She shared only Happiness

She shared happiness ... only happiness ... pure, unadulterated Happiness ... yes ... for she was Life in all its glory ... 💐💐💐

I am sure every morning the Sun entered her home as if from all directions making it the brightest spot on this Planet.

Her house was open, airy and cheerful.
And she was forever eager to absorb the tiniest of the delightful rays of Hope, and reflect it back in her smile

There never was a spec of dust anywhere. 

Never had there been a time when her things were misplaced.
No messy wardrobes. 

Never ever a chaotic moment in the kitchen.
Shining cutlery, gleaming crockery, crisp curtains, embroidered cushion covers, lavish green plants, magnificent vases ...

There was a place for everything, and everything had to to be essentially in that very place. 

That was the only way things could exist in her home.

She was "Aapa Jaan".
Although I have shared a pic of hers at the end of this article , I don't want to make her name public .

So here in this homage to her , I ll call her Apaa Jaan

With her there was that "native-place-walaa-connection". Aapa Jaan's and my parents' families belonged to Shahjahanpur in UP , and so I had often heard my parents mentioning her family in their conversations

The first time I saw her was in my sister's wedding album 

It is the pic that I ve shared at the end of this article 
In the picture my father is having a hearty laugh , so characteristic of him 😊 , while Apaa Jaan and her daughter are smiling charmingly 😊🥰💞💞💞

This was outside our Tata colony bungalow 

I was to come to know later that she never let an opportunity to smile go by without making the most of it.

Much later meeting her personally was an experience I will always remember.
Vivacious.
Pleasantly chatterbox-ish.
And domineering 😊

I was still thinking of adjectives to describe her in our first meeting when I noticed her hands. 

They lay almost still in her lap as she seemed to be sitting comfortably in her doubly cushioned chair, slightly higher than the rest of us, wearing a colourful printed cotton gown.

Honestly her manicured fingers, would have looked long and beautiful had they not been a little crooked. 

She apparently seemed oblivious of my gaze travelling further down to her feet. They were also not normal, resting rather awkwardly in the padded footwear from Fabindia.

But the smile that lit up her beautiful dusky face seemed natural and effortless. Her large blackish-brown eyes, her proud straight nose, her long black hair ...

Every little thing was under her supreme control although she was suffering from arthritis.

The little movements that she could make on her own were full of agony and stress.
But the disease was only one part of the long struggle that life had been for her. 

And yet here she was enthusiastically talking of the latest improvisation in her aam-ka-achaar and the Aloe Vera juice and gel that had worked wonders on her daughter's Mother-in-law's skin and helped add "so much" glow to her face 😊 !!!

I was completely awestruck. The more I met her the more I respected her. She was an inspiration, a bundle of positive energy, a light that filled you with happiness.

On one of my visits Aapa Jaan gifted me a small Aloe Vera plant, that has remained
with me and flourished abundantly, just like my attachment with her over the years.

An expert cook , Aapa Jaan always had the best of kababs and koftas ready to be served at the shortest notice. 

The aroma of food at her dining table was for me the best in the whole of Bombay because it used to be exactly the same as that which used to fill my grand-parents' sprawling courtyard in Shahjahanpur when the "khaansama" would be busy supervising his assistants working on clay choolahs with wood fire.

A fine and talented dressmaker, Aapa Jaan used to successfully run a designing and tailoring business to which she had given not just her sweat but her character too.

Every time I visited her I noticed a little deterioration in her health. But never in her spirit and vigour. 

One day I complimented her on her sewing skills ... She was indeed proficient , neat and quick with her stitches ... and a resourceful designer too ...

With a sparkle in her eyes and without a moment's hesitation she said :
"You should see my daughter's expertise ... she's way ahead of me ... I feel so proud of her ... 😊"

Last year when I greeted Aapa Jaan on Women's Day, she told me she was in the hospital. 

She had gone in for a knee replacement operation. It went off fine, the recovery was satisfactory , and it would be only a matter of some more time before she would resume her routine 

But in the meantime she had an unfortunate fall.

So she was in the hospital once again because the accident had fractured her femur this time

Aapa Jaan took all these downturns with a characteristic fortitude that was so inseparable from her

But could her immense will power reverse the weakening that her inside was experiencing ?

It did not take long for the effects to show on her body externally too.

A few months ago my sister and I visited her. She was lying in bed. A sheet covering her frail body. The conversation this time was mostly about her health. 

