Wimbledon 2015 - Men's final

Novak Djokovic, the defending champion beats Roger Federer 7-6, 6-7, 6-4, 6-3, and slams his dream of eighth Wimbledon title to grass (pun intended). What a match it was? Watching Novak play was absolutely thrilling. And watching Federer, it looked like even God tends to bow to mortals once in a while. But, seriously, how good was Novak?

Roger Federer, in this Wimbledon has not been his usual self. His backhands have found the nets more often than not, his aces were not as recurrent as they once were and though he volleyed quite a lot, his lazy elegance was not as eloquent as it once had been. Yet, he still conquered the court and stole people’s heart. His semifinals win against Andy Murray was vintage Federer.

If people had their say on the Centre Court, for the final, the match would have gone well into the fifth set with Federer claiming his eighth Wimbledon title. But alas, Novak Djokovic ruled the court! He played aggressively, not budging an inch and his base line play was ferocious. He created unforced errors and played blistering shots that had no answers in Federer’s vast repertoire. He produced winners at his will, to combat from the corner he was backed into and Federer had to bow, despite his valiant effort.

Federer had his moments too. The way he set Djokovic up to claim the second set tie breaker was awesome. His aces were a treat to the eye, but his cross court winners stole my heart. Though I was supporting Djokovic, I could not help but applaud Federer’s every point. Federer, in his unassuming self is easy to adore and his game demands respect, from the audience and the opponent. And even at his worst, he still produces the master stokes. But, his brilliance was insufficient. At 33, his game is still solid, he still is playing awesome rallies, yet, when the younger opponent with his ferocious returns intends to reign, he just had to accept that his best was insufficient.

But, I find it hard to say it was Federer at his best in the final. Federer, who could break any opponents serve with ease was fighting to hold on to his serve, not a common occurrence. He who could produce drop volleys and blistering back hands, could only find net at the moment it mattered. He who could read the opponent like a book and change tactics at will, could do nothing but push on for just one more game. All this culminated his dream of creating history. Whether he wins another Wimbledon or not, he still is the unconquered king of the hearts of all the Centre Court audience.

And Novak Djokovic, overcame the pressure of playing a maestro in front of an un-supporting audience and produced a game of deeper depth with such aplomb, that it was clear who the winner was, the moment he took the first set. It was only a matter of time when the errors of the opponent were too many, and his returns were too good to play. His first serves were tight, his returns were ruthless, his break points were spectacular, his drop volleys stunning and his rallies heartwarming. He raised his game with every stroke, he demanded nothing but brilliance as counter-attack. He stood tall to produce breathtaking tennis and took the maestro on his backcourt and owned it. It was difficult to not fawn at his display of aggression and smile at him eating the grass off centre court after winning. If his shout of victory was anything to go by, there is more of that yet to come!!

I enjoyed this Wimbledon immensely!! And this era, where there is a champion in every second name of the game, it sure is a golden era for tennis... Looking forward to the US Open :)

I will find a way...

I am not in the right frame of mind, at this very moment. My body is weak, my defenses are low, physically, I am exhausted and mentally, I don't seem to have the strength to wake up the next day. When I sleep, I wonder if I can wake up tomorrow and more importantly, if I want to wake up tomorrow. When I wake up, I wonder how I intend to get through the day and when the night befalls, I am thankful for the days closure. It is easy to give up, to close my eyes to the world and let myself wallow. And because it is easy, I need to fight, to push. I am trying, but for one moment, just one moment, I want to succumb, to weep, to mourn. Yet, I cannot seem to find that solace that grants me that freedom of expression. A good cry may help, but that is not my way. I cannot seem to find tears for pain that cuts too deep. I cry for silly things, I cry when I am angry, but when my heart feels like it is about to rip itself out, how can few tears assuage its feeling? Tears cannot make me forget, that moment of joy. And the pain I feel, cannot help me climb the boulder that is planted in the midst of my path. Yet, I need to find a way. I need to overcome the grief that wants to push me beneath. I need to find a way around it.

Grief is such a funny thing. It disappears in company, it wanders down the street when you are focused on something, it buries itself under a blanket when you take a nap, it sits on a chair with its reading glasses when you are working... it bides its time and comes back with a whip, ready to lash at you and even though you are prepared, the pain is just unbearable. How can it not be? You ignored it for the  better part of the day and it wants its vengeance. And just like a trained body, you get used to the ache and that is when it starts to numb. And until that moment, one just has to cope. And I am trying. A couple of weeks ago, I was listening to one of my colleague giving a passionate dialogue of living in the moment. For a moment there, I wondered, how can you live in a moment, when all the moments of the past up until that very moment contributed to that moment. It is not easy. Today, I seem to be embracing it, for that momentary relief, to live in the now. Is this one way of coping up? I don't know. What I know, right now, is that, however impossible and improbable life seems to be, it will get better. It will get easier. And I will find a way, to move on.

