Sunday, May 3, 2015

a case for kindness

For a while now, I’ve been grappling with the existential question. The one that all middle-aged men toy with. What’s the point of it all? Why run if you’re not a rat? Is there a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or is it the sort of pot you lower your pants into?

While I haven’t found my answer and while the search continues, the quest has thrown up a diamond along with the dirt. I’ve discovered, what perhaps to me, is the clearest compass of them all.


Just one word. Not as big as compassion and not as bandied as love. Just regular, everyday, ordinary kindness.

Except it is anything but ordinary.

Kindness, because of its innate softness, invites sneer. It appears passive, indolent, lacking in action. It doesn’t sweat, it doesn’t swear and it doesn’t carry swag. It’s not sexy. It walks up with a gentle “excuse me”, it whispers in a room full of voices, it hugs without fanfare and it leaves without so much as a short goodbye.

All while changing the world.

You see, kindness is powerful precisely because it is all-giving and doesn’t give a fuck in return. And it is humanly impossible to remain unaffected by unselfish goodness. It is hard to remain unmoved by something that is pure; pure because it wasn’t mandated by protocol, demanded as right or necessary to begin with.

When you’re kind to someone – to people you don’t need to be kind to – your maid, the security guard, the auto driver and the guy selling chaat at a street corner, you ever so briefly, lift the day’s crushing heaviness off their shoulders. You make them forget that they’ll be going back to their bleak lives where sacrifice is the norm as is disenchantment. And when you’re kind to someone in power – kind and not obsequious or servile – you reveal that you’re not in awe of designation and that you’re equal to him or her as a human being.

I try and practise kindness. Why I say “practise” is because kindness is a choice. The idea that the junior cracked that was better left un-cracked. You can choose to look beyond the result and see how hard he/she tried. The dinner that the wife cooked that wasn’t the best. You can choose how to make her feel. The waif at the traffic signal that you chose to give a bigger note to, instead of the coin that clinked at your fingertips. Yes, kindness is a choice. And when you practise it long enough, kindness becomes instinct.

Fact is, kindness is transformative. It is therapeutic. And best of all, it is also tax-free. There’s the old adage of “people not remembering what you said but how you made them feel”. What they’ll remember the most is your kindness, or the lack of it.

There’s another alliterative ‘T’ that kindness is. Kindness is tough. It’s very hard to be kind because it is so much easier to be a natural born asshole like most of us are. It takes guts to treat others like how you'd like to be treated and not like how they are treating you. Thus kindness is not for the weak. And in pursuing it, one grows strangely, immeasurably strong.

There’s one more fact – I was wrong. Kindness does give back. Kindness is Karma. When you’re kind, you not only make others feel better; you feel awesome yourself. Kindness is also positivity. For one cannot be negative while being kind.

So cultivate kindness. Shoot yourself up with it. Down it like beer. Smoke it like pot. Make it a bad habit. But one that you’re very good at.

Lastly, kindness is contagious. If you happen to catch it, do spread it. The world has enough misery without needing your unique dose of fuckery.

ram cobain

Image source: Google

Wednesday, December 4, 2013


It had to happen some day. Some day, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar would stop doing what he had been doing for 24 years and would retire from cricket. He would walk back from a 22-yard strip of grass and gold, only this walk would be longer and lonelier than the others. There was nothing anyone could do about it.

Except say thank you in person.

Many summers ago, when he was a different Sachin – young, brash and fearless (and we were like him) – my best friend and brother Daddu, and I had vowed that if Sachin were to ever give the world a heads up about retiring, we’d be there. No matter what was happening in our personal or professional lives. It’s a big promise to make, and it almost proved too big to pull off. But luckily, only almost.

We’ve been known to have XXL mouths, but so far we’ve managed to avoid putting our feet into them. Like the time we said (after Kargil) that should India (read Sachin) ever tour Pakistan, we’d be there. Some 15 of us made that earnest pledge, but only the two of us kept it. You can read about that here, but it’s another story.

Promises – even crazy ones – are easier to pull off when you’re younger, unmarried and lower down the corporate pecking order. The advantages are obvious. You won’t be missed as much at work. There’s lesser at stake personally. And as you’re a foolish 23-year-old, the world will be indulgent towards you having a passion other than passionately earning your EMI. But throw in words like Creative Head, Biggest Pitch Ever, Home Loan, Family, Child and suddenly passion can take the appearance of Don Quixote charging at the windmills.

