous commitment.

-"Cant you schedule it for tomorrow?", the Mahatma gently asked the intruder.

-"No. Goodbye. I bless your efforts. May God help you!"

Saying so, the man strode out of the room as quickly as he had come in.

Even as his hosts were yet to recover from this abrupt encounter, Gandhi asked them, "Who is he? Is there no one in Tamil Nadu to look after him? He should be well looked after."

This was the man.

He bathed when he liked and shaved when he pleased. Clad in just a loin-cloth, he gambolled with the urchins and bumpkins of Kadayam village(his wife's native), teaching them songs and games. His open mind and all-embracing outlook made him a ready target for the arrows of the conservatives. Beareaved of his mother at age 5, his father at age 16, found his father's wealth turn to dust immediately, left his 8 year old wife alone and went to Benares to study and came back. Long long before Gandhi returned from South Africa in 1915, his fiery writings aroused the masses and he fled to Pondicherry to escape arrest by the British. The poverty of his family forced him to re-enter TN and was jailed immediately. But there was no restraint to the song in his soul.

His prodigious mind also churned out poetry by the thousands.

Rarest jewels such as this pass by once in a thousand years. The world is simply incapable of fathoming the depths of their genius or intellect. 
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  Adhu Oru Kanaa Kaalam(2005) : a mixed bag Balu Mahendra is one of the few Kollywood directors to have impressed me tremendously. I am not a big fan of Maniratnam or Bharatiraja and I have my reasons for that. A no-nonsense approach, businesslike in presenting his ideas, no unnecessary frills(compared to his peers), cuts to the point quickly, Balu stands yards ahead of the rest. One major USP is slick camera work. And the other selling point is he presents the story in a very unobtrusive fashion - allows the viewer to soak in the message quietly. Now all the above applies when he hits all the right notes. There are some jarring notes in his movies as well.

Adhu Oru Kanaa Kaalam is the first Dhanush movie I watched. I am quite averse to watching movies featuring Kollywood upstarts but gave it a dekko purely for the Balu factor.

Dhanush is another insolent middle class wastrel with a doting mum and a concerned dad. A youngster just out of college spending his time hanging out with a gang of friends. Priyamani is the daughter of the domestic and Dhanush's childhood friend. Her mother's sickness forces her to take up the household chores in Dhanush's home and needless to say, they fall for each other. Something which raises the ire of his dad. A seemingly contrived chain of events leads to Dhanush murdering a guy and getting a ten year sentence. He makes good his escape at an opportune moment and the whole movie is based on his narration while hitching a ride in a lorry after his jailbreak.

The story is tangentially different from what it is in most Balu Mahendra movies. Predictably, in the first half he really struggles to make it click. At times one was left wondering if this was going to be a repeat of Pudhukottayilirindhu Saravanan or Boys, which dealt with teenagers going on wild flights of fancy. On expected lines, Balu throws in an item number - if he can squeeze in an item number for a serious flick like Julie Ganapathy, what to say of AOKK? His other regular ingredients are thrown in - an apartment complex, a domestic help to add a twist, street traffic and the honking of cars, quiet and moderated song sequences, scenic locales, and finally, Balu's subtle and unnecessary digs at sub-cultures he is not fond of.

Dhanush acts like a completely awkward teenage kid(the role demands it) while Priyamani is quite assured and convincing in her role. Although one wonders how a domestic's daughter can speak in a refined and polished fashion, much less have a convincing relationship with a middle-class chap. The dialogues are quite crude and in-the-face, leaving the viewer squirming. The portions dealing with prison life have a generous dose of violence. While Balu infuriates initially, the second half is a whole lot better in terms of flow and undoes a lot of damage. The ending is very weird, abrupt and illogical. Thankfully he did not finish it in sadistic fashion like RK Narayan.

Priyamani, a Palakkad import, seems to be getting ample opportunites with good directors - Kangalal Kaidhu Sei with Bharatiraja, Satyam(Malayalam) with Vinayan were her other films before AOKK. Has a striking resemblence to Suhasini in many shots. She shows promise but I wonder if the curse on tamil films on actresses not getting the right roles will affect her as well. Illayaraja has done a great job with some eighties' style songs. Raja elevates the movie with his background score as only he can.

Word is out that Balu is working on his swansong movie, a story based on Eelam. Keeping my fingers crossed on that one, hoping Batticaloa's most famous son will give us something special for the last time.  
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  The Terrorist(1997) After an eager wait, got to see The Terrorist this week.

This week, the much-hyped birthday celebration for one of Kollywood's biggest stars took place. While I truly admire Rajini for what he is in the real world, a really great person, I have nothing but contempt for the humongous crap he dishes out in his movies, since the early 1980s. Where is the Rajini of the 70s? I hold him largely responsible for starting a trail of mediocrity in Kollywood - the concept of superstardom which is nothing but idiotic mass hysteria. So much so, every dumb kid on the street like an Ajith, Vijay or for heaven's sake a Simbhu or a Dhanush is following that path. It's largely because of these masala heroes whose entire lifetime is spent in protecting their Utopian screen image that the real heroes of Kollywood never get their due. The works and talent of a Vaali, Ilaiyaraaja, Kamal, PC Sriram, B.Lenin, Crazy Mohan, Ravi Chandran never get recognition.

Santosh Sivan was the ace cinematographer for movies like Roja, Thalapathi, Dil Se, Fiza, Bride and Prejudice. Didnt know till now that he was the director for Ashoka.

Cutting to the movie, The Terrorist(released December 26 1997) promised unending visual delights and it did not fail on that count - Sivan at his stirring best. The movie is shot in Kerala and Tamil Nadu and the locale is quite similar to the Jaffna and Vanni jungles where the actual story is based. From an archivist's perspective, having been reading up several hundred pages of the ethnic conflict in Sri Lanka, personally I would say storywise the movie has a few failings. From the cinematic perspective, it is a great work, head and shoulders above the insipid offerings of commercial cinema.