I will find a way...

Where do I belong?

I was looking through some old snaps, old pals, old places, places I have been to, old memories. I make myself sound old, I feel it in my bones too, that I am just a step away from being a battered old ram! But these old memories did bring in a sense of accomplishment and joy. They brought a sense of satisfaction and experience. They also brought a heavy heart. I was looking through the albums, living through the memory each snap unfolded, the moment captured in its rapture. Some made me sad, some made me smile, some made me laugh and some filled me with satisfaction. Overall, it was a good positive vibe. Yet, this question of where I belong, popped into my head, making me pause mid way through, making me go beyond the superficial. Do I belong here, among the lifeless stuffed toys that I hugged for the picture? Do I belong here, the composed smile that did not reach my eyes? Do I belong here, the careless swing in my body, standing on my tip toes, in the middle of no where?

I always felt myself to be a misfit, going through the drill of life, sometimes forced to and sometimes by choice, sometimes unyielding, sometimes convinced, most of the time just letting things roll. But there were those moments of peace, those that made life tolerable. There is a face inside my heart that has a perennial smirk and it has a voice that has a sarcastic bite to it, that gives its two cents every turn. Yet, despite that voice, I manage to be sane, participating in life, supposedly living it. Question is, where am I living it? Inside my head or outside? I search as much for the right questions as I search for answers. I search for both questions and answers inside me. It sounds totally insane, yet, there is no cosmic space from which I can get the answers, right? I have to trust the instinct or my ability to think and come up with the answers that will make some sense to me.

I wish I could say I belong to myself. I wish I could say I have a home. I wish I could say I have a heart. But there is this voice inside me that is bellowing at the top of its voice, LIE, LIE, LIE. The lies one tells themselves, that they are happy being who they are, silently cursing every waking minute that its another treacherous ordeal to go through the day. The lies one tells to convince oneself that happiness is in themselves, that they do not require anyone else to get through life, yet winding up in misery, hurling through the nightmares, curling into a ball, fighting the urge to free themselves of whatever it is that holds them, be it a person or a thing or an emotion. The lies they tell themselves that they love, looking at a face they care nothing for, yet living through the moment, afraid that they would be found out. The lies they tell themselves that they are alright, when they are seething with maddening rage at the pointless pain they go through, physical or emotional. LIES, LIES, LIES... all lies, every word, act, face, a lie. White lies, black lies, all lies. Is that where I belong? To a lie? Have I become what I strenuously tried to not become, a two-faced dirty hypocrite? I do not wish to seek an answer to that question, yet the question lurks in the corner of my mind, probing me to find an answer. Where do I belong??

Strangers on a bench

"Something was comforting about strangers—it seemed like they would exist forever as the same, unknowable mass." ― Megan Boyle

He sat on a park bench with War and Peace and is engrossed in it. When it was getting dark, he closed the book and became aware of the world around him. At sixty, having read the book a million times now, he should have been less engrossed with it. And yet, he just could not. While still thinking about the book, he looked around, noticing for the first time that someone else sat alongside him, on the farther corner of the bench. He noticed that she was just sitting quietly, looking about the park, when she suddenly turned her head and offered a polite smile. She held his gaze for a minute, when he returned her smile, before nodding a good bye and going her way. It was a Thursday evening.

She made her way back to her home. Later that night, she settled on her bed, with a book in her hand. She suddenly remembered the stranger reading a book and was surprised at the memory. She hardly remembered people, let alone strangers. At sixty five, her only memories were of her dead husband, who brought blushes and smiles and tears, every time she thought of him, which is constantly. And so, she was surprised to be thinking of someone other than her husband, who was a recurring force in her life and who relished her until his last breath. She knew she was cherished, revered and loved, just as he knew that she adored him endlessly. Such was their relation that the fleeting glimpses of strangers were merely that - fleeting moments. She closed her book and looked at the photo next to her bed and fell asleep, with a smile on her face, not thinking of the stranger anymore.

A week went by and then another Thursday came. He was more prepared this time, to be on the look out for the bench companion, who wore her age really well. His wife passed away when she was forty and he spent the last fifteen years of his life, in the company of his books and her memories, fondly cherished. She made him promise her that he would move on, which he conveniently agreed to soothe her faltering heart, leaving the time as to when he would move on. Its a technicality, really. How could he move on, when his life was dedicated to her? A husk of a man he once was, he did not need to move on. He was content with his life and her memories. Until last Thursday, when he saw her smile that lingered in his memory for a week now.