At times like these whom you’re married to (if you’re married) makes all the difference. My wife, that lovely woman who doesn’t understand my craze for Sachin but understands me, gave me the permission to get fired, should things come to that. And so wearing a bravado that was more borrowed than ballsy, I made my plea to my bosses. I wouldn’t do injustice to The Biggest Pitch Ever but I had to be there at Wankhede. Otherwise, I’d end up hating my job and would never forgive myself. I wasn’t given permission to go but to take a “call as an adult”. I headed to the airport. It was the 13th of November 2013.

Now, going to Mumbai and going to Wankhede are two separate things. Especially if Sachin is playing for the last time. Tickets were harder to get than a one-line speech from Manmohan Singh, and we had nothing in our hands at the time of flying out.

But leads were aplenty. I had contacted an ex-colleague who has access to both the MCA and Vengsarkar, and he was confident. Then another friend’s wife, who works at a leading newspaper, was trying her best to get us two tickets. My ex-junior and not-ex-brother Shashi called me on his own and said he’d do something for us. I also called and spoke to Vinod Naidu – Sachin’s agent whom I now know over the course of so many ad shoots – and he said he’d try. I toyed with the idea of calling Sachin –I have his mobile number for a while now – but as I’ve never called or texted him out of respect, I didn’t want to start now. You can gauge the desperation of my efforts by the fact that I even tried logging on to a few times.

Daddu too had his contacts. But our sources came and went. “Confirmed” tickets suddenly got unconfirmed, and the only thing that was certain was that the two of us would land in Mumbai and would be watching the match together – be it only on a TV screen.

Then magic happened. Late at night before the day we were to fly out, Shashi said that two 5-day season tickets had been arranged for 10K apiece; did we want them? Does Stevie Wonder need a break from Stevie-Wonder-jokes? They were for the Sunil Gavaskar stand, and originally priced Rs. 500 per season pass. But given that the going rate was 40K per ticket – if you could find a seller that is – we said “yes” faster than Shoaib Akhtar running down a fat pickpocket.

Daddu landed before me and collected our passes. I met him at the Grand Hotel, Ballard Estate, where we had booked a room for a night. Let’s say that the hotel had somewhat exaggerated their credentials, but the loo was clean enough and the bed manageable. And the tickets in Daddu’s hands made us feel like we were staying at the heritage wing of the Taj.

14th November 2013 dawned early and we were at the stadium gates at 8 for a 9am start. But even though it was a Friday and a working day, the line was longer than Mayawati’s handbags stacked in a row. But enterprising as we are, we requested a couple of youngsters at the very front to let us join them. And just like that – we were amongst the first 20 to enter the stadium!

The second happy moment happened when our tickets dutifully beeped at the entry turnstile (there was a slight apprehension that they might be fakes as we had heard some reports from the match at Eden Gardens). As we ran up the stairs, we saw yet another sign that nothing could go wrong with this trip: Sachin was warming up right before us, right in front of our stands.

As the old chant of Saaachin Sachin left our lips with a new desperation, he turned and waved in our general direction. We took our seats and realized that our view was better than what we’d hoped. We were expecting to sit behind ‘Point’ – a veritable blind spot as everyone knows – but as the stand stretches and curves, our seats ended up being closer to Extra Cover. Also we were at the right height – not low enough to feel the wire fencing on our faces and not high enough to feel like the MRF blimp. Our seats were also in the shade, a fact that we appreciated as we saw the poor sods in the opposite stands getting suntanned for free.

