Avatar Ang

 Every now and then people appear who are like a small piece of ice, who look like they could melt easily and who pale in comparison to the stones and the rocks and the boulders that stand firm, beside them. You wouldn't be surprised if they just disappeared, vanishing as fast as they came. But when they stay around long enough to gather just that little bit of momentum, you'll see all the tiniest pieces of snow around beginning to stick. And then they roll and roll, picking up more and more snow until they're so big and tall that they can topple over the biggest rocks and most giant boulders that stood before. And so what started as just little pieces of ice becomes so heavy, so enormous. They can shake the world like an avalanche.  

The Gentleman's Game

History recounts 27th November, 1996 as the first day of the second test, involving South Africa and India at Kolkata. For me, perhaps this date should be sacred- as sacred as July 4th, 1776 or August 15th, 1947. It was the day I first encountered the gentleman's game, the day my love of cricket was born.

My mother brought me, a seven-year-old American boy, to watch the game she adored, which she had played (inspired by her coach, Bengal cricketer Shivaji Ray) in her college days and romanticized ever since. Amma always wanted us to have a connection to India, our motherland. And for her, this very English, colonial sport was as vital a part of one's Indian identity as anything.

And so, shyly clutching my mother's hand, I strolled into a Mecca of cricket. We got there early, with the crowd still filing in, and took our seats. It wasn't long before at least 70,000 more had taken theirs, and become quite boisterous in doing so. Of course, Amma soon began getting looks and comments- "Are you here just to have a picnic?" spoken in Bengali. And in their defense, well, it wasn't long before Amma opened our tiffin boxes, feeding me the aloo rolls and cucumber sandwiches my Nani had packed. We must have been an odd sight- this Indian woman with a white child. But while the Kolkatans scratched their heads over this reverse Mother Teresa, I was being bewildered by Amma's cricket crash-course. Grasping the game's basic objectives was difficult enough, and Amma's enumeration of everything from fielding positions to the modes of dismissal was making matters worse. Over the wicket, lbw, straight bat, third man, silly point, howzzaaat...nothing made sense.

It didn't help that I could hardly see the action- whenever anything apparently important occurred, everyone stood up and blocked my view. As the day wore on and the tiffin was depleted, I became more and more sulky. Hudson and Kirsten scored hundreds that day, history recounts, with South Africa closing on 339/2. The Indian players would have left Eden Gardens demoralized, and Amma too- her attempts to get me interested in cricket had failed.

Next morning, Amma went without me to the match- I'd refused to bear any more suffering. When she returned, a thrilled Nani relayed the news- “Manas was glued to the TV all day, watching the cricket!” Amma was astonished. Had the rules finally sunk in? Had Doordarshan's broadcast heightened my curiousity? Was it a fluke? One more day, and all doubt would be removed- Azharuddin was smashing the ball all around the park; Eden was in raptures, and debutant Lance Klusener … was not. I was hooked.

I cherish the blurry memories of this simpler time; before I stumbled upon Cricinfo, Asked Steven, and opened Pandora's box (Statsguru); before numbers or words (not even the moving profile by Dileep Premachandran) could explain why my favorite cricketer was Azhar; when the sheer sensuous force and physical beauty of bowler sprinting up, batsman swinging willow, and leather flying away, was enough.

Tree of Life

If I were an oak tree, I’d already be three hundred years old.  The last few years, I teetered and tottered and threatened the roof of the house on this plot, and I scared the neighbors, too.  But no longer.  No more.  Now I come crashing down.  Now I rain thunder on the earth.  The birds caw, the squirrels scurry away, everything shakes.  In a few moments, though, all is still again.  I am not the first tree to have touched the ground.

Intricate branches, my leaves and twigs, they reached out towards sun and moon, accumulating.  Now they dig into the dirt.  And roots, the roots that kept me grounded, they point skywards- stretching out desperately, yearning now to escape to the heavens.  Why did I take them for granted?  And when I was young, I remember, how fast I grew.  I thought I’d extend forever.  The clouds, the sun, the moon- I’d get there one day.  I would rise above my thick canopy easily.  That was a given.  I would surely rise that high.  But my foliage, my leaves, my branches never stood that tall.  The older I got, the less I grew.  And now I lie scattered.

When the lumberjack comes to slice me up you’ll see it all- for our lives are written in the rings.  Sap leaks from every contour, and if you touch your tongue to it, you’d know bitterness, you’d taste anguish, in my last drops, it oozes out.  They say if you come at the right time, just at that moment when tree turns to wood, and place your hand there, you absorb the wisdom of its memories.  Not very many know this or chance upon it, and so, too much of history repeats itself.  But pay attention- if you wait too long, it will all turn to syrup.  At my funeral you’ll see how sweet it can be, how sweet they’ll make it.  And maybe one day it will even become amber, all crystallized splendor- am I arrogant to dream? - But no, right now, it’s neither, it is as plain a substance as can be.  Stay away, though, please, I beg you. It’s all poison.

Was it always like this?  I can’t remember.  Put your hand to the innermost rings, and tell me.  Tell me what you see flashing in front of you, tell me what happened, please?

Beautiful city

The most beautiful city frets
not knowing what to expect
of its latest guest.
What foods to cook?
What curtains to put up?
How to entertain?
But now he comes
with open heart and empty stomach-
And he could feast on the meagerest of meals,
but she prepares banquets
of decadence and luxury,
so he will never ask to leave
but only think, Paris.

Fragments, to defragment or let be? Many years on this I see

Meri Amma

Twas a while ago, now 22 years

when cut from your womb

I embraced the doom

A broad-chested fury of tears

No doubt you dried them from my eyes

19 years ago I stumbled onto root

and my crushed wrist

Gave your heart a twist

They gave me a cast, comic book crude

And then you dried the tears up off my eyes

She dives in

Philosopher

Lost in thought…
his gait was fraught…
with demons as he stumbled forth…
His mind was set…
on all those steps…
he took to trip upon the next…
Buried by troubles…
and in the rubble…
still he tries to solve the puzzle…
of where his youth…
fixated on truth…
fled, absconding with his muse…
And what was she to him?
And he to her?
he’ll never learn, the philosopher.