I saw for the first time her suffering taking its toll. In a moment of acute emotional anxiety she lifted the sheet. 

And what we saw is etched in my memory. There was nothing beneath the sheet except a mass of bones covered with pale lackluster skin.

It was frighteningly depressing.

That was the first time I had seen her lying down. 

And after that every time I saw her, she was lying down 

Her bed clean and neatly made. 

The house all tidy. 

Her television serials running their length. 

And her husband running about doing odd jobs for her. 

He had also mastered the art of facing hard times with a smile.

Aapa Jaan had once upon a time , gone to school with the late Madhubala's younger sister. Often we got to hear of the happy times they had spent. 

Apaa Jaan had told us that Madhur Ji herself used to visit her whenever time permitted and they would spend a cheerful time together  

And this last time that I went to her place on hearing of her death , the house was spotlessly clean , everything seemed to be in its place. 

Only the tearing silence was a misfit in the house which used to buzz with the pleasant chatter of its Lady.
She had been buried in the nearby grave yard the night before. 

A tired looking family soaked in grief met me.
We talked about her in between pauses loaded with emotion.

I remembered the pride and affection with which Aapa Jaan would describe the sewing skills of her daughter and I told her this
She looked at me with pained eyes 
And then I was speechless. 

Stunned at the irony , it's agony unbearable, as the daughter said in a quivering voice, swallowing the lump in her throat

"Kal un ka kafan main ne hi siya tha ..."

Remembering "The Millionaire Fakir" Husain

Oh! That was M F Husain in his car, as it drove past me on a 1st January some years back in Bombay's Fountain area.
I went almost running behind the car much to the amusement of my children 😃!
Just as he had alighted, I was beside him, children in tow.
He looked at us, and smiled 😊

I was speechless with excitement and I am sure he understood because he stood there calmly and waited as I searched my bag for something suitable to get his signature.

What a classic view it was.
Hutatma Chowk soaked in the quiet morning sun after what must have been a night of dazzling celebrations all around
Imagine an aerial view of this meeting.
No less than a page out of vintage literature.

I remember very well Husain Saheb was wearing an off-white kurta pajama, and a maroon muffler loosely hung around his neck, but don't quite remember his footwear, the absence of which was such a big news those days.

He spoke to the children in a very soft voice ... And then he signed his mega-million dollar name on a one rupee envelope (I did not have any other plain paper in my bag at that time!), and bidding goodbye smiled again ...
This was like a Dream ... A Dream that I had never seen ... 😘😘😘

It is hard to accept that such a composed, simple and serene person can insult religious sentiment. As far as I can understand, he never took his Muslim identity too seriously.
The backlash against Husain can be compared to the anger Muslims expressed when a Danish cartoonist "insulted" the Prophet Mohammed (Peace Be Upon Him).
Neither of the two groups can lay claim to religions they so fiercely defend and represent, because it is not religion, but dubious vested interests that encourage vandalism and violence.

So Husain driven away from his own Motherland, lived in Qatar and passed away in London, but his work continues to live in the heart of India, and not surprisingly so, because Husain had India in his heart.
He took the liberty that was apparently not supposed to be his, not only because of his Muslim name, but also because religious sentiment is, since times immemorial, a wild fire that has never been doused ...

Some relief though to hear sane voices even in times that don't necessarily support logic and reason

http://www.thehindu.com/news/national/A-national-shame-if-we-cannot-say-he-belongs-to-us-Sharmila/article16817016.ece

But all said and done India has lost a legend, which is very sad.

Hey! Man I want to go.... :))

Two calls.
And I was swept away through the tidal waves of Time into an era that belonged to the foregone Century. There was this unstoppable-never-before urge to relive Childhood. Every moment precious, as it were, and so without the slightest alteration to it.
It was not the first time that I was experiencing an emotional upsurge threatening to do a cloud-burst in my eyes! And yet this was different.

The first call was from a cousin who I knew existed somewhere in Goa. In the long span of time that had separated us I had got a couple of fleeting updates. I knew just a few things about her like she had lost her husband years ago and that her sons were either studying or working abroad. But I had no idea she had a daughter too, who was married and now moved back to Goa with her husband to be close to Mommy. Although I had never seen her children, my mind started weaving their pictures.
Among the images that my heart and mind have stored together there is a vividly clear portrait of this cousin. Without much thought I gave her face to her daughter.

