In faded black and white photos we first saw you, a little boy in shorts and curls, blissfully unaware of your own genius.

And then eighteen years ago, older but with the same unruly mop, looking like a slightly skinnier Maradona, you walked onto the ground and into our imagination and we embraced you as one.

We winced when you were hit on the head in that first match against Pakistan, our hearts soared higher with each six in Sharjah, we wept with you at the World Cup when you raised your bat to the memory of your late father.

We put up posters of you on our walls; we built shrines in your name. We prayed in turn for your shoulder, elbow, and back.

And above all, we watched.

We watched as a boy became a man and a man became a legend. We watched like it was a dream that we hoped would never end. But of course we knew it would have to, eventually.

And last week it did, as we watched you walk away while a group of Bangladeshi players danced in your wake. They were just boys, those players who danced. Like you were, eighteen years ago.

You began on zero and ended on zero. What happened in between changed our lives and made us believe we could be so much greater than ourselves. But it’s time to let it go.

Those old pictures of you with a bat in your hand and a smile on your face seem like a distant memory for us, as they must do for you.

The posters have come off the walls now, and in time the shrines will have new resident deities. But before that, perhaps one last prayer will be offered up:

Walk on, Sachin. Walk On.

Team India

Even before it has properly begun, Team India finds itself out of the World Cup. Predictably, stones have been thrown, posters have been burnt and some of us have sworn never to watch again. But once the tournament is over and our feelings of anger and frustration have blown over, life will soon return to normal.

The Indian Cricket Fan is not one to lose hope so easily. So ok are we with losing, and yet so desperate for something to be proud about, that we will once again sit glued to our television sets the next time the team takes the field, be it against Bermuda or Bosnia.

For some unfathomable reason, for a majority of us Indians (myself included) it is eleven men in blue who truly represent us, who carry our collective hopes and dreams on their shoulders, who define us, even. And so we watch; game after game, expecting everything and nothing at the same time. What to do, we are like this only.

Too many articles by far more knowledgeable people have been written for me to even attempt another one. You can read one of these about the fascinating ‘Desi Fan’ here.

PS: A class of fifth graders were discussing their father’s jobs. Each one took turns to say ‘Doctor’, ‘Engineer’, and so on until finally it was Vivek’s turn. ‘My father works in a gay club’, said the little boy. ‘He takes his clothes off in front of strangers and dances for money.’ Shocked but slightly curious, the teacher took him aside and asked if this was true. ‘No Miss’, went Vivek, ‘he plays for the Indian cricket team but I was too embarrassed to say that.’

Goodbye Uncle George

When I first met Uncle George in Belfast about five years ago, I could not have known then what an important part of my life he would become.

That evening, having heard of my fear of flying from my parents, he took me aside and proceeded to explain how a few simple relaxation techniques would no doubt cure my completely. Although initially sceptical, I decided to go along with it. There was something about his gentle voice and calm demeanour that appealed to me and put me instantly at ease. But what struck me the most was his confidence, his almost child-like conviction that I would overcome my phobia, and fly without fear.

One week later I flew to London and Uncle was overjoyed to hear that I had had a good flight. A couple of months later I flew back to Belfast and he was at the airport, running through the crowded terminal and hugging me as I arrived. It was a moment I will never forget.

Since then, there have been good flights and bad flights, but it was Uncle George’s voice that has always been in the background, pushing and prodding me on. At Chicago airport two years ago, he spoke, prayed, and even sang into the phone as I prepared for take-off. When I finally landed at Mumbai twenty hours later, I wept not because of my air-sickness but because I felt I had let him down.

But Uncle George never gave up hope. Finally last year as I prepared to come to London, he decided it was time to settle the issue once and for all. He went on to call me every night for three weeks, and on the final night before my flight he prayed and after a few moments of silence said “I will wait to see you here, mone”

The flight the next day was the best one of my life.

Perhaps it was the thought of Uncle waiting at the airport, like he did five years ago, when he hugged me and made me believe that everything was possible once more. Perhaps. And even now though he is gone, for me he will always be waiting at the end of every flight, waiting with a wide smile on his face.

Ever since I met him, I was always unsure about whether to call him Doctor George or Uncle George; to me he was always both, providing me with the advice of a physician and the affection of a family member.