While he consciously made an effort to keep on the lookout for her, he was lost in the book, once again, not looking about until the lights came on in the park. Then he closed his book and looked about and saw her sitting on the farther corner of the bench. She was relaxed, with a serenity that was so beautiful that he wanted to fill himself with it. She looked at him then, as though she felt his gaze, again with a smile on her face. He returned one. They held their gaze a minute before she got up and made her way. This time, he waited until he could no longer track her, before getting up and moving out.

She walked the length of the park towards the exit and kept thinking back to that face of the complete stranger. She walked all the way to her home and made herself dinner, still thinking about him. She surprised herself that she wanted company for dinner, just someone to share the food on the table. She felt the moisture in her eyes before putting the uneaten dinner in the fridge and lying on the couch, looking at the photo of her dead husband. She could never get away with skipped meals when he was around, at anytime of the day. He was very adamant about it. "I work really hard to put food on the table. It takes my time away from you. The least you could do is make an effort to cook and eat." or "You know what? I can quit the job, you can stop cooking and we both can just live our lives in each others arms until we are ravenous and end up eating each other." or "Serenity, you WILL eat the food at this moment, if you know what is good for you!" or "You are not a kid anymore, you do not need a reminder to eat food!" and finally, in his last days, "My love, I won't be here to remind you to eat, to live. I want you to take very good care of yourself, until we meet again, else, you will have me to answer to, on the other side." She sighed and got up and reheated the food and made an effort to eat the tasteless food, choking back on tears. He is dead, damn it. He is dead and there is not a thing she could do about it. She just has to live, until the clock strikes her final hour, which could be a second from now or a decade. "To live, my dear, when you are not hear by my side is like living in hell", she said, looking at his picture. With daughter and grand daughter living a day journey away, she is lonely. Some days, its easy being alone and most days, it is just watching the tick of the clock. So, its nice to have someone who waves and salutes and smiles, if only for one fleeting second. She thought back to the stranger who returned her smile.

Another Thursday, she walked slowly to the park bench. He was there, looking about. No book in hand. Just sitting, watching the happenings around. When she reached the bench, he stood up. She glanced at him with a friendly smile, wondering if he would leave. He waited until she sat to rewarm the bench. She smiled at the chivalry of the last century and slid a package up the bench. He took it and opened it to find a muffin in it. He took a bite with relish and cherished the warm raspberry filling inside it. He hogged the last crumb of it unabashedly, surprised that a slight moisture filled his eyes. This did not have the store bought smell he was accustomed to and he tasted the hand of a seasoned cook, who rolled the dough with more than just ingredients. He closed his eyes and savored the taste. He turned to say a thank you, when he noticed that she was nibbling a muffin too, and saved his thank you for until later. They sat in silence, each with a feeling of a tide turning. And when dusk descended, they each went about their way, without a word being spoken, but feeling a lot lighter in their hearts than they were used to.

Another Thursday, he made his way, balancing a tray of to-go coffee to the park bench. By his watch, he had three minutes until she arrived and sure enough, he saw her making her way to the bench. When she sat, he slid the coffee cup to her and she slid another bag to him. He opened with gusto to find a short bread cookie, the smell of ginger wafting through. He dug in, noticing that she took the coffee and together, they quietly shared a snack.

Another Thursday and another and so it went on. She brought food, he brought the drinks - coffee, iced tea, dessert wine. The hour on park bench, stretched to two and then to three, with no words exchanged between them. It was just the warmth of company, where two lonely old souls sat in quietness with conversations that were perhaps too difficult to put to words. And one Thursday, he walked alongside her to her house, pausing on the foot path, waiting for her to lock her door, before he walked back to his place.

They never went to each others house, they never invited each other, never spoke to each other, did not even know each others name, and yet, the days they needed comfort, they stayed a while longer on the park bench, in some unspoken agreement. It was like they both were from different planet, only accustomed to the polite rituals of strangers, yet dancing on the steps of boundaries, never crossing them.

Another Thursday came and he sat alone, with his coffee tray, waiting for her, counting the minutes. She did not come. She never missed. He waited for an hour and decided to walk to her place. When turning the corner, he stopped, dead on track, feeling the deep pain in his heart, knowing the look of a house having a funeral. He wanted to go in, share the moment with her family, yet he turned and walked back to the park bench. He sat there, for a long time, quiet tears rolling down his cheeks, an unsaid eulogy on his lips.