The last time I had seen her, my cousin must have been almost as old as her daughter is now. Her lovely radiant smile showing a perfect set of pearly teeth, the magnificent kundan jewellery adding glow to her already beaming countenance, her phirozi gharara, kurta and dupatta embellished with sequins, lachkas and gotas, the merrily jingling phirozi glass bangles worn with exquisite kundan kangans. And not to forget those lovely rings on her long fair fingers !!!
That was at some family celebration in our native town in Uttar Pradesh years and years and years back.

Now as her voice touched my ears, I tried to imagine her in person. It was a voice that I had  forgotten over the years , and , yet strangely enough it was a voice I felt pleasantly comfortable with. Although all my efforts to put a face or a personality to that voice now proved  fruitless , I knew the voice and the person deep inside my heart ....it was a voice that seemed very much my own.

After the call ended I felt as if  a small part of my past that had drifted away had found its way back to me.
And that should have made me happy. But queerly the feeling deep within me was that of an undefinable emptiness and longing.

The other call was from a dear old friend. She is someone who has been there for me whenever I needed a true friend. We had met in school...Class three to be precise, when my father was transferred from a place in Raigad district to a place in Thane district in Maharashtra. Her father worked for the Birlas. Mine for the Tatas. And in their professional capacities they often met each other, while we girls met in the class every day. Little wonder then that our mothers have been friends too ever since.
We have seen a lot of this world together.

This friend had now called me to share a sad news. Her father had passed away a day before.
Slowly in a controlled voice she gave me the details while I mumbled the customary words of condolence.
Oh! Come on...what was I doing?
She is so close to me, I can feel her pain as my own and yet it seemed I was being perfunctory in expressing my grief.
Deep inside I could feel my tears. I wanted to cry and cry and cry...
But the fact is no words could express my pain.

In everyone's life there are certain things and people whose presence one takes for granted. Life without them is unimaginable. When my father passed away three years back, I could not come to terms with the fact for quite sometime. But being too numb with shock, in a state of trance I sailed through the tragedy with apparent ease. Friends and relatives were surprised to see how "brave" I had been in my "composure", displaying a rare calm that seemingly comes when one entrusts oneself entirely to God.
But I know I am not such a sagaciously detached soul.

While on this call I was reminded of my own loss. slowly I began to realise that with my father a part of my childhood had also died. There was no numbness now as I clearly remembered my late father. They say time heals all wounds. Then how could I still feel the pain as if of a wound that was still raw.
Of loss that was irreparable?

I had never cared for the proverbial bachpan-ke-din to come back.
Never lived in the past.
Never tried to hold back and cling on to memories.

But now suddenly it dawned upon me that my childhood is far too beautiful and invaluable for me to let it just go away. I want to cling on to all those memories, and hold back Time in my tightly clenched fists.

I want to go back...really earnestly...to my bachpan-ke-din... to the time
"when getting high meant swinging,
when drinking ended up with CocaCola bottles,
when Dad was the only hero,
when love was Mom's hug,
when Dad's shoulder was the highest place on this planet,
when one's siblings were one's 'worst enemies'
when my dolls were hand-made by my granny (exclusively for me)
when in hot summer afternoons we sneaked out to collect wild berries and jungle-jalebis in our embroidered cotton frocks and sat on the verandah steps to "divide the booty without cheating !!!"
when behind Mummy's back my sister and I would explore her wardrobe for silk saris and shaneel blouses
when marriage meant gudiya-gudde-ki-shaadi
when one could sleep without a worry in the world,
when all the phones were landline
when the only thing that hurt were skinned knees
when the only things broken were toys
And
when goodbyes were only till tomorrow............."

Mothers Day Musings

I just cannot get her out of my mind. That sweet little girl.
How old must she be...?
Two ... three ... not more in any case.
Very fair, shoulder-length curly golden hair, but rather unkempt and disorganized. She was dressed in a pink top and jeans.

It was a usual evening at Joggers Park. The place was full of people taking their routine rounds of evening walk, children playing about going up and down the slides, and some smaller ones watching ducks swimming gracefully in the little pond. The sea shimmered as the setting sun, all of glorious orange, cast its glow in that unending mass of water, while the crows kept flying to and from it with their catch of "seafood"!!!

She was the only lonely child out there I think. And precisely therefore I could not take my eyes off her. She was accompanied by a neat shalwar-kameez clad woman in her twenties, whose well-oiled hair was tied in a thick black plait, eyes kajal-ed, she was toying with a mobile phone. Plenty of green bangles jingling away as she gestured with her hands while talking to a young man standing near her.
She was undoubtedly the ayah.
Whoever was the young man should have been none of my concerns.