A word on the crowd then. The bleachers were getting filled even as our throats were getting hoarse, and it was a beautiful sight. How do you explain a 45-year-old woman sitting all by herself in a plastic seat under an indifferent sun? She was neither cool looking nor coolly dressed, just a middle-class housewife who must have packed her husband lunch and seen her kids off at the bus stop, and then taken the train quietly to Churchgate Station for a man who was neither spouse nor child but perhaps at that moment, something more. Or the old men at our hotel, 60 something to a day but happy as children trick-or-treating. They had flown all the way down from England, leaving their wives behind, one last boy trip for the love of a boy who had realized after 24 years that he was too old to play. There were many others. 10-year-olds too young to be inspired but old enough feel the magic in the air. Infants hoisted on shoulders, the day a blur but who would later find themselves in a photograph taken on a cheap mobile phone, and point themselves out with pride and a claim to memory. Most people looked like they didn’t know anyone influential, but the ticket stub in their pockets showed that they knew how to get in. Sachin’s family was there too. His mom was watching her son’s first match, and brother, wife, kids and Achrekar sir, possibly the most loved coach in world cricket. There were also the bigwigs – politicians, businessmen and film stars. But none bigger than a small man in white; lion tamer, gladiator, conductor of an orchestra bigger than the sport itself.

For that’s how trivial the match had become. You could have put Australia instead of West Indies, and the crowd wouldn’t have known. All they knew, and all they cared about was that Tendlya was playing for India for the last time. Perhaps this is why tickets to the series were harder to come by than the World Cup final ones – that was for India, this was something more personal. Sachin had become the game, and the cricket– not Herculean to start with – blurred from contest to context. It was like the crowd, some 35000 strong and so much louder than that, wanted Sachin to know how much they loved him. A loud roar would engulf him from the stand he was fielding closest to, and even if it were Shami bowling to Samuels, the chant would have his name. At some point, the crowd asked for Dhoni to hand over the ball to Sachin, and the Indian captain became a national hero when he obliged. When it was our turn to bat – the Windies were all out for 182 – the crowd couldn’t wait for Sachin to come. Tradition has been for the Number 3 bat to be greeted with applause on getting out (as Rahul Dravid has admitted with grace and a wry shrug of the shoulders), but today the crowd was rooting for Indian wickets to fall from the time the openers came to bat. Yet somehow, it didn’t feel unpatriotic. It was just India making her priorities clear.

Sachin came to bat as Murali Vijay departed, to a West Indian guard of honor. As he walked towards the pitch, Wankhede embraced him with the loudest cheer it had to offer – a thrilled throaty and teary thank you. For even his welcome to the crease had the inevitable overtones of a sendoff. This was not about being greedy for more; this was about savouring what remained. Sachin joined Pujara in the middle, with the trademark poke at the pitch, the rolling of the shoulders, that unmistakable half squat and adjustment of the crotch guard and the customary surveying of the ground. There was also something new. For the first time, he bent down and touched the soil, seeking its blessing. And when he took strike, the crowd stood on its feet like one man and the chant, delirious and deafening, swirled like dust in a bullring. Every forward-defense was met with a loud roar, as if it were a six hoisted into the stands. Every bouncer was faced with loud boos, the crowd indignant at the bowler for daring to bowl a perfectly legal delivery. The mob – for that’s what we were – also grew inventive. The regular Saachin Sachin gave way Saaaaaachin Saaaaachin, a slow hypnotic drone designed to conserve energy and get the wind back into the lungs. And in the middle of it all, Sachin, unmoving as god in a temple, was not only unaffected by the chaos but inspired by it. As the cover drives started booming, the straight drive stepped out and the paintbrush flicks dabbed the outfield, the crowd, incredibly, found a higher decibel. Wankhede started out as a carnival, turned into a riot and then became theater as Sachin found his timing and pushed the clock back. But when Pujara got strike, the crowd sat down in one synced step and rested their bodies. It was so silent that you could have made a conference call and lied to your boss about being out for the match. If you were Pujara, you could have lied to yourself about being at the match – such was the contrast between the ends.

Sachin ended the day at 38 not out, and the crowd left, delighted at what they’d seen, thrilled about what was to come in the morning.

Daddu and I had found a new hotel as we’d checked out of the Grand Hotel thinking we’d stay with friends to save money. But as I had to work for that almost-employment-ending pitch, we figured a quiet room might be better. The Regent Hotel seemed like a good choice; it was close to Wankhede and closer to Leopold. And so after a burpy-lunch, we trooped in to check for rooms.