Based on the LTTE's assassination of Rajiv Gandhi, The Terrorist is about Malli(Ayesha Dharker), a female cadre of an insurgent group. Her brother Ramu is the first martyr of the group, having consumed cyanide on being captured by the armed forces. Malli grows up seeking revenge and becomes versatile in the art of guerrilla warfare. The objectives of the rebels, especially their women's troops, is well depicted in the first half of the movie. The part where Malli is selected among several aspirants to become the suicide bomber is captured well, as also the respect she invokes among the child cadres among the rebels. The sombre sounds of booming artillery, the rush of troops along the swamps, the eerie atmosphere of the jungles give full fodder to Sivan's lens.

Malli becomes intimate with one of the male cadres, whose life she saves in a skirmish. Their interaction is handled in a mature way, it is almost inconspicuous. Soon it is time for her to accomplish her mission and she is soon sent to be with Lotus, a small boy who acts as a conduit in shipping cadres to India. Lotus is an innocent kid, son of a Hindu priest who was burnt alive(Shades of the 1957 anti-tamil riots where a Hindu priest was thrown into boiling tar?). His vivacious and sensitive nature despite losing his parents and sister endear him to Malli. Reaching India she meets Thyagu who is the liaison guy for the cadres. Thyagu gets her to stay with Vasu, a glib and kind-hearted farmer who has no idea about the sinister intentions of his tenant.

Although Vasu has done a fine job, it is this part of the story which fell apart IMHO. A series of events cause Malli to question herself, the mission she was sent for. Apparently it turns out she is in the family way, courtesy the rebel guy she was close with. If the tale is to be inspired from the LTTE, then Sivan badly fails here - although healty interaction is allowed by the Tigers, relationships are strongly prohibited.

D-day approaches and Malli is still a nervous and confused messenger. She is still battling the mental contradictions as her perspectives rapidly change. Does she accomplish the job?

I wonder if the edicts of Indian film-making, which has strict rules regarding films based on terrorism/insurgency had an effect on the ending - a good case in point is Nayakan, where Velu Naicker the protagonist dies in the end.

Ayesha with her expressive eyes does justice to her role.

The Terrorist won several awards and got high approbation at the Cannes Film Festival in 1999. 
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  Small pleasures Funny how fickle the human mind is. Just a few hours back I was feeling the blues, ruminating about the past. Now that a big project is done, the fact I survived on around a dozen hours of sleep for the whole of last week mattered little. I promptly dashed off to the library and returned with a clutch of books for the holidays. And for good measure, signed up with Netflix and ordered 3 DVDs - Golden Hits of Ilaiyaraaja, Diego Armando Maradona and Extreme Weather: Tornadoes. Plus a few more thrilling DVDs lying unwatched this winter.

This library is a veritable treasure trove. I was delighted to find ''Ave a go, yer mug' in the sports section. Some munificent Aussie must have donated it. Never imagined I would see it all my life. Also brought home Political Economy of Armed Conflict and this one about the Plantation schools in Sri Lanka. For a collection of this magnitude, it's disappointing they dont have better books about Sri Lanka.

Now I really need to finish a long deserved sumptuous lunch and sleep the afternoon off.
 
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  Stalwart narrator It was a sultry summer day in 1986. School being shut down and Doordarshan the old dinosaur leading a nocturnal existence, we kids were bored to death with absolutely nothing to do in the daytime. The sun beat down mercilessly from morning to dusk. Having been strictly warned not to go out and roam, I listlessly spent my time indoors rolling marbles or worse playing wall-cricket, an exercise which resulted in sweaty palms besides pandemonium in the household.


Unable to put up with the disillusionment of this 8 year old and his teen siblings, Amma asked us to go to her school library and see if we could get some books just to give her some peace for a couple of days.

Even though the library was closed down for auditing all summer, the exasperated librarian understood Amma's plight when she saw us. We were visiting her for the nth time that summer. We returned with shabby looking copies of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina and Narayan's The Man Eater of Malgudi

They looked pretty disgusting to me, emanating the sombre smell of library books . Neither book had an illustration anywhere, not even on the cover.

I crawled through the first few pages, nearly gave up after hitting road blocks in the form of words like "sordid", "bounties", "deference", "taxidermist". I wondered how names like Nataraj, Vasu, Babu, Muthu could fit in such a setting. Yet the mirage of finding some reference to a tiger and its exploits kept me going for a few pages, until I finally gave up.

6 months later, in the loneliness of the Half Yearly holidays, I finally ploughed through to the end. Although I was none the wiser and understood nothing(other than the fact that the book often spoke about an elephant which was by no means a man-eater), reading through to the last line of a book gave me an irrational satisfaction.

As Malgudi Days followed on TV, The Hindu would publish the story in each episode prior to the telecast. I was immensely piqued by the character of the Talkative Man. What was the rationale for introducing such a character? Who was he? He seemed a lot like the Vetaal who pops in at the end of many an intriguing tale, with his obnoxious million-dollar question.

After twenty years, most of Narayan's books adorn my bookshelf, initially purchased by painfully saving money during college days(the temptation to possess was nurtured by atleast 3-4 weeks of reading them on the sly in Landmark! I did compensate them more than enough with my bulk purchases on rare cricket and music books - they could have royally bilked me if only they had shed their avarice and given meagre discounts atleast :) ) and later on through remorseless splurging after entering the software industry. Although it's a decade and more since I stopped reading fiction, Narayan's lively style of presenting the mundane still makes me invest a quick 2-3 hours and blaze through one of his works.

 
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