But it seems my traditional narrow-mindedness had taken over too soon as the thought of these two having an affair crossed my mind!
Even if they were not having one, the manner in which they were neglecting the child irritated me.

I saw the little one tugging at her ayah's dupatta with whatever force her small hands could muster and gesturing lovingly to sit next to her. But the ayah was so thoughtlessly unmindful. She did not as much as even look at the lovely little girl.

Although quite inavertently, I was now looking hard at them. The ayah I'm sure had a strong sixth sense. Suddenly she looked at me in the eyes. I took her stare blandly.
For a moment she seemed to flinch.
Then she hurriedly shifted her gaze to the little girl.
And as an after-thought, pressed a few buttons on the cell phone (I'm still not sure if she was faking!!!)
Giving the handset to the child, she said " Mummy se baat karo, Baby!"
It was more than apparent that there was no response from the other side.

In another diametrically opposite incident, I saw a young female labourer managing to snatch a few minutes from her hard working schedule, to feed her infant and put him to sleep. It may be quite another thing that she had to put the semi-naked child to sleep on a soiled piece of cloth on the pavement near a pile of stinking slush and dirt that had been freshly dug out from the gutter running alongside as "operation-clean-gutters" reached its peak. The child slept blissfully under a shady tree while the mother went back to work under the open sky, blistering harsh sun mercilessly beating down. Drops of sweat running in a stream down her pale skinny body, but a strange expression of contentment beautifying her simple unadorned face.

Certainly that miserable labourer had never heard of a day called The Mother's Day.
But surely the Super-Mom of that little Princess I saw at Joggers Park knows all about Mother's Day.

I had been forever convinced that as a woman, a woman can be good or bad, but as a Mother, a woman is forever goodness personified.
But a very famous film maker with whom I had interacted online had told me quite adamantly that mothers could also be bad.

His words came back to me and without being judgemental, this Mother's Day I am inclined to believe that perhaps Mothers could be classified too.

The Poor Mothers who had just one day in the whole year to call her own.
And the Rich Mothers who are a Mother all 365 days of the year...

Food for thought

A five month old infant had been brought to a district hospital somewhere in Central India. Her rectum and vagina had become one as a result of a savagery called rape.
Was stunned and speechless as I heard this. An act of unbelievable insanity and unpardonable brutality.

For a while I was numb. But eventually when I got back to my senses, I was reminded of reports on rape and reactions thereon in newspapers and on television channels. A good number of people often opine that women actually "invite" trouble by dressing up provocatively, going to pubs, restaurants etc and by spending nights out of the protection of their homes..
In Bollywood films also one comes across references to "khuli tijori" meaning a woman wearing revealing clothes. And the irony is that such a term is used to suggest humour in the film.
I think it is very insulting for the entire womanhood and there is hardly any humour in such filthy similies. If anything such disgraceful references make the offenders bolder and their scatological views on women stronger and more legitimate (for them).
But then Bollywood has never really set examples in good behaviour. Nor do they seriously take up any social responsibility while "minting" currency of every kind.

While on Bollywood, one cannot forget the infamous Shiney Ahuja case.
He is reported to have said in his defence that the smell of washing powder on the body of a maid is enough for any man to be put off. So how could he even think of going near the woman.
One would like to believe that Mr.Ahuja has an extraordinary nose or else how could he smell the body of his maid without going near her?
However Shiney has been given seven years in jail by a court in Mumbai. Let us see if he really spends those many years in a prison.

Also there are those scores of so called reality and comedy shows on 24x7 entertainment television channels. Filled with cheapness and vulgarity of the lowest possible order, these shows are ironically supposed to be providing "wholesome family pleasure", specially on weekends.

I also recall here with grave sourness the middle aged woman who was among the passengers standing in a jam packed BEST bus one evening. She was dressed in an ordinary loose shalwar-kameez, a dupatta covered her head. Behind her were some young boys. Most of the passengers in the bus had not even noticed her until she turned her head and told the boys to "behave". It seems they were pushing her unnecessarily and in the process touching her obscenely. The boys started shouting in response saying did they not have better things to do than "waste" their time on a granny.
When the conductor intervened and asked the boys to apologise to the elderly woman whom they had indeed demeaned, they threatend him too. Other passengers in the bus including me were silent (or at the most murmuring) onlookers, angry at the arrogance and lewdness of the boys. But that was the most we did for the dignity of an elderly lower middle class woman.