The hotel was unique, to say the least. It was almost like we’d walked into a wormhole and into Riyadh. The ‘no smoking’ signs were in Arabic. In the lobby were sprawled 4-5 Arabs in their traditional dress, in the midst of what appeared to our conditioned minds as the Jihad Conclave 2014. The rooms were nicer than those at the Grand, but the TV feed was entirely Arabic (till Daddu discovered the Indian channels on pressing the video mode). And for two happy vegetarians, there was not even Dal on the menu, but the poetically potent Mutton Nasif.

Daddu crashed, and I sat down to work. Some 6 straight hours later, I thought I had cracked something nice, and we stepped out – out into India – for dinner.

Day 2 of the match then. I reviewed the work sent by my juniors and we still managed to reach the stadium gate at 7.30 a.m. After a hasty but hearty breakfast at the Khau Galli close by, we entered Wankhede. By 8.45, the stadium was largely packed, and heaving with collective anticipation. The teams took to the field, and Sachin took guard once again.

And once again, he was the Sachin of old. The Sachin not only of yesterday but of many yesterdays. That still head, the decisive footwork, the preternatural sense of what the bowler was thinking, and the resultant extra time to choose the shot. And just like that, inside the hour, he had raced to his 68th Test half century. There were also a few misses, like the upper cut he tried off Tino Best. But it was the missing-of-old, when Sachin missed while trying an aggressive shot. During the change of overs, he patted Tino Best and the big man smiled, delighted like he had picked up a five-wicket-haul.

That was the loveliest part of it. Sachin played not like a grafter, an accumulator or a senior statesman, but like the boy we had fallen in love with so many years ago. He got out for 74, abruptly, unexpectedly and anti-climactically – to a boyish, intent-laden cheeky cut that didn’t come off. And as a funereal hush descended on Wankhede, it was like the curtain falling on our childhood.

Sachin began the walk back to the dressing room, alone with his thoughts, perhaps not realizing that a second innings was unlikely. In the meantime, the crowd – acutely achingly aware – was at its loudest, as if hoping the clamor might stop him from leaving the field. Just as he was about to cross over the rope, he stopped, turned and raised his arms in acknowledgment. And then he was a small figure walking up a long flight of stairs, and then he was gone.  

The giant screen kept showing Sachin’s last trudge back, and the match on the field stopped as the crowd applauded once again. Pujara made a well-deserved hundred and Rohit Sharma a fluent one, but the crowd was baying for Dhoni to declare. We left immediately after Sachin got out; the India-West Indies series had started.

We went to Pizza by the Bay, for umm…pizzas. The tables were filled with fans like us, and every 5 minutes, an impromptu scream of Saachin Sachin would break out. We saw the same as we walked past other restaurants – a pure, unadulterated, un-orchestrated outpouring of love. And loss.

Day 3 began on a solemn note, the realization of not seeing Sachin walk out to bat had long settled in. But he was still there on the field, and for now, that was enough. If anything, the crowd was louder, fresh after a good night’s rest and determined to make the most of every Sachinstant. Dhoni threw him the ball again, and for two overs, the stadium sounded like Sachin were batting.

But soon it was all over, and it was over too soon. The West Indian wickets fell in a tumble, almost like their batsmen had laced their shoes together. The Indian players exulted, Sachin grabbed a wicket as a souvenir, and the moment started to dawn on all of us. I daresay it dawned on everyone in the middle too. Dhoni issued a terse order and the team formed a rolling, mobile guard-of-honor as the players left the field.

I think there was a presentation, a ceremony where someone picked up some award and something was said. Everyone had eyes and ears only for Sachin. The politicians tried to look puffed and important as they handed out mementos, and were booed as their names were taken. And then Ravi Shastri, that crisp commentator of clichés, said his best words ever: “Sachin, over to you.”

How does one describe what has been seen by all? Sachin, surrounded by his wife and children, walked up holding a sheet of paper. He tried to speak but we would not let him. We too had so much to say. And so we chanted his name like we had never said it before, we clapped like these weren’t our hands, all in hope that we could tell him how much he meant to us. 

And then he spoke. For a shy, intensely private person, for a man of few words, a 20-minute extempore speech was a masterful effort. With a choked voice and wet eyes, Sachin thanked all those who had played a role in his cricketing career. There were no big words, but there were beautiful ones. Like referring to wife Anjali as “the best partnership of my life” and telling us that “Saaachin Sachin would reverberate in my ears till my breathing stops”. It was a Sachin Special; he had saved his best for retirement day.

