IN HINDSIGHT   by an Indo-German newspaper columnist

(Compiled circa 1990, before computers did the heavy quote-lifting)

Shakespeare never wrote about cricket; although Lady Macbeth does say, “I hear the owls scream and the crickets cry.” But all we have to do is quote him out of context, and the Bard will be screaming and crying in his grave:

MERELY PLAYERS

     Well play’d. Almost six. Near-legged before. Not out. Played on? Alas! … Lad; go forward. For God defend. Take advantage of the field. By ones, by twos, and by threes. These profound heaves. Cannot take two. One short. You beg a single. He will not run. Why, what a rascal. Well placed. Dangerous shot. The bat hath flown. I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Make thee a pair, and I’ll bring thee to the court myself. Duck again. There is three umpires in this matter. Will you walk, sir?
     All the men and women merely players.
     At the orchard-end. Dost thou, chuck? Such odd action. Ridiculous and awkward. Sir; that were fast and loose. So wide? By ten mile. Indifferency, From all direction, purpose, course, intent. O’erstep not. O! no, no, no, no. My lord, you played once i’ the university, you say?
     Yonder i’ the sun practising. Lies tangled in a net.
     I come to draw. My gloves are on. I boldly will defend. Shall be a wall. Pray you, stand further from me. I beseech thee, apparel thy head. The better face. What a pitch. A touch, a touch, I do confess. If you love me, hold not. I have receiv’d a second life. Who knows how that may turn. Oft have I struck Those that I never saw. Faith, I ran when I saw others run. Seems far too short to hit me here. Borrowed a box. I would have swing’d him. I can hook. I pull in resolution. I could with bare-fac’d power sweep him from my sight. Will turn it finely. Did glance away from me. Again, it was not well cut. No stroke. Thrice beaten. Over. Maiden. Fetch my bail. Left nothing i’ the middle. Who is it in the press that calls on me?
     Not, while I have a stump.
     A moderate pace I have. But though slow, deadly. Natural the cutter-off. The turn or the breaking. With all the cunning manner of our flight. Coming down the hill will serve the turn. Cur! thou driv’st me past the bounds. No maiden. What, four? thou saidst but two even now.
     The wrong side out.
     Those centuries to our aid. Spurio, a hundred and fifty; Sebastian, so many; Corambus, … Jacques, … Guiltian, Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, … Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred fifty each. He is enforced to retire. Twelve for nine. In eternal darkness folded up. Offer’d light. Come.
     Thump! Eleven die nobly for their country.
     Another bad match. Here’s no scoring. Some death more long in spectatorship. One stroke has taken For ever. Look you now, he’s out of his guard already. These villains make the word captain as odious as the word ‘occupy’.
     They seem to threaten Runs. Needless shot, after such bloody toil. Like a brib’d duck, each. He thought to steal the single. That makes a still-stand, running neither way. Naught, naught, all naught! I can behold no longer. At an infinite rate. What a pair of spectacles. This is the bloodiest shame, the wildest savagery, the vilest stroke. So find we profit By losing. Coach after coach.
     There comes with them a forerunner.       
     I, Costard, running out.
     He rather means to lodge you in the field. Thou then to cover. This is the third man. Cardinal Beaufort is at point. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips. Where art thou, keeper? Deeper than you can imagine. Prithee, bring him in. Let them all encircle him about. All on one side. This wide gap. Pow. Here lies the point. He looks out. How! Boisterous late appeal. How needless was it then to ask the question! Make a swift return. We are like to have the overthrow again. There has been much throwing about. I aim a mile beyond.
     Shall not know my coin.
     George of Clarence sweeps.
     Send after the duke and appeal to him.
     He was wont to shine. I fear too much rubbing. A double varnish.
     Come to our pavilion.
     This blessed league. Surrey for the field to-morrow. Of Gloucester, How joyful am I made by this contract! I’ll make the best in Gloster-shire. Gloucester, led by an old Man. I am more inclined to Somerset than York. Somerset will keep me here, without discharge, money, or furniture.
     Clubs cannot part them.
     Enter Gower, Exeunt Gower and … The English power is near, led on by Malcolm. Pardon old Gower. Fight, gentlemen of England! fight, bold yeomen! Draw. Stands empty in the drowned field.
     No supporter but the huge firm.
     God himself; the very opener.
     His companion, youthful Valentine.
     Ye squeak out your coziers’ catches.
     Look in the almanack; find out.
     Cracking ten thousand.
     Grace? that old white-bearded Satan …
     Ashes ancient.
     Topless deputation.
     Why, it carries. It came too suddenly. It is quite beyond mine arm. Seem’d i’ the air to stick.
     Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch. Both your hands: Now join your hands. You may take him at your pleasure; I will be near to second your attempt, and he shall fall between us. By heav’n, I’ll have’t. Yours, yours. Take it; ’tis yours. I heard groan and drop. Escap’d our hands. Your attempt, as you call it, deserves more–a punishment too.
     For suddenly a grievous sickness took him, That makes him gasp and stare, and catch the air. Guilty of this lamentable chance. When he caught it, he let it go again. Spills another.
     We cannot hold. Things fall out.

