Spot Fixing and Champion’s Trophy

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Inthe morning, I had some ideas about what should appear in this article. But as the day wore on, night came and I felt spent and tired, unable to move on a centimeter. Writing requires tremendous energy, especially when it is about such a hot topic as ‘spot fixing’. As usual, I should warn you from misunderstanding the article to be a piece of investigative-gossip journalism or a piece of shitty morality.

From whatever I understand, as much as I try, there appears a limit in knowing what takes place behind the closed doors of the police quarters where Sreesanth and other players “were played” against themselves. Who knows what happened. The latest news surprised us, Keralites, to a very humongous extent. They took our Sreesanth to Tihar Jail!

“That wasn't any act of God. That was an act of pure human fuckery.” *

Delhi Police validated the case against Sreesanth by playing with the deluge of evidences, the whole world watched on Television. No one took such an imperative for Vindu Dara Singh or Sakshi Dhoni, who was with Vindu Dara Singh, as the television cameras showed us, during an IPL cricket match!

The blame game now rests upon the BCCI Chief and things in this direction seem very foggy, as well. From the apparent lethargy the system seems to work with, in the investigation after the evidence of the involvement of the fat cats started appearing in the media, it is natural to ask; why is Sreesanth alone in jail? 

No one would give you the answer, though. The answer is evident and clear to you, without any engraved or taped proof. It is time to find a culprit and walk him stripped on the streets, uplifting the morals of the nation, and shouting out ‘hail truth’.

Let us surmise the situation by reminding ourselves of some age-old adages: “there won’t be smoke until there is fire”; “if you ran, you should sweat.”

Until this point, it is OK, all natural moralizing crap. Look at what is going to happen next; Champion’s Trophy, the One-Day international cricket tournament. There is no problem in playing cricket, but when you play cricket under the veil of silence to questions like is it a ‘sport’ itself or just a show like the WWE, ugliness crawls in. The Indian Cricket team and the authorities, (the people who manage this entire bat and ball business) should declare the nature this sport in India holds, before the commencement of the Champion’s Trophy.

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If Indian cricket were an ‘arrangement’, still the lovers of this game in India would be happy to watch and cheer for their team like anything. It is there in this culture—servitude to the tyranny of emotions. An “arranged cricket” with its shouting, dancing, and screaming hulks, is in no way lesser than the IPL or the One-Day matches (with no internal arrangement of who must fail and who must win). But, only if they let us know.  

*Stephen King, The Stand

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Can You Find the Place?

Here is a challenge for you; Find the place. Your time starts now!

 

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Where in summer they always tell you there is no water left in the dams to produce enough electricity;

Where they urge you to control your electricity usage, due to the above mentioned reason;

Where they show ads with film stars and sportsmen, before and after the national news broadcast, about the necessity of saving electricity and controlling population growth;

Where the bureaucracy that controls electricity has no limitation in using and misusing it;

Where every individual pays more than he earns, on food;

Where after every rain, the roads disappear into ponds and puddles, and every sewage overflows;

Where every government employee is part of one or another political party and work for the benefit only of the members of the party;

Where every politician holds the reputation of doing nothing remarkable to the development of the country, but tightening his or her own wallets with bundles of cash;

Where every government addresses the question of reducing the price of cell phones and cars, but forgets about the poor and destitute;

Where strikes are reality shows; and schools and colleges are breeding grounds of political goons;

Where every boy or girl dreams of becoming doctors and engineers;

Where art means political adjustment and drinking toddy and wandering the frontiers;

Where during summer time, water comes in tanker-trucks, but the government plans to arrange laser shows for tourists;

The name of which is derived from the name of a tree;

Where cutting trees and cleaning up the remaining greenery is the ultimate meaning of development;

Find the place; you win nothing!

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The Ranjini Haridas Phenomenon

Ranjini
Image Courtesy: Google

Miss. Ranjini Haridas, you are not alone.

No, you are not, any more.