But Wankhede wanted more, and got more. Sachin did a lap of the field – hoisted on the shoulders of Dhoni, the Indian Captain and Virat Kohli, the legatee – waving the tricolor to a bedlam of chants, claps and cries. It was indeed a champion’s farewell.

But it couldn’t be over with just a public goodbye. Sachin’s last act on the cricket pitch was to walk back alone to the 22-yards that had given him everything, and say thank you. More student than master, like he had always been.

We advanced our tickets and flew back home, to our wives, kids, EMIs and jobs (yup, I managed to hold on to mine). We felt empty but not as empty as we’d thought we would. Being there at Wankhede and the three days of sustained high emotion had been catharsis, and more importantly, closure. We felt like Dr. Seuss when he said: “Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened”.

To those who throw around big phrases like Impact Index, we have this to say. The true impact of a player on sport is beyond stats and winning percentages. It is about how you affected the game itself. About how you inspired a generation to pick up the bat and taught another how to forget their burdens. It is about how brightly you shone in the dressing room even as a fading light; while at your peak you were the sun itself. It’s about how you commandeered not just grudging respect but gushing praise from the very best you dueled with. It is about how you got an entire nation to start, stop and work its life around yours. It is about how much happiness you gave, by the mere act of being there.

So thank you, Sachin, thank you for more than just the cricket. In a world of fickle fans and fleeting heroes, your poster on our walls shall stay. As will the 10 tattooed on our wrists.

Saaaachin Sachin!
Ram Cobain & Gaurav Dudeja
16th November 2013

Thursday, August 22, 2013

A good man goes away.

Last Sunday, the 18th of August 2013 – at 8.35 am to be precise – I lost my father-in-law to carcinoma of the pancreas. He was 58.

58 is no age to die. It’s not even the legal age to retire from work, much less from life. It’s the age to saunter into the autumn of existence, where one walks with a hop and a hum, knowing that sweat and hard work are blurs in the rearview mirror and a life of rest, relaxation and richness waits. Much like a long-paying FD that finally matures, and tax free.

The irony is this: for a long while after he was diagnosed, my father-in-law, a natural skeptic of hospitals and medical witchery, felt he was doomed. We had heard the C word in February, and while the months rolled by, he was still counting his days. Then something happened. He gave in to hope. He began to believe. He gave the doctors the benefit of the doubt and himself a fighting chance. And he put on the boxing gloves.

Every three days, he would give a blood sample to see how his body was coping. He would also receive blood – platelet transfusions when his own levels dropped. Also Sodium, Potassium and Glucose refills every now and then. He sparred with Chemotherapy – over 12 cycles in the beginning, and walked away without losing his hair. Chemo was followed up with Immunotherapy, where the anti-cancer medics were chased with an 8-hour IV drip of drugs to cut off power to the malignant cells. He also ate a big fistful of pills everyday, swallowing them down gamely with the stoic smile of one who knows that sometimes you have to get dirty to win. His back ached so much that he couldn’t sleep and his stomach hurt so bad that he couldn’t be awake without pain. But he never cried. If anything, he was amazed at the thing eating up his insides. As he lost weight, he was surprised at his trousers falling rather than being worried at what it meant.

Not that he wasn’t a smart man. He was a Mechanical Engineer from IIT Madras, and he had said yes to me as a son-in-law. But he was a simple man. One who didn’t read more into things than was required. Yes, he spoke about making a will, but never made one. And when the reports (for a long while) showed that the cancer was spreading, he believed the doctor’s stubborn litany that the results were wrong. We thought the doctor was nuts – certainly he was eccentric enough – but he was the only one who spoke of a cure while everyone else we went to for a second (third/fourth/fifth) opinion believed otherwise. Truth be told – that doctor was the only one who believed even when we, the family, did not.

And he was almost right.

My father-in-law was next put on Radiotherapy, 10-minute sessions five days a week. Boosted with a Chemo dose every alternate Saturday. And the results were wonderful. His appetite was better, he gained a kilo and even resumed making his own early-morning coffee. The physical signs were for once, backed by science. The scan made happy reading – the secondary growth (in the lungs/liver) was dissolving and the primary (in the pancreas) was necrotic – dying or dead and incapable of evil.