(May 2, 2009 BC)

Part 1

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R9WKa07U9Gc

(Louder: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kUEkwwZYb3E)

Part 2

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cmnCWY8E9bw

(Louder: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zLxhWo4mr0I)

(Vintage car rally souvenir/Jan 14-Feb 1, 2009)

A hundred years ago cars were difficult to drive, and demanded plenty of physical effort from the driver. They were driven by rich hobbyists who manually cranked their engines and had to handle frequent breakdowns. Taking care of those bulky hand-cranked contraptions, and avoiding being turned into a complete crank oneself, was quite a struggle.
 
The 1895 model Arnold, a short-lived copy of the 1894 Benz Velo, had till then been the only car with an (unreliable) electric self-starter. The 1912 Model 30 Cadillac was the first with an all-weather one. This obviated the hand and arm injuries sometimes caused by the old crank tanks. At the opposite end of the human frame, one’s feet profited when the 1921 Model A Duesenberg appeared with four-wheel hydraulic brakes which reduced the pedal pressure required.

No more than one finger was needed to roll down the 1938 Buick Y-Job’s power windows. Then with the 1939 Buick’s turn-signalling indicators you didn’t even have to stick your hand out of the window any more. Motorists were well on their way to a trophy–or rather atrophy. This only worsened with automatic transmission offered in the 1940 Oldsmobile, and air-conditioning as a standard option in the Packard Model 110 of the same year.
 
Hands slackened further as power steering became commercially available in the 1951 Chrysler Imperial. Now even a zero-horsepower weakling could manoeuvre a heavy car with wide tyres. The 1955 Citroën DS had a self-levelling suspension system whereby said lightweights suffered no vertical displacement either. In 1958 the same Chrysler introduced cruise control, devised by a blind inventor named Ralph Teetor; whereupon the feet were free to fall asleep. And in case those cool cars were TOO cool, the 1966 Cadillac Series 75 came with heated seats to keep your rearmost one warm as well.

Air bags became available in the 1973 Oldsmobile Toronado: which meant you were safe even with someone like Teetor at the wheel. In 1990 the Mazda Cosmo flogged the first GPS navigation system, making life easy for bad female drivers and worse males too proud to ask for directions. In 1995 a Mercedes-Benz S-Class robot car made a 1,000-mile round trip from Munich to Copenhagen and back at speeds of up to 100 mph, with 95 per cent autonomous driving.

The next great leap in automobile technology will be to create a comprehensive autopilot system that minimizes all physical activity on the part of the driver. General Motors had planned to include one in the 2008 Opel Vectra. However as we know GM has in recent times barely been staying afloat: thus such newfangled navigation will have to wait till someone throws them a lifeline.

Navigation systems will continue to improve in future cars. Traffic will no longer be confined to the ground. As you read these lines the Parajet Skycar is making its maiden voyage by land and air from London across the Sahara to exotic Timbuktu. It’s an ugly ungainly machine requiring three minutes of preparation and 200 metres to take off; but honestly that’s not much worse than some cars still running on Indian roads today.

When traffic becomes airborne, human drivers won’t become pilots: rather their autopilots will. Such amphikarmic vehicles will necessarily be fully automated or there’ll be all kinds of terrible accidents. Humans simply can’t be trusted to watch what happens on six sides of them. They will merely select their destination and let the machine do the rest.

Yes, dear reader, one day you and I too shall be obsolete along with our automobiles. Then we may find our fifteen miles of fame in future vintage car rallies. What will those rallies look like?

Today’s vintage rallies involve cars of the past that require physical input and motor skills to drive and maintain. Modern cars need almost none by comparison–although they do yet entail a bit of mental exertion. That, in a nutshell, is what tomorrow’s rallies will be about.

Long after men forsake the use of their minds, there will still be a few eccentrics who clutter up the lower atmosphere with antique automobiles; for whose quaint diversion other traffic must be rerouted and sky lanes closed. A minority of spectators, continuing to believe in the dangerous concept of free will, shall applaud; whilst others cry “Maniacs!”, “Terrorists!” or “What is this, the Kon-Tiki Expedition?” in disgust. They might feel compelled to take out protest rallies and demonstrations of their own, causing further jams and making a bad situation worse. Some things truly never change.