Another Thursday came. He walked to the bench, with a coffee tray and muffins. He kept her share on the farther corner of the bench and sat in silence in his corner, sipping his coffee and having his muffin, lost in his thoughts, not noticing when a girl sat beside him. She held his hand and jolted him out of his thoughts and almost gave him a heart attack, for she looked like a spitting image of HER, only twenty years younger. He blinked, wondering if his mind was playing games.

"Hello old man...", she said, with a smile.
"Hello young lady..", he responded, with a slight quiver in his voice.
"Here...",she said, giving him a letter.

To the stranger on the park bench, it read on the envelope. His heart thudded to high gear, when he kept his coffee cup aside and tore open the letter.

"I don't know you, yet it feels like I do know you. What can I say? I am old, though that is not an excuse for leaving you struggling for company in the last days. Until we meet on the other side, this is a goodbye. Do bring me coffee and I will try and save you a muffin, though I cannot promise you that. My husband loves muffins, you see! And this is where we sat whenever we came to the park, usually on Fridays. You see, I decided to break the pattern on a fateful Thursday, if only to do something for myself, without him holding my hand, invisible as he was. And what do I find? Another stranger, YOU, saddling the same boat as I am. The chance meeting that lasted a week of Thursdays, eased my ache of loneliness. I know it did yours too. And I hope there will be another stranger, who shares your coffee and gives you company, for as long as you need. I told my daughter of our little secret. She calls you creepy old man. I hope she did not call that to your face. I would like to think I imparted better wisdom than that! And I hope that she will give you this letter. Until we meet again, good bye. - Serenity"

He re-read the letter. Serenity, an apt name for her, he thought and looked around, to notice that the cup of coffee and the muffin were not there. Looks like the young lady took liberties that were not hers to take. He shook his head, the sadness that he was used to was creeping in as quietly as the dusk that settled around.

And come Thursday, he was back on the bench, with two cups of coffee and two short bread cookies, sharing a ritual with Serenity, if only in memory. And some days, he found her younger self, who sat quietly and shared his meal and left as quietly.

"They did not speak, they did not bow, they were not acquainted; they saw each other; and, like the stars in the sky separated by millions of leagues, they lived by gazing upon each other." - Victor Hugo

We gave it back, for now! CWC2015

Sport is about passion. And when its cricket and involves Indian fans, it is passion laced with madness. Our cricketers are our heroes. Thanks to the unbelievable turn around by Kapil Devils, way back, cricket continued to woo and inspire a lot of Indians. And when the world cup is won on the home turf with the command performance in 2011, as though it belonged to India, #Wewontgiveitback was expected to be coined for 2015. Realistically, though, when the likes of Sourav, Sachin, Rahul could not get it for India, the likes of Kohli, Raina, MSD would have to perform a miracle to get it. And miracle happened once, in 2011. Was it foolishness to expect it again? But, that is the way of the fan. We live with our cricketers ups and downs, with their tantrums of form and no-form. And they live with our admiration and despondence. The cycle goes on and on, the same fan who is throwing tantrums now, will hail their names when the next series begins. Well, at least most of them. And then, there is a sect, that disgraces sports fans in general. I won't go there!

What surprised me in this world cup was that we reached semi-finals. Honestly, with the performance in the Australian tour, I expected us to be fighting to reach quarters, let alone stand as the group leader. And what surprised me even more was our bowlers. Bowlers, who could not get half the Australian team in tests, getting the opposition out on seven consecutive occasions. Their performance masked the troubles in our unit. Our fielding has been something that changed for the better a while ago and still stood on par for an ICC event this world cup. Our batting, which is predominantly world class individually, suffered from a similar weakness of working as a unit. And our bowling, which is below par even than an associate nation pulled off a humdinger. The journey was smooth and the tougher competitors left their better games for latter half of the group stage. When the chinks of top order were exposed, someone put their hand up and delivered.

And the time came, for the knockouts. The hapless Bangladesh could not keep their wit together. We pounced on the chance and steamrolled them to the semis. Without a single win against Aussies on their soil, we are fighting in their backyard on the biggest stage of cricket, with all our open wounds to be poked at. And boy, did they do it? Bowlers were creamed, barring Ashwin. And when batting, we were supposed to be a unit who could chase 300 down. Dhawan and Rohit were standing tall for the opening stand, before Dhawan threw it away and Rohit got bowled. Kohli could not get his much needed start. And within a blink of an eye, the match was done. Three down, two fifty plus to score and we were asking for an unrealistic victory. And it was with sadness in my heart, that I watched the rest collapse. And it hurt. It hurt because of the sense of false security given by our team that they could outperform any team in batting. Though in my heart, I knew, we could not chase down 329, I hoped. I prayed. I said pretty please. None were heard. A hope shattered, a tear dropped. A certain depression set in. Despite everything, it hurt. Despite bravado, it took time to recover. Despite moving on, I still seem to be pretty hung up on it.