Neither the five month old infant who I mentioned in the beginning nor this elderly woman who I describe now had done anything to provoke their tormentors. Neither in dress nor in behaviour.
Why then did they have to put up with so much atrociousness and injury to their dignity, their body, their soul...?

While I completely agree that women must be modest in carrying themselves, I vehemently refute the theory that their revealing outfits and their beauty can turn a sober man into a cruel rapist.

A rapist is most certainly a mentally disturbed person who also has criminal instincts, but this disorder remains hidden, until they strike and commit the heinous act.
Can such a crime be stopped/avoided? If not how should the poor victim be compensated and how should the wicked criminal be punished?
Let us not forget that many times the offender is not an outsider.

Will death penalty for rape keep a check on potential rapists?
It is a debatable issue. But most importantly the legal procedure to establish rape must undergo some humane changes as well. As per the present norms a victim must face a host of torturing querries publicly that further assault her self-respect and leave her femininity grievously injured.
The victim is stigmatised while the criminal roams about not just freely, but most often without even a scratch to his reputation and honour.

Isn't this some food for thought?
Can rape be ever justified?? Do eve teasers have the lisence to disgrace anyone whenever they please???

Chhod aaye hum wo galiyan

They looked at me in disbelief.
The boys and me were at the breakfast table. I had waited in anxious anticipation all night, was sure they would congratulate me enthusiastically at having won over the only addiction to which I had ever succumbed. But I had not expected this shocked silence in response.
Here I was... feeling like a victorious soldier just come home after a long and difficult war. And there across the table were two faces looking at me dejectedly.
This was surely not the kind of welcome that awaited my likes.

I took a sip of tea from my cup and waited a little more. The boys were now looking at each other.
"Oh! Come on...I've only deactivated my Facebook account last night...nothing so shocking ..." I said as they still stared hard at me. Were they trying to convince themselves?
Enjoying the dumb-founded look on their sweet faces I went on:
"Is there something so very astonishing about it...something that I'm missing...???" I asked.
"Amma! Have you really done it?!!! Why on earth did you take this extreme step??? How are you going to live without your Facebook family?"
This was my elder one's string of queries.

The younger one, the quieter of the two, was I think still absorbing the facts of the situation because he sat silently, thoughtful eyes apparently watching the omelette in his plate, but mind certainly away elsewhere.

Honestly I was wondering if my children did not know how much time I was spending on this addiction called Facebook. I was into so many groups, quite a few tags, inbox messages, many of which I still had not read. A whole lot of my FB friends were people who I had never met, and would never meet, yet we were sharing so much. Songs, writeups, photos, jokes...
And as if this was not enough, we were actually sharing lives...joys and concerns, views and opinions...
It was like one big friendly neighbourhood. Eventually some of us had become as dear and as near as one's family. I knew exactly when there were guests at A's place or when B was going on a family holiday...a marriage at C's place or an anniversary celebration in D's clan, E attending a conference abroad, F mourning the loss of a girlfriend, or XYZ conducting a public interest rally/meeting.

Interestingly at times when a nice film or television programme was on the air, the entire group would be watching and commenting on it on Facebook!!!
That was the kind of closeness that had developed.

When I think of it now I find it impossible to believe that I actually did shed my inherent aloofness and privacy and did open up to so many strangers at a place where more and more strangers were getting an insight into those aspects of my life where only the closest had ventured thus far.

I had no idea who all could be watching my activities on this networking site till a friend pointed out to my near-24x7 presence on Facebook.
I felt as if I had been caught having an illicit affair!!!
My well wishers had now started admonishing me and my mother was worried for my health. My doctor was telling me to take the morning walks a bit seriously. But I was interested only in Facebooking, so much so that at times my back and fingers ached and I felt nauseated!!!
Slept late at night, got up late in the morning. All wrong life style and yet the guilt was ephemeral.