It was a wow moment. It was epiphany and poetry and drunken-glee. Six months of dreading were finally getting over. I remember my father-in-law telling me that he was "completely cured", his voice carrying the conviction of the doctor's prognosis. This was around the 13th of the month. My wife and 11-month old son had spent some two weeks in Chennai, and I was getting off a crazy work month, and so we took off to Coorg for a 3-day road trip. We got back to Bangalore on the night of the 16th – tired, sapped and also fatigued – when my mom-in-law called at 11 p.m. My father-in-law had fallen on the floor thrice and had vomited blood once. He was conscious but they were taking him to the hospital.

We booked tickets on the first flight out and packed afresh. The night had become a nightmare.

The hospital was like it always had been, but not quite. My father-in-law had tubes sticking in his nose, drips attached to the back of his hands and electrodes zigging out of his chest. He was in coma and on the ventilator. He never gained consciousness.

The root problem was internal bleeding, a result of a skyfall in platelet levels. Platelets (good for you if you don’t know) keep the blood coagulated, and a drop in count means that your blood thins so much that you bleed. Or to be more graphically honest, your blood bleeds. A fall in platelets was an expected side effect of radiation, but the severity of internal bleeding wasn’t. It also led to such low BP that it wouldn’t show up on the machine. Which in turn meant that blood wasn’t being supplied to the brain, the kidney or other important parts of the body.

There was just enough juice in the BP to keep the heart functioning (though it had failed once the night before, and defibrillators and injections had just about gotten the beat back). And thus passed Saturday. In status quo that was bleak blank limbo, a tableaux of uncertainty. Little did we know that dawn would bring clarity of the worst kind.

My father-in-law’s heart rate fell once more on Sunday morning, and CPR again brought him back to life. From 112 bpm to 30 bpm and now back to 80. We were called in to say our goodbyes. But how does one say goodbye? This is not like putting the phone down or seeing a friend off at the lift. This is final. But this cannot be final.

Or so we believed. Even when the duty doctor said that if we were short of cash, we could stop the medicines. We believed because the man on the ICU bed did. We believed because here was a heart that was still beating and wanting to beat death.

In 15 more minutes, it would all be over.

My wife’s maternal uncle called us back from a walk to the coffee station, saying that the heart rate had fallen again. As we ran back, my wife asked me to go in, as she was scared. As I walked up to the bed, the heart monitor was a straight line. A dull, numbing flat. The duty doctor told me it was all over, and took an ECG to confirm.

Everyone cried, though some of us hid our tears well. The ride back home in the ambulance – with my wife, her sister, me and the man who used to be my father-in-law – was the worst I’ve ever taken so far.

The cremation was on expected cultural lines but was also a revelation. My father-in-law did not have a funeral but a 21-gun send off. The house was filled with people and the street wasn’t enough. Neighbours, relatives, friends and those with whom he had a fleeting acquaintance – like the ironing woman – were there in full strength. Most stayed for over 5 hours. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

The turnout was remarkable because my father-in-law has always been a low-profile man. A regular, ordinary man. A man with no bigger faults than an inability to suffer incompetence and bad driving. A man with no obvious talents, save perhaps a most special one.

He was a good man.

To quote Harvey Dent, he was a decent man in an indecent time. He cared. He would go out of his way to help others. He was childlike (for instance, before the disease, he couldn’t stay up after 9 p.m. no matter what). And he was cool.

Truth is, he didn’t lose to cancer. We all did. Dear second-father-of-mine, I know you’re in a nice place. How can you not be when we all saw you off with so much love? And I know you’re chuckling away as you watch your grandson – the twinkle of your eye – amaze you and us with his new tricks. He may not know it yet – but he’ll miss you just as much as you do. As much as we all do.

Peace, love, empathy
Ram Cobain

Friday, February 15, 2013

God loves us all.

Slayer. Say it slowly, like a word you’re hearing for the first time, and not something you’ve known for 18 years (that’s probably how long I’ve been listening to them, and the band themselves have been around for 30 or more). Say it again. Even softly, if you want to. And unless I’ve been very wrong for a very long time, you’ll feel something. Even before their music, the name triggers a reaction. There is a sense of occasion, of standing before something bigger than you, something very powerful. There is the thrill of a beautiful foreboding, a happy dread that you’d want to linger o

The word I’m looking for is cult.