If I, an observer, is this despondent, I cannot even begin to imagine what our team must be facing. MSD, the unassuming leader of the pack, Kohli with his passion on his sleeve, Jinks in his quiet laid back way, Raina with his tattooed 'belief(ve)', SRJ with his unfathomable form, Dhawan with his philosophy, Rohit with his records... what must they be feeling? The bowling that was hailed for their turn around, fumbled on the very stage they were expected to perform. What must be going through their mind? SRJ could not get to turn the ball, Ashwin had little support, Umesh bowled with pace unaccustomed to Indian bowler, Shammi's swung the ball, Mohit bowled some length, yet, nothing answered the questions raised by Steven Smith, the nemesis for Indians throughout the tour. And he did it again!

I am not angry, I just am sorry. It is a hard fall from a ninth cloud, isn't it? But, it was not so bad while it lasted, though! Seventy wickets by a hopeless bowling unit, agile fielding, some brilliant batting, seven consecutive wins, MSD's smile at his 'sheer-luck' left-handed dive catch, oh, the so awesome run out by Umesh and heart stopping catch by Dhawan, there is plenty to remember this world cup for. Thank you, ICT for the memories.

For today, I will quietly despair. For tomorrow, I will hope. Bleed blue, all the way!!

I am water, I flow along...

Was looking for some inspiration to write anything other than book reviews. Found this interesting writing challenge on Daily Post and gave it a try...

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Water exists in many forms - ice, water and steam. It changes its form based on its surroundings and factors that influence its core. What suits me best, would be water, in that, most of the time, I flow along, whatever the setting may be.

As a kid with working parents and in a joint family, it was necessary for me to be able to hold my tears, anger, frustration. Many a time, despite the feeling of anger or grief, it was imperative to be happy and play along. What used to work for me then, was to draw on a piece of paper, until I could get a handle on myself before being presentable to folks in the house or to run laps in a playground until I could no longer hold breath in my lungs, when I would just settle down and breathe; and with every breath, I would feel lighter. Part of the reason, to hold on to my emotions was pride, so as to not look vulnerable to my family and other part of it was that, I was taught to believe that I am in control of my life and all the answers are within me, if I have the persistence to look within. For me, that control included being in control of my emotions too and to find the balance inside me. And negative emotions wear people down, family included. Was I drawing on a paper or running laps in the ground when I was happy, sure, but I did not mind sharing my happiness, as much as I minded sharing my sadness.

Then I grew up. I realized its OK to show your honest emotions, especially to the ones who can understand. Family aside, trusting to find the one who was OK with my emotions was an altogether different ball game, but when I did, I was OK to bring down the walls of pride, though, surely, not all down. Everyone needs a defensive wall to climb behind, when going gets tough. It was always behind the confined walls of my mind and heart, that the fiercest battles were fought, with myself and with the world around me. This left me sometimes feeling like an ocean, kissing its merry little sea shore with waves of mirth, while holding a volcano that is erupting its hideous vapor into its belly.

Then I grew up a little more. I played the charade a bit more elaborately. I started being what YOU perceived me to me. I realized, being different me, made me feel like a trickle on hot sand, fighting for a chance to survive, yet evaporating. It was exhausting, to fit a mould, to appease everyone. In self-righteousness, I turned inward. I did not care much for anything other than self. I was arrogant enough to feel that I had the right to express myself without a care for the audience. I was free flowing, sometimes a ripple, sometimes a tsunami. Sometimes, that burned my skin, sometimes, that soothed the pain and sometimes, it just came back to haunt me. It took me time, to eventually evolve to the maturity that I cannot be whole, perceiving myself as a mirage of someone else or by being selfish. It took time, to understand that I need to force my way through life, to leave a mark, but I can only do it, if I am me, flowing like the perennial river, jutting through the rocks, collecting pebbles (perceive them to be experiences, confidantes), creating a path for myself to follow.

See, it was then that I realized, the kid in me dealt better with life. She already knew that she was responsible for her well-being, emotional or otherwise. She had a better handle of life than the grown-up me. So I went back to what I was taught and what worked for me before, to finding answers in me than the world around me. I adapted, just like water, to the surroundings, learning to survive, to pave my way through the paths of life, flowing through to the sunset of life...