Going back in time I remember vividly the unexpected invitation from a dear nephew to join Facebook.
Till then I had only vaguely heard of it (and other networking sites) where apparently people from across the globe could interact, become friends and share so much that was, for an uninitiated person like me impossible to imagine.
Also I had thought that these sites were for young boys and girls to have fun and also benefit through exchange of information on topics that are of mutual interest professionally and academically.
What could a middle-aged home maker be doing on Facebook? The thought that I would be the oddest creature out there made me go pale in the face of Facebook :))

In the days to come I would go on to prove myself thoroughly wrong though. Discovering the magic of having the world at my finger tips was intoxicating. I found many long-lost friends as if ready and waiting to meet me. Also met up with half of my extended family on Facebook. The plight and pain of the North Indian Muslim of my generation, often the existence of half of whose family has become virtual due to the Partition of India, had lessened considerably as Facebook brought those hitherto-unseen-faces on a common platform. For me, my relatives across the border and abroad now existed a little more in reality...I could see (and at times even feel them)through pictures on their profile and interact with them through comments and messages on Facebook.

Facebook had thus become a lifeline for me. And anyone who heard of my dissociation with it could not help feeling amazed. I must admit here that I still have not stopped loving Facebook. It has blessed me with some of the most wonderful people I could have ever known. It has enriched my life and made me a much better person in more ways than one. It has been that legendary "friend, philosopher and guide" to me when I needed one the most.
So it is my fault entirely if I let go of all controls. It is my weakness that when I did realise of my fault I only half-heartedly tried to redeem myself.
But what is an addiction after all?
An obsession of sorts that devours all else. My innocent love affair was becoming a sinful obsession.
It was, without any doubt, becoming really illicit!!!
And in my own interest I had to stop here and now.

Well then, should I not be proud of myself for what I have achieved?
Indeed I have accomplished the impossible!!!
But ridiculous as it may sound I hate myself for having won over my addiction.
I have moved on.
There is going to be no looking back. But it will be surely some more time before I forgive myself for having "chhod aaye wo galiyan..."

From the archives...

This was written in 2008 and now almost three years down the line I see so much more deterioration that leaves me astonished and speechless
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Cricket is such a lively subject. Never short of controversies, never short of glamour and above all never short of what everyone aspires for. Big money. And the game India is nuts about has always been improvising. It is so wonderful to see life flowing through the sport for as far back as I can remember and I am convinced after all the latest developments on and off the field that there is never going to be a dull moment in the game for many more years.

Take Harbhajan-Sreesanth controversy. I am inclined to believe that Cricket and politics can now be safely compared and equated on a similar level, where might is right seems to rule the day. Harbhajan was in the news earlier too for a fight with an Australian player, but at that time we as a nation rose to support and defend him as if there was no other way to register one's love and loyalty for India. Now when Harbhajan has allegedly slapped an Indian who is his team-mate on one occasion and on another they stand on the opposite sides of the fence, separated by a well-calculated business transaction, India stands divided on the issue. However it is good to see the majority having spoken in favour of admitting that Harbhajan has indeed gone too far this time. The conclusion as per my simple logic therefore
is that we do have different sets of morals, and discrimination, specially if "national pride" is made the centre of a controversy.

Take another instance. Vijay Mallaya's gift to IPL. The cheerleaders. Supposedly beautiful semi-clad females swaying their made-to-order bodies whenever a four or six is hit seems more of a cartoon than anything worth watching by mature adults. Even if one does not cry for saving the Indian culture, it is quite evident that such an absurd, unnecessary "borrowed" idea of entertainment is degrading for the Indian masses in general. Do the likes of Vijay Mallayas feel that every little piece of entertainment must essentially involve dumb item-girl-like characters to be really appealing. Such male chauvinists must bear in their small minds that women have proved that they are much more than just sex objects. However Vijay Mallya has a reputation of treating women like sales-promotion-gadgets. Its a wonder that in this era of women's emancipation the liquor baron is exalted for his vulgarity.

In our earlier days we were told that money cannot buy happiness. Now we are advised "Whoever said money can't buy happiness didn't know where to shop"! And our Cricketing fraternity has proved time and again that they have their shopping details well etched out. They know exactly where to shop and do not mind becoming commodities themselves!!

The question that comes to my mind after taking stock of the situation is whether this much commercialisation is right or are we going out of bounds and whether a retrospection is long overdue? From a gentleman's game Cricket has to the gully and mohallah, which is very good indeed. Infact as one sees the common man getting opportunities that were in the earlier days reserved for the so-called blue-blooded elite the Indian democracy does seem to be vibrant fro once.
Is that the reason then for the deteriorating morals? The common man is so determined to jump ranks in the social heirarcy that he does not mind a couple of skeletons in his closet in the process?
Cricket is just one field of human activity, but when an entire social setup begins to turn topsy-turvy its better to pause for while and look back for reasons and solutions.