The staggering thing is that the music justifies the name. Slayer has been the defining metal band not only for millions of fans like me, but also for other defining metal bands. Bands faster and (daresay even heavier) than Slayer, learnt how to get fast and heavy from Slayer. In the world of the Big Four, they are the Biggest One.

For a while now, the Indian common man has been punched about by one bad news after another, but the Indian metal fan has never had it better. In the last few years, Iron Maiden have played thrice, Megadeth twice, Opeth twice, Orphaned Land twice and Metallica, Kreator, Satyricon, Children of Bodom, Machinehead and even Enslaved have taken stage. But through all this richness, the greedy, ingrate metal fan in me has kept asking, “But what about Slayer? When will they come? Will they ever come?”

Someone upstairs heard me. Heard us. And smiled. And then it was official: on October 20th, 2012, Slayer would play in Bengaluru.

The venue was again obscure – Bhartiya City, somewhere in Bharat. The hallowed wet mud of Palace Grounds now seems forever mired in mediocrity, relegated to hosting political rallies and curtain exhibitions. But truth is, all a metalhead needs is a stage, and we are grateful to the guys who lent us their land. Also for the chance to see parts of Bengaluru hitherto unexplored. Eternal gratitude to DNA networks too – hope you made a profit, you’ve earned it, my friends.

So the evening came. The sky was bleak, then black and soon enough there was a chill in the air. Perfect! The first roar went up with the trademark Eagle crest backdrop. If a doubting fan ever needed a reality pinch, this was it. Slayer would play tonight, the only question was what all and for how long.

My friends thought they’d start with ‘Angel of Death’, but something told me that they’d choose the title track from their latest album, ‘World Painted Blood’. And as the opening, funereal riff from that song began, I knew this would be a blessed evening.

And so it was. For close to two awesome hours, Tom Araya, Kerry King, Dave Lombardo and Gary Holt (Exodus; the ‘live replacement’ for the unwell Jeff Hanneman) delivered Slayer to the fans. I’d like to deviate from normal reviews and not go song by song here – the set list will be covered in this piece – but what I’d like to focus on is the overall Slayer experience. And what Slayer means to me (us).

I’d read a couple of interviews of Tom Araya where he’d said that the show would be “very Slayer”. And I cannot think of a better way to put it, or a more honest promise. In another Slayer interview, Kerry King (Or is it again Tom?) says: “One of us might have an off night, but the experience will still be very Slayer” (This is from their DVD extras). The gig was very Slayer and no one had an off night. Kerry King lived up to his surname and played bone-crunching slow doomy intros and blitzkrieg-like solos with equal nonchalance, while Dave Lombardo pounded the skins as if they weren’t flat enough for his liking. Tom Araya, whose vocal range after three decades of aggression does desert him sometimes – was the dark priest we’ve always heard. He even nailed the opening scream from ‘Angel of Death’ and had us bowing when he folded his hands and ever so gently said, “Namaste”. And Gary Holt? While Hanneman’s blond “I don’t give a fuck but here’s a great riff” presence cannot be imitated, Holt held his own and more. He played every Hanneman riff/solo like he’d written it himself, and for the time he was on stage, we believed him.

Slayer to me, is about two primal things. One is strength. I feel stronger listening to Slayer. There is no weakness anywhere – onstage or on ground, when Slayer plays. Here men walk tall with broader shoulders and wider chests. Most bands eat off your energy but Slayer feeds you power. The music enriches. It is addictive. It makes you feel immortal. No wonder those who cannot feel the magic but can only feel the terror, ask for Slayer to be banned. If I were to be in their unfortunate place, I would too.

The second, defining Slayer DNA to me, is chaos. It is not speed or heaviness or blasphemous lyrics. It’s the maelstrom the song unleashes on you. The solos, for instance, on rare occasions aren’t the fastest ever – but they’d be the most chaotic ones there possibly can be.

Strength and chaos were there in full attendance. Riff after riff, lead after lead, blast beat after blast beat; the band grabbed us by our throats and gave us the very Slayer experience.