While trying to make me relax, he would often ask me to go to my ‘happy place’ and then ask me to describe it to him. It was all a bit amusing back then, but at this time of deep sorrow perhaps we can draw some comfort in the knowledge that he is now in his happy place, united at last with the one whom he loved and served so well.

Thank You Uncle.

It's been an eventful Cricket World Cup so far.
India loses to a bunch of Bangladeshi teenagers, Pakistan get thrashed by an Irish pub side.
And the 58-year-old coach of the Pakistani team is found dead in his hotel room.

A few of the big teams may soon be on early flights home but surely the first to leave was Perspective.

An Indian passenger named Anantharaman Subbaraman arrived at Jeddah airport. At immigration he waited for nearly two hours for the authorities to call him. Finally running out of patience, the man confronted the officer and demanded to know why they hadn't called his name.

The officer replied that they had been calling him for the last hour and a half and were wondering why he hadn't responded. All was clear when a voice announced his name again over the microphone: 'Anotherman Superman' to counter number five please.

........and we're back!

After a couple of months of being frustratingly locked out of Blogger (apparantly something to do with the New and Improved version: Is it New or is it Improved?) I am finally back to regular posting (of course, here that means once every two weeks but I'm working on that) The promised Ad Absurdum Make-Over is underway, and even though I am tempted to stick with the name, if someone suggests a better one I might just change it. A couple of suggestions did arrive for which I am grateful but I must politely decline, at least for now.

And so moving on...The story goes that Julius Caesar was warned by a seer to be wary of some great peril on the 15th day of March which the Romans called the Ides. When the day had come Caesar happened to meet the seer on his way to the Senate and greeted him with a sneer (sneered at the seer, you might say) and said: "Well, the Ides of March are come," to which the seer replied softly: "Ay, they are come, but they are not gone." Minutes later Caesar was dead, killed by his own senators.

So now that the Ides Of March are behind us, it is time to march on. And with bright sunshine streaming through my window, a month-long Easter vacation approaching and a Cricket World Cup in progress, what possible cause could there be for complaint?

So, friends,(and Romans and countrymen) onwards and upwards!

Ladies and Gentlemen

Eight months ago a little blog arrived kicking and screaming into the world. For the first two months it was cute and cuddly, it cooed in its sleep and smelt nice. Every time it got a little restless I’d feed it a couple of words and it would go back to bed, content in its own little way. However, the blog has, as it should I suppose, grown up. Now it stays up half the night and throws its food around on the floor. It screams from time to time. And it is teething. I realised with some dismay that a couple of words now and then were no longer enough; it had turned into a hungry little monster and was demanding to be fed. I panicked, like any reluctant parent would, when the thing they have created takes on a life of its own.

But what's done is done. I cannot ask it to go back to where it came from, that would be stupid. I considered putting it up for adoption, but that would be inhumane. For better or worse, this blog is mine; it is a part of me. For all its faults I know it is merely trying to make something of itself. Often with little ones it can get so exasperating that you wish they would die, but when you see them later, asleep alone in their beds looking like little angels you feel more love than you thought you were capable of feeling. And you hate yourself for having felt the way you did. Of course, I cannot know for sure if this is true with real children but I imagine so.

And so, my little blog will from now on be showered with a little more affection. I intend to buy it some new clothes and a rocking horse. I may even change its name. Ad Absurdum sounded cute in a pretentious sort of way when it was smaller, but now I fear that other blogs with cleverer names will pick on it. (Ideas for names will be welcome.) I will occasionally take it for walks and we might take pictures. I will attempt to pass on my meagre knowledge about the way things are. I will talk to it about music, movies and sports and will tell it some good jokes when I think of them. I will introduce it to other little blogs and big sites that we happen to meet along the way. And most of all I will watch it grow because we can never really know how they will turn out, can we? I suspect it will make me proud some day but even if it doesn't I will love it all the same.

To those who have been its friends over the past few months, thank you. Thanks especially to my cousin Rachel for being its bestest friend. And as for you, if you by chance see it on the street, please smile and wave if you can. It’s a bit shy, my little blog, and not very good with real people, but it's not its fault. I am told it's a spitting image of me.

That is all for now. It’s time for its nap.