There has been serious gossip mongering against Raniji Haridas, the TV anchor in Kerala. Although, media is a major culprit in bring about cultural changes, positive and negative, some symbols, or icons keep our minds engaged and give us food for talk. Always, a talk is positive act. The more we spend our time to talk during the power-cut time, the more our minds grow. By the way, did I mention to my international readers that in Kerala we have a standard power-cut half an hour each night and one hour during daytime? Almost like the District 12 in The Hunger Games.

In this turmoil of lacks and shortcomings, Ranjini Haridas rose into conversations as a television anchor. She was the witch of Portobello in Kerala and many a cultural dictators fancies of burning her on a stake. Reason? She is ‘arrogant’.

If someone says, Oprah Winfrey is arrogant on TV; one can only suppose that the person who made that comment is a naïve. The show demands you to appear in one way or the other and people misunderstand you to be that very person you see on the picture box.

Never before, had such a mass hysteria about an anchor in Kerala come to my notice. Perhaps, the society is growing back into naivety or intolerance is the latest currency of regionalism. Either way, it sounds dangerous. If you can criticize Ranjini Haridas, you can earn your prominence in cultural meetings and local teashops. Ranjini stands as a stalwart threat to the native culture. In some people’s eyes, she is a comet that appeared in the sky to ravish their Garden of Eden. When Ranjini wears a sari, it becomes a controversy. Her laughter is controversial. Her language is too provocative, because according some people; she does not know much Malayalam and resorts to English during her shows, which flies across the globe to the households of NRIs and people of other nationalities.

The list of Ranjini Haridas’ 'sins' is long. However, here is a thought provoking comment made by one of my readers, here in The Indian Commentator. Perhaps the person does not want to reveal name on a widely circulated platform like this blog. So let us call the person Mr. Anonymous.

Mr. Anonymous made this comment on the sports article titled “S. Sreesanth will come out?” The comment touches many issues of national and local merit and is remarkable in its brevity as well, considering how much in depth analysis the writer has done with the limited space.

Below are his words. You can also read it here. "Anonymous Said..."

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I may agree with the conclusion and enjoyed the bitter satire also. But I have some differences with some ideas expressed, and also how Malayalies responded. Except Shashi Tharoor, and Srishanth's family, nobody openely or indirectly supported him during his bad days, because it is in the blood of malayalies to feel jealous in the success of others. We never encourage individual success, whether it is Srisanth, or Prithviraj or Ranjini Haridas. These are the common targets of the virtual malayali, see FB posts about them. What they did wrong? They know what they are, what they want, how they can get it and that they have the ability to get it. It means Confidence, but Mallus( of course not Malayalis) consider it arrogance. I didn't react to the arrest od Sreesanth in the beginning time, but had doubt. Still I had doubt. I don't know whether he is engaged in the crime. If yes, hang him, no objection. But criticising him for conducting Thulabhara in Guruvayour, for wearing some "sacred threads" in the hand, and criticising his mother for conducting poojas when he played in the matches are irrelevant things to be talked about. As if, none of the Malayalis go to Guruvayur and do Thulabhara. Those who come to Guruvayur are from other planets. As if those who visit Shabari Mala are not at all Mallus. As is the one who conduct Poomoodal is not a Progressive Politician, as if the Mosque which is built for honouring the hair of the prophet is not in Kerala. If these things are done by the virtual Mallu alone, it can be forgiven, but the so called "revamped" police also doing the same thing. Evidences given to the press: Condom( as if having safe sex is bad), Ladies were with him ( as if it is a punishable crime to be with ladies), laptop ( as if only Sreesanth is having it), Smartphone( as if he is the one who invented it), money( he is a beggar arrested from the street), and hotel rooms allegedly booked in metros( oh my god) and he is said to have connections with the all powerful Davood (The Maharastrian Messiah of Indian cricket Almighty Sarath Pawar haven't even heard of Davood), and that too without evidence. So, Sreesanth is arrested, and then "evidences" are found, not in the other way, that too the POlice have been observing Sreesanth and his company from the beginning of the IPL( and now they got condoms, so what, you may say). And tell me, if I feel Sreesanth is a scapegoat, is it wrong?

