3. Shaanth Gadaadhaari Bheem, Shaanth

I was talking to K about of all things morning BO. I see your face cringing or laughing, or making that expression that you make  when you type out L-O-L to a statement a friend or a BFF or a frenemy makes. (I’m in a Mean Girls-ish mood as I write this, so get off my back). Coming back to the BO; K being K got disgusted with the banality of the discussion and gently nudged me into steering the conversation away from bodily functions. 

We got to talking about the Francois Gautier article that she shared and we started talking about political debate on the internet. At this point your face is making the expression represented by the blank faced Emoji. You’re also giving a humongous Liz Lemon eye-roll saying “Seriously Dude? How original!”.  You might (hopefully I must add) comment on my blog saying the exact same thing. Most of you would do that hoping that I respond, flexing your finger muscles, cracking your knuckles getting ready for a war of keystrokes. And it looks like that’s all political debate has been reduced to these days, a war of keystrokes and raised voices. 

You’re waiting in the shadows for one slip up, one typo, one grammatical mistake, one statement that you agree with - all to say something, from “LOL NOOB, CAN’T FIT YOUR THOUGHTS INTO 140 CHARACTERS! to “HOW DARE YOU INSULT RAHUL DAMODARDAS KEJRIWAL! YOU PSEUDO RIGHT WING LIBTARD COMMIE!”  You just want to speak, to make yourself heard. I admire you for it, and I love social media for it. But it seems to me that you don’t care about the state of affairs as much as you do about wanting to have the last word. At the end you end up looking like Jane Goodall’s favourite creatures flinging poo at one another. That being said . I’ll stop before making this post preachier than it already is. I’m just as guilty as you are. I’m only writing this post to be heard, to be seen, but not necessarily to have the last word 

I’ve had discussions with K on the grey area between right and wrong. I strongly believe in there being a spectrum of states between right and wrong. I believe that we should all be open enough to recognize the merits and demerits of “both wings” of political ideology and every other wing in between. I also believe that a majority of you adorable politically aware internet trolls see the good and the bad of different political ideologies, even if you don’t say it out loud. I say all of this because I’m strong believer in Upendra’s ideology in the movie Upendra. “Sari thappu antha yenu illa, yella avaravara opinion ashte” 

2. Sporting Heroes

My first memories of watching football are that of a lanky, baby faced person dressed in white performing a cartwheel after scoring a goal. Thatha said, "Hmmm, this Close is a fine striker", in his typical Mysore cadence from the British era. "Clos-ah" thatha, I corrected him, with the smugness of a thirteen year old who had just started paying attention to football commentary. The year was 2002, Brazil were the only football team I'd known till then, and therefore I naturally rooted for them to go all the way. But, the world cup in 2002 introduced me properly to the wonderful world of sport. Sure, I had been watching cricket for as long as I could remember, and had it embedded in me that Tendulkar was God. Sure I'd started watching Formula 1 in 2001, and had been told that Schumi was untouchable. But it was the 2002 World Cup that actually got me to start following sport, and more importantly, let me have my very own sporting heroes. 

An introduction to football in 2002 led me to become madly infatuated with the game. I started following the fortunes of a team from the Northwest of England, mainly because I'd heard what a good player Beck-ham was. But all that changed when I found my first true sporting hero, Ruud van Nistelrooy. There was no better striker in the game according to me. Teams were studied, squads memorized, and even a (fake) jersey was purchased. But one thing remained firm, van Nistelrooy was my favourite footballer. Thatha's incidentally was Thierry Henry. He would point out that van Nistelrooy was useless outside the box, when I would point out that his finishing was much more clinical than Henry's, and the argument would go on endlessly. The beauty about this entire episode is that, as I found my sporting hero in my teens, Thatha found his in his seventies. 

