Ah, Poets!

The poet said each man kills the thing he loves. But he's a poet. For us unimaginative souls, should it not be "Each man loves the thing that kills him"?

Results

Results—the dictatorial jury, the self-styled Brahma of all our legacies; that which separates class from crass, charm from connivance, and conventionality from banality.

A Free Meal

Tears coursed down Damon’s hollow cheeks. The things one does to avail of a complimentary dinner, he thought as he cut another onion into two.
“How’s the onions coming?” Pythias shouted above the exhaust fan.
Damon showed her a model of his handiwork.
“Shorter. Size an inch and a half perhaps” the Chef said. Damon wondered where he could find an engineering scale.
“So how’s your world?” he asked, messing up a few pieces by over-cutting them.
“What?”
“The planet Pythias spinning well?” he shouted.
“It is moving. Slow, but moving. I have a job. That’s more important than how the job is, these days.”
“Can’t argue with you on that.”
“So what are you working on these days, now that school’s out? Homer’s influence on the literature of Iceland?”
“Yes. I don’t have to teach as summer’s here. And I am not knowledgeable enough to pore over Icelandic literature, though I have read translations of a couple of works by a noted writer. My plan for the summer is to learn to be a better cook so I don’t call upon you to ask if you have leftovers.”
“Don’t try to return the favor by inviting me.”
“Come on. I was thinking of having you at the inauguration.”
“Sorry, pal. Being the guest of honor is something I always detest”
She patted his back and took the plate of onions.
There is no such thing as a passable cook. Either one is good or one is bad. Damon liked cooking, but was a terrible cook. While Pythias was an excellent cook, but only when she can.
“By the way, what became of your cello classes?” she asked.
“I finished them. See me play Happy Birthday next time.”
“Good,” she said mechanically, and after a few seconds’ silence continued, “But is that it? Nothing interesting in the way of meeting new people?” she winked.
He knew what she meant.
“New people?” he asked as if he didn’t have a clue.
“Yes. A girl for instance.”
“No”
“You disappoint me, Damon. You’re such a bore.”
“So many have said. But I do resent it this time. I joined the class so I would learn to play the instrument, not to pick up girls. You see, Freud has penetrated our psyche so much, whether we know it or not.”
“Freud? What has he got to do with this?”
“My guy friends, when I am talking about something which, in their eyes is not quite an interesting topic, usually come out with, “Ah, go get laid, dude” or something of that sort. I know they are joking, but I am not convinced that sex is the panacea. For all anyone knows, I maybe asexual. To put your question in context, why should my keenness to learn a new thing involve a hidden objective? And why is there this ready assumption that the single life is like living in a tomb, and only a relationship can rescue you from that?”
“Oh! Damon. Freud is a pervert. I heard he was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature and not Medicine. How fitting? And yes, today’s society is a super-sexualized one. I can’t pass judgment on that and I’m a practical woman. My question, however, was of a totally non-sexual nature.”
“I know. But the meaning is the same.”
“Maybe. I sometimes think you do not believe in things just for the sake of it. What is wrong with love?”
“Nothing. Only the word has sort of become an all-rounder that I’m no longer sure what it means. I saw a car advertisement on television which said they make their cars of love. I saw in a coffee shop that one of the ingredients of their famed coffee was love. Somehow these seem more irritating than the subtitle of the jewelry ad that says every kiss begins after buying one of their products. In any case, I believe love is too hyped up an emotion, at least the romantic variety is.”
“But how would you know that when you are not even in love?”
“It is precisely that I am not in love that makes me fit to talk about it. I am not walking through air, my feet are firmly on the ground. I’m myself, not a phony clone. And I can see an apple for an apple. The problem with being in love is, you are either too blind, or you see too much.”
“What then is the solution? You want everyone to not believe in love, to disown it. Aren’t you underestimating man?”
“I never said I didn’t believe in love. I’m not cynical enough to say true love is an oxymoron like some I know say. By all means fall in love, but don’t justify it by coming out with an anthology of tawdry clichés. Or push your two-cent pill on others thinking they are unwell.”
“My-my, my friend! Enough of your pill. The parmigiana is ready. I’m too hungry for manners now. So help yourself.”
“That is the first sensible thing you have said all day, dear Pythias. I may be skeptical about love, but I have always been in love with your cooking. Your culinary toils will not go to waste. The starving man cometh.”

Fedex Reaches Legendsville...This Time Officially

Is Roger Federer the greatest of all time? John McEnroe thinks so. So does a guy called Pete Sampras. It is almost a fortnight since Federer courted history by becoming one of the half-a-dozen players to complete a Grand Slam set and drawing level with the guy called Pete Sampras at the topmost tier of Majors winners. I postponed writing this so that I would not sound like a sentimentalist who lavishes fanatical over-praise on his object. From a purely facts viewpoint, he makes a forceful case. Be it the time he has taken to accumulate his trophies or the twenty consecutive Grand Slam semi-finals appearances. Leave the performance, but just look at the simple matter of not missing a single event. I have always wanted to play like tennis greats, but the most I could ape them was to get injured like them. This doesn’t apply to the Swiss. The talent we accept as a given. But then talent is nothing. Marat Safin has talent. Vince Young has talent. Heck, L. Sivaramakrishnan had talent. It is his discipline that stands out like a sore, nay, healthy thumb. Here is a man who says he will play in his thirties and we believe him, not because he is a legend but because we know he enjoys playing tennis very much.