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Anonymous said…

Image Courtesy: Google

Enabling anonymous comments in my blog was an attempt to bring people to talk about issues they feel near to them without disclosing their names and identities. Of course, it included the threat of spomments and spiteful bites. I realized lately that initiating a talk was worth the effort. So is the change. 

Here is the result of this attempt. I received a wonderful comment, anonymously. Mr. Anonymous made this comment on the sports article titled “S. Sreesanth will come out?”

Mr. Anonymous, you finally spared me the blame of commenting at my own posts anonymously.

Here is the comment; don’t forget to put yours too.

"I may agree with the conclusion and enjoyed the bitter satire also. But I have some differences with some ideas expressed, and also how Malayalies responded. Except Shashi Tharoor, and Srishanth's family, nobody openely or indirectly supported him during his bad days, because it is in the blood of malayalies to feel jealous in the success of others. We never encourage individual success, whether it is Srisanth, or Prithviraj or Ranjini Haridas. These are the common targets of the virtual malayali, see FB posts about them. What they did wrong? They know what they are, what they want, how they can get it and that they have the ability to get it. It means Confidence, but Mallus (of course not Malayalis) consider it arrogance. I didn't react to the arrest od Sreesanth in the beginning time, but had doubt. Still I had doubt. I don't know whether he is engaged in the crime. If yes, hang him, no objection. But criticising him for conducting Thulabhara in Guruvayour, for wearing some "sacred threads" in the hand, and criticising his mother for conducting poojas when he played in the matches are irrelevant things to be talked about. As if, none of the Malayalis go to Guruvayur and do Thulabhara. Those who come to Guruvayur are from other planets. As if those who visit Shabari Mala are not at all Mallus. As is the one who conduct Poomoodal is not a Progressive Politician, as if the Mosque which is built for honouring the hair of the prophet is not in Kerala. If these things are done by the virtual Mallu alone, it can be forgiven, but the so called "revamped" police also doing the same thing. Evidences given to the press: Condom (as if having safe sex is bad), Ladies were with him (as if it is a punishable crime to be with ladies), laptop ( as if only Sreesanth is having it), Smartphone (as if he is the one who invented it), money (he is a beggar arrested from the street), and hotel rooms allegedly booked in metros (oh my god) and he is said to have connections with the all powerful Davood (The Maharastrian Messiah of Indian cricket Almighty Sarath Pawar haven't even heard of Davood), and that too without evidence. So, Sreesanth is arrested, and then "evidences" are found, not in the other way, that too the Police have been observing Sreesanth and his company from the beginning of the IPL (and now they got condoms, so what, you may say). And tell me, if I feel Sreesanth is a scapegoat, is it wrong?" 

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Sreesanth; Is He the Guy?

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Yes, he is the one, who did the below mentioned.

S. Sreesanth had undeniably inflamed my curiosity in news channels and the print media. I do not entertain browsing much through the internet merely because it is one large sea of fake information, well mostly. If you see a title like “Sreesanth; Is He the Guy?” you might expect a shrewd piece of investigative journalism on the screen, but apparently, what you find is only a below average, pathetic blog post. I am not talking about prejudices about news heading lines here. When such a matter is under scrutiny, as spot fixing in cricket, undoubtedly, this question comes alive, though. Who prejudiced you and me towards headlines? Such and such headline must be some sort of an investigation. Such and such headline would mean the person in the news has damned himself. Who did this to our semi-hypocritical sense of judgment?

I have the answer. Satan.

In fact, it is time for me to confess that I digressed from the topic and pushed you over the rails into the chaos of “intellectual conundrum.” Let me be more practical, here. Confessions are the best way to be practical in front of the law enforcement as well as the social system. So I confess; I never paid much attention to the mass media. I was, well, I am, internet savvy. Nevertheless, I kept my distance with news channels and print media, mostly on the grounds of lack of trust and concern for my own healthy psychological environment.

Murder.

Rape.