That was almost twelve years ago. van Nistelrooy has been followed by Rooney, Ronaldo and many more who look to dethrone them. Yet van Nistelrooy has endured in my mind as one of my most adored sporting hero. The best part of having sporting heroes is that almost everybody has them. I had my formative years in the 2000's and loved the Indian cricket team to bits. Sidvee, in one of his many fine articles on cricket has written about heroes in Indian cricket - "Tendlya walked on water, Jumbo parted seas. Our mothers were happy that we had nice heroes - down-to-earth prodigy and studious, brilliant bespectacled engineer. They were honest, industrious sportsmen, embodying the middle class".  That being said, I am not that big a fan of many in the current Indian setup. Sure I love rooting for Che or Ajinkya, but Kohli is one of those towards whom I don't show much regard. I recently found myself wondering how Kohli was my 8 year old nephew's favourite cricketer. Tattooed, foul-mouthed, brazenly genius Kohli. But to that kid, he is an idol.

The power a sporting hero wields over us commoners is special.  Who doesn't dream of hitting the winning six, score the winning goal or lift a trophy while being cheered on by thousands of fans? Heroes enable you to live those moments through them. 

We were there with Dada when he ripped his shirt off on the Lord's balcony, we were there with the team when they lost the 2003 final, we were there at the Wankhede when Dhoni twirled his bat. Deadlines aren't met, homeworks ignored, and exams forgotten when heroes play. Because, at least for a brief period of time, they let us live the lives we want to lead, rather than the lives we have to.

1. Yesterday

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. You guessed right, dear reader, I have not read the Tale of Two Cities. Dickens wasn’t really my cup of tea. The times I talk about in this blog post involve the happenings of yesterday. The times I was talking about in the first sentence must be taken in the larger context of how things were for me. 

Here’s to Yesterday:

I ended work filled with anticipation of what was to come. I have been following the fortunes (and misfortunes) of Manchester United for the last eleven years now. And finally, finally I was going to watch them live. Granted it was only a pre-season tour match vs Inter Milan, but it was still something. The Red Devils, right in front of me, in the flesh. Although I was looking forward to the match, there was nothing that happened that I could have expected. I have decided to categorize them for your benefit, dear reader. (Even though the blog ominously sounds like buzzfeed, I’m hoping it’s more entertaining.) 

1. Backpacks: Towels may be the most quintessential things in the universe. Backpacks, it turns out, are not. Why you might wonder, as do I even till now. They can be used to carry things around with ease, they can be used to protect yourself from the rain in the absence of an umbrella, and they also act as a handy pillow for long train rides. We all can agree that backpacks are useful, but sadly, the stadium authorities do not think so. In the name of security, they did not allow anyone to carry backpacks. Naturally I was more than a little chuffed at the utter boorishness of the security guards. My grouse with security guards goes back to the wonderful days at RVCE. I digress. Long story short, they were more than willing to let me in, but my backpack, not as much. I left the gate, searching for a safe spot to keep my backpack. I also tried getting in touch with a colleague who I knew was attending the match. I started walking dejectedly towards the parking lot…

2. Little Happy Coincidences: …that’s when I spotted this tall gangly chap with a seemingly familiar appearance. It turned out to be an old friend of mine. That was quite a pleasant surprise. You see, making friends in a new place is hard work, especially for someone as impatient as I. When I moved away from home, I ended up being home away from home. I also had this great gang of local bwoys for friends. Last summer too, I was home away from home, and had some amazing times with P and G. But this time around, it seems like I’m third time not so lucky. I’m in a place where I don’t know anybody, and finding company to hang out with isn’t as easy as it seemed before. So, it is always welcome to find a familiar face, especially in places where you are least expecting to. Coming back to the old school friend, we chatted for the time that we had before kickoff. I explained my predicament to him, with a tiny hope that he could provide me with a solution. All he could offer me was a sympathetic ear. To be honest I didn’t expect much else. So we exchanged numbers and went our ways deciding to meet in the near future. I continued my dejected walk towards the parking lot.