But for the moment, while we’re still free to do so, let’s enjoy this year’s rally and appreciate the hard work and creativity that went into these fabled cars.

(Sep 17-20, 2007)

Cricket used to be a leisurely sport played by gentlemen who took long tea breaks and said “Well played, sir!” even when you made an atrocious shot. Now the sport is fast and fatuous, the gentlemen are gone, and beer is replacing tea. If you play a brilliant shot, the fielders are still likely to broadcast a commentary that’s not for family hearing. Five-day Test matches were supplanted by one-day matches of 60 overs per side, and then 50. You might think it shocking that the same country which accommodated the longest match ever, the nine-day ‘Timeless Test’ of 1939, is now hosting the first 20-20 World Cup of 3-hour matches almost short enough to keep football fans awake. Perhaps the day is nigh when opposing captains walk out to toss the coin, and the trophy is awarded to whoever wins that.

Yet even the speed at which they walk out is bound to increase, reflecting the changed pace of life in societies where this slow summerly game used to be played without a thought to the clock. An international study has found that average urban walking speeds around the world have increased by about ten per cent in the last decade. Modern living and quicker communication have made people impatient, and increased their rate of activity. The acceleration has been highest in advancing Asian economies such as China. The world record for the fastest walkers of all has been set by Singapore, whose pedestrians take only 10.55 seconds to cover 60 feet on open pavements. This behaviour is found to lead to stress, bad habits and less time or inclination to help other people. What sporting cricketer could have foreseen the day when ‘walking’ became an ungentlemanly act! With such a hectic lifestyle, then, who still has time for traditional cricket? Everything must change, including the unhurried environment in lands like India. Many studies show that tropical animals tend to have lower metabolic rates, expending less energy on what they do. Unfortunately human beings can no longer afford that luxury in our globalized world, and cricket is just one casualty. Long matches have had their day–more than their day–and you don’t need 20-20 vision to foresee that 30-hour cricket tickets shall of earthly treasures not be the most well-paid, sir!

(Jul 10-Aug 17, 2007)

It’s now official. Bill Gates is no longer the richest man in the world, having been replaced by a Mexican telecom tycoon called Carlos Slim Helú. (No, he didn’t get that name from saying Helú Helú when answering his own phone.) That’s according to the August 6 issue of Fortune magazine.

The irony about Mr. Slim is, of course, that he isn’t ‘slim’ at all. His wealth has ensured he remains well fed. Now there’s a famous saying about a camel going through the eye of a needle before a rich man gets to heaven; but in this case one would think it might be easier for the camel than Carlos to thread the needle.

With all his billions one might also have expected Mr. Slim to be a major investor in the slimming industry, and find some expensive miracle diet or surefire surgery to shed his pounds–if not all his pesos–in a flash. These days rich people are finding ways to get thin, and poor people are growing fatter.

It’s particularly so in the developed world where obesity is a greater threat to the poor than starvation, and the rich are dying of anorexia. We are just beginning to catch up. India does not have many fat beggars yet, and the rich aren’t skeletons either; but if you look at the difference between Lakshmi Mittal and his son then you’ll agree we’re on our way.

Personally, I completely disagree with this trend.

If one is rich and going to hell anyway, why not enjoy it? What is this modern obsession with torturing oneself to look like a broomstick? I bristle at the thought. Time was when it used to be a status symbol to have a truck tyre round one’s tummy.

A rich man used to stand out among the starving masses, whom HIS mass would collectively dwarf. He had size and stature. The fair sex coveted him. From Europe to Japan poor women had but a yen for him.

Of course, even the women were unwanted if they were skinny. And for millennia men worshipped fertility goddesses who looked less like modern belles of the ball than bowling balls. (I shall omit the obvious crack about drilling three holes in them.) Till very recently most film actresses used to have large hips and Rubenesque curves if not skin like an orange peel. When they were asked to shed their cover, it was hoped there was still plenty of payload beneath.

In places like Mauritania, women still do whatever they can to gain as much weight as possible, because that is what men want. (No, Mel, it’s not the Gibson Girls!) Diabetes and heart disease are necessary evils in (or for) such parts.

And remember that if you are rich and famous, everyone’s going to tell you you’re good-looking anyway. Notorious examples of ugly chubbies who thought they were attractive include Alfred Hitchcock, Henry the Eighth, Cleopatra and Saddam Hussein (before slimming down in his foxhole). So why waste your time slaving for popular approval when you can buy it?

Let us then congratulate Mr. Slim for surpassing Mr. Gates not merely in corporate but also corporal worth, and wish him ever greater gains of scale.