Murder.

Election.

Rape again, this time, a child of three years of age.

Murder again.

No, I am not completely out of my sanity, yet. The above-mentioned list is how our lives ‘are governed’, if we believe in spending much of our time with mass media. I am not playing Craig Fergusson. I swear. I am not saying the world is much better without any of the media out there. A certain sense of normalcy still reins my system. My disagreement springs from the fact that when I do not want to hear bad stuff, or when I am actually depressed and want to hear some good ‘news’, they stuff my ears with some creepy gruesome news of murder or rape or both. Yeah, I know these are not the only bad things out there.

Being the softhearted person, I have already proven myself to be; I would jump off from my sofa and go to my room for some silent contemplation, whenever they switched to news channels at home. I never had much to ‘know’. There was always the same thing, but in different details and colours, each time.

Suddenly, one day, Sreesanth came.

He came, I saw, and he conquered.

I felt bad about Sreesanth’s current situation. That very reason made me watch more and more TV. Surveying every news channel, I made mental notes of every new turn and twist in Sreesanth issue. Rather than spot fixing and the future of Indian cricket, I was interested in the tragedy of the young man, a Keralite. Come on, you must admit. See, I am not the only one here with a voyeuristic gene. Everyone likes to peep into the neighbor’s miseries, don’t they? I am a Keralite too and that is the allusion here.

Vindu Dara Singh
Image Courtesy: CNN IBN

Sreesanth is the one; I can say who brought me back to watching news on TV. The paradox still stands like the stumps of masculinity on the cricket ground—how can an already corrupted system incarcerate and judge another corrupted man, provided whatever the police are saying is true? Again paradox!

Did you see how Vindu Dara Singh was taken to custody, yesterday? No black face-covers like how they took Sreesanth and other players the previous week! What does this mean?

Anyway, there is something we all should give some attention to—handkerchiefs. Desdemona dropped it, Sreesanth held it. Both were guilty of something (jealously, may be) and made to suffer mortally.  

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S. Sreesanth will come out?

Image Courtesy: Guardian.co.uk

Is it publicity that follow people of people follow publicity? In both cases, it seems publicity is a hard pet to keep. The latest controversy regarding betting in Indian cricket validates this assumption. Heavy betting!

It is shocking how some of the unsuspecting faces appeared on the scene as quite unsuspecting souls and trapped themselves. The labyrinth of law is tightening its grip around their necks. This controversy is unsettling for most of the Keralites, because of the involvement of the fast bowler S. Sreesanth.

Santakumaran Srisant, is born on 6^thFebruary, 1983 in Kothamangalam, Kerala, South India. Even though, Sreesanth was involved in cases of emotional outbursts in the field, including showing aggressive gestures to senior players, for every Keralite, he was a next-door young man, with a slightly twisted mentality. Prodigal sons do return home, don’t they?

However, when the noose of the law tightened, we felt it was impossible for our boy to come back home again. We thought it be better to blame the North Indian lobby for all the trouble Sreesanth was facing, and did the same. Nevertheless, it did not work, as each day new evidences popped up. It seemed the police system in India had a sudden revamp and the law had a revelation. Let a thousand criminals escape, not a single innocent should be punished.

If you don’t feel the pun, show me your back. Here! Take the kick!

Finally, the police had found clues about the involvement of the underworld and each day is witnessing surprising arrests. There are those in Kerala, though, who always had a bad opinion about the prodigal son. They could not stand his hairstyle, or dance, or gestures, or that pair of prominent openings just above his mouth. They celebrated the arrest and are in euphoria about his not coming back.

Image Courtesy: Mid-day.com

We, ordinary Keralites, though hopeless of the situation, often look at whether our prodigal son’s advocates are able to pull some strings. We often forget to ask if he is actually involved in the underhand dealings or not. Never mind the simpleton manner with which we hope for the best. We still could not determine, for whom we should keep our hopes high, for Indian cricket or for our dear prodigal son.

We are content in some ways though; everywhere, our lad known, now, though he is having a bad time with fame.   