Of course, there is always the “Ah, but”. Federer’s win was easier as Rafa Nadal, most importantly, and Novak Djokovic and Andy Murray, to a lesser degree, did not meet him. Which is a trifle unfair to Federer because all the other three, dangerous they might be, lost. And he didn’t. And come on, folks. He has been second best the last three years in Paris and has won nine titles on clay. Sampras had two. Mortals like Boris Becker had none. It is true Sampras had more worthy challengers when he played as compared to Federer today. It will only sound clichéd to say you can’t compare players from different eras. It is a subjective game. It may be Bill Tilden for some, Bjorn Borg for some, and Rod Laver for some. The one thing which holds many from calling Federer the best is his head-to-head with the man from Mallorca. It is a valid counterpoint. Most other greats had better records against their contemporaries. For my part, I would say that he is the greatest I’ve seen play—my tennis-watching career began with the likes of Ivan Lendl, Mats Wilander and yes, of course, the Teutonic Becker. My educated nomination would be Borg as No. 1, who has dominated the two surfaces of his time, grass and clay, with such unsurpassed mastery (hard courts were a newbie then). Laver will be a close second. Federer third.

Federer himself doesn’t think he is the greatest yet, but says with pride he has achieved something that is truly remarkable. That is balance. Sure he cried once after he lost, but it is not flash news that he is not a bad loser. He and Nadal represent the class of true sporting icons. A thing which cannot be said of athletes like Serena Williams or LeBron James. Phenomenal they may be, but the lack of that basic graciousness pulls them down from the hallowed spheres of greatness.

P.S: Nadal is out of Wimbledon this year. What a bummer!

The Cynic

A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing, said Oscar Wilde. Though it sounds amusing, I don't know why the only rational being in this world is always cast as the villain.

Why Do People Flake Out on Me Frequently?

Why do people flake out on me frequently? In one instance, a friend of mine flaked out on me by, well, flaking out on the couch (I know it sounds too cosmetic, but I couldn’t resist using the phrase). I decided to ask my therapist. On the morning of the appointment, he telephoned me saying he had to cancel due to inclement weather. Only after he rang off, I saw it was one of the finest spring mornings ever. I never heard from him again. Surely someone must come up with proper etiquette for disassociating with one’s patients. Not to be discouraged, I did what an educated, innovative, and rational person does when they are in doubt: Google It. After refining my search, I found a web site that seemed to have the answer. But, a list of more than a hundred questions—like “What is your favorite color of bandanna?”, “What is the purpose of your life?”, “What was the last name of your first crush?”—had to be faced first. I gave up after five. I raided book stores. I found Happiness, Love, Religion, Money, even Food, under brightly decorated sections but no Flaking Out. I looked at the TV listings. No show to help my cause. Even Oprah had nothing to say. I became disenchanted with the whole world. I don’t suppose Buddha would have had such a burning question. Suddenly, one night, I found my awakening in my bathroom, keeping with my theory that the bathroom is the most spiritual of all rooms. Do people flake out on me because?

a) I am a Snob
It has not been proved conclusively, but is it true that I look down on others? I don’t look down on others that much, at least literally. I am sure people who have seen me will back that up. But there are signs. Look at the sports I like the most: tennis and cricket. At first glance, both are tranquil gentlemen’s games. But if you dig deeper, you will find that both have had a history of being priggish and elitist.

b) I am a Hypocrite
This makes some sense. I eat eggs, but not chicken. My phone is smart, I am not. I participate in roach genocides in my apartment, but say I am a pacifist. And worse, I am Indian, yet I root for the Cowboys.

c) I am an Addict
I am an addict, ladies and gentlemen. You heard me right. I am a gumaholic. I used to be wild. I used to chomp bubble gums like it was ambrosia. I even became a thief in my own house. I was pointed out to small children as a monster. People stopped talking when I entered a room. I then escaped. I came to America where my notorious gumming days were known to no one. I took pains to conceal my addiction and I thought I had succeeded. But I guess not.

d) I am Lazy
I outsource my cooking by buying frozen cooked food. Even when I cook, I buy cut vegetables. I don’t go to the movie theater or the video store. I have DVDs delivered to my door. And I have Bluetooth.

Ugh, truth sure is ugly! Or is it just that I am getting old, as Nemeldi takes utmost pleasure in pointing? Hair’s turning grey, knee is giving away, and kids call me Uncle!

An App That Never Will Be

He may have an app for just about anything, but Man is still mortal. Full stop.