3. Good Karmaritans: I was walking toward the parking lot (a seemingly endless walk, you might think, as you are reading this post). But yes, it did seem endless to me at the time. The weight on my shoulders, both literal and figurative, both caused by my backpack, was becoming a bother. I decided to ditch my backpack behind a bush and count on my good karma to find it lying there when I got back from the match. But this time, karma wasn’t a bitch as she usually tends to be. She turned out to be a cute golden retriever puppy wagging her tail at me. During my seemingly endless walk, I ran into a random Northern Irishman. And his advances into the stadium too, had been spurned by the unmoving security guards at the gates. We exchanged our tales of woe, and compared notes on who was more dejected, purely based on how seemingly long our respective walks had been, but friendly competition aside, he said that we ought to find somebody willing to provide lodging for our backpacks for the duration of the match I agreed, partly because I knew it would be much harder for a lone brown person to avail lodging for a backpack outside a stadium. I tagged along with him, and we chanced upon a group of people who were tailgating**.  They almost readily agreed to lodge our bags in the backseat of their car. I was satisfied with the arrangements. 

4. Plastic Bags: Douglas Adams must not have thought his thoughts through when he underlined the importance of towels. I ardently believed his words when I first read them. But last night changed all that. Towels are not the most important item to be possessed.  Towels are haughty, they take up space, but draw up a stench when they are done drying you. Towels demand attention.  The most important item in one’s possession is the unassuming plastic bag. They barely take up any space, they can carry a ton of stuff, and more often than not, security guards don’t really mind them. 

So, I relieved my bag of its contents and burdened my plastic bag with all of what I had. I exchanged numbers with my bag’s temporary landlords, agreeing to a safe receipt of the backpack. We then quickly walked back to the stadium. It was a surprisingly short walk, and quite refreshing, and not at all long and filled with dejection. The security guards were quite happy to let me and my plastic bag through the gates and I took a deep breath.

5. Phew: I don’t quite know what happened to my breath. It was taken from me I suppose. There I was, a few rows behind the dugout, seeing in the flesh, the likes of Ryan Giggs and Darren Fletcher talking, planning on going about the evening’s business. Giggsy, talking, training, teaching his younger colleagues, and the rest of the playing squad training before kickoff. I have a welt on my arm from all the times I pinched myself. This is where I am at a loss for words. Words do not sufficiently do justice to the feeling you get when you achieve a dream that you have been having ever since you were a child. The match by itself lacked the intensity of a league fixture. It was as the Northern Irishman put it later, “ a glorified training session”. But none of us had complaints. It was a chance for the fans to see their favorite team in action, in the flesh. Also, this was my first time at a stadium where I was so close to the players, that the display on the giant screens looked like cheap imagery to me. I soaked it all in, the near misses, the groans from the fans, the chants, everything. And soon, it was time to head back. 

PS: I got the backpack back safe and sound. The landlords were a very sweet bunch of people who didn’t run away with an empty backpack, so much for the distrust in people that we have been instilled with.

In Wodehousian fashion, 

PPS: This blogpost provides many life lessons. For the impatient reader who skimmed to the end here is what I learnt:

1. Never carry a backpack to a stadium…(any stadium). You will be dejected and will have to     endure seemingly long walks.

2. Keep your eyes open, you never know who you will run into. Your phone be damned.

3. There are decent and friendly people out there who are willing to help you in tiny ways.

4. Always keep a plastic bag with you, two for the more conservative type of person (fairly           largish medium sized ones). 

5. Something that Louis CK taught me…experience the now using your eyes, forget the               memories you save on a phone for the future.

PPPS: Sometimes you may want to share an amazing experience you had with people near and dear to you. That is not always possible, for a variety of reasons. In those times, write a blog post.

**an American pastime which involves drinking cheap shitty beer in parking lots in order to avoid drinking overpriced shitty beer in the stadium.