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The Fire from Within

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Much like a woodpecker, I was on my incessant attempt to penetrate the outer bark of reality and to reach into the soul of the Cosmos. It was a sunny day and I was in the city. Something in the mind and a tickling sensation on my skin was undoubtedly the signs indicating the presence of a portal opening into the world of Awareness.

The usual process to tackle such a sensation is to walk aimlessly, which in turn is the best way to locate the portal to Awareness as well.

As I was taking the left turn on the road to the Beach of Solace, a familiar face greeted me. On the right side of the road, there was a shawarma shop. He was standing in front of it. Not eating, of course, but having a chat with someone in the shop. Subhashin, has a lot of friends in the city, both cooks and eaters.

It is not always that I meet Subhashin on the road. Perhaps, the opening of the portal and the psychomotor impulses I felt had some relation with the appearance of Subhashin, an old friend of mine, and in fact a guru.

“We must talk about this!” He stated off as I went near him, as if it was part of what he had been talking about to the cook in the shawarma shop. Confused, I stood there for a second, silent. Comprehending from the lack of acknowledgement to his suggestion, he delivered one more sentence; “You know, the situation, the unholy relationship between the politicians and writers, in India?”

I shook my head as if I knew everything he meant by that question whereas actually, I was clueless. We started walking towards the city. “Could you please fill me in on the discourse that you were about to begin?” I asked.

After this prodding, he was silent. Then after a moment, which I failed to measure in seconds or in minutes and so let us simply call, a moment, he said; “I was thinking about these contemporary Indian English writers. Some of them are eager for politicians to endorse their books. Nevertheless, think about those old writers in India. They never maintained a cover for their book with a politician’s quote on it, but always secretly, supported and at the same time admired by political parties and ideologies.”

The topic seemed to catch fire at any moment, so I tried to dissuade him from pursuing the topic further. Because it was politics and because politics was a very sensitive issue around here, I thought it best to cool the conversation off. He continued, though; “some of those old writers wrote for political parties and ideologies, in an attempt to populate literature with enough propaganda literature. They never had an existence of the true artiste.”

“You should not forget there are others who always stood by art.” I said intervening.

He conceded.

Subhashin was a short person, about five feet, two, but had enough fat to balance his figure and to give him the moderate shape. His neck was short, but thick and he kept his hairs trimmed to spikes. Perhaps, due to these features, his head always gave me an impression of being round, like a football. He shook his head, on that thick, small neck of his, wildly, conceding to my point. “There were writers, cherished by both the capitalists and the proletarians, disregarding the mortal differences. Great writers!”

Subhashin had a great point there, I thought. On the left side of the road, I found the board of the city library. That the library was about three kilometers away from the sea, and I was about two kilometers away from this place, when I met Subhashin, instilled wonder in me. How did I reach here in such a short span of time?

Perhaps, the reason for this amazing slippage in time was the pull of the contents of the conversation Subhashin delivered. Suddenly, I felt that I should go into the library and check some books out. I turned to look at Subhashin. He was not there. He did not say good-bye; neither did I hear him talk about anything else, while I was pondering over the slippage in time. They say time is a fabric. I did not know what made the fabric of my life.

Subhashin seemed capable of creating magnificent warps in time and dimensions. I always felt this way about this young man. He must have appeared from the portal that felt opening somewhere in the city, bridging different worlds.  

I went inside the library. After spending about one hour, found Carols Castaneda’s The Fire from Within. The book started speaking to me, then. Glued to the spot where I was, inside the library hall, among the bookshelves, I listened. It said, “Seeing is a peculiar feeling of knowing, of knowing something without a shadow of doubt.”

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For me, the book’s words were hard to grasp, mostly because in order to understand something we need two poles of sensation: the feet and the head. Our feet should be on the ground and head should be in the sky or vice versa. If you bring both together, that is, if you are aware of only one side of knowing, you know nothing. I thought I should ask Subhashin next time when I meet him. But when? The truth is I did not know where Subhashin came from or where he went.  

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