They played longer than I’ve seen them play on their DVDs, and the classics were all there. There was hardly any talk, except for the legendary Araya wit like this introduction to ‘Mandatory Suicide’ – “This is a song about freedom. And freedom comes with a price.” And as if in respect to the evening, the sound was very good too. And when the last song, the Pompeii-piece called ‘Raining Blood’ came on, I didn’t want an encore. I was battered enough. And for me and the Slaytanic Wehrmacht around me, it was time to pick our necks off the ground.

To put things in respectful perspective, the 20-murderous-songs they played (in chronological order) were:

World Painted Blood
War Ensemble
Die by the Sword
Chemical Warfare
Hate Worldwide
Spirit in Black
Mandatory Suicide
Altar of Sacrifice
Jesus Saves
Seasons in the Abyss
Hell Awaits
Angel of Death
South of Heaven
Silent Scream
Dead Skin Mask
Raining Blood

At this point, I’d like to make a special mention. This one goes to my good friend Ferzad and his band, Brahma. They had the enviable and the unenviable task of opening for Slayer, and for me – and a few lucky friends of mine – they were a godsend. ThanksF to them, we got ‘All Area Access’ passes that allowed us to walk like Moses and part security at will. Thanks to them, a friend and I got to shake hands and say a few words with Kerry King, whom we caught backstage. I know I mumbled something that went “aggajdsdgdhjsjjsakhsddjdjdj” but hopefully it had that weak-kneed-honest-fan rave about it. My friend managed to get a snap of the two of us talking, and it’s the best blurriest picture in the universe. We also managed to see the entire show from in front of the barricade, which meant there was only Slayer before our eyes. And when the officials got a little feisty and looked to push us back, Tom actually asked for our line of fans to be allowed even more in front. But that’s not all. When ‘Raining Blood’ reached its chaotic conclusion and the band took their bow (and threw out drumsticks and plectrums), a Gary Holt pick with the words “Holt Awaits” landed in front of me.

Truly, god loves us all.

Peace, love, empathy
Ram Cobain
21st Oct 2012

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

An open letter to SRT

This, sir, is admittedly not a good time for you.

It’s clear to all of us. It’s evident by the way you take guard. No longer are you very worried about the sightscreen. That flat backdrop that no other batsman noticed but seemed to bother only you. Perhaps because the bowler on the other end didn’t. Perhaps because it was the same colour as surrender. And then there are other signs. No more do you so keenly adjust the front of your pants, that ungainly yet absolutely masculine of gestures – a man among the breathing bodies, a hero by right, a Spartan intent on victory and uninterested in looking pretty. Your eyes have changed too. The twinkle has given way to something a little more serious, a little more wary and dare I say, even bewildered. The other day, you even raised your bat as if you wanted to hit the ground after getting bowled. To those who’ve seen you so much, it was less anger or frustration. You were perplexed. Beaten perhaps, in a new strange way.

If this isn’t a good time for you, it’s very bad for us. We who remember what it was like, not so long ago. We who have missed flights but not fights for you. We who have turned living rooms into stadiums and stadiums into bull rings. We who have seen you wield the willow like it were Thor’s hammer and the Reaper’s scythe fused in one. We who were the chant, the clap and the scream to your straight drive, backfoot-punch-through-the-covers and the uppercut. We who felt like all was right with the world by just watching you walk out to bat. And now, we’re just as flustered.

Yes you’re 39 now, and so it’s natural for that dirty R word to chase you like a dogged left-arm spinner. Some weeks ago, an impolite, smug and self-righteous journalist cornered you into talking about it. His smile said that he was proud to have persisted with a line of questioning that decent news-people would have abandoned much earlier. It was uglier than asking a man his salary or a women for her birth certificate. It was even more deplorable because of the way he asked it – like he’d paid for your pads when you were 12 and so you owed him an answer. He then clung on with a Rottweiler’s tenacity and got you to say, “I’ll be taking things series by series”. And now the England series is on, and while you’ve gotten out to some of the better balls, the scorecard does make for unhappy reading. So I’d like to say a couple of things here. Call this ‘Frankly Speaking’, Version 2.0. There are lots and lots and lots of us who still believe in you and always will. There are lots and lots and lots of us who are waiting for you to come good – and know that you will. If fandom isn’t new for you, neither is criticism. And over the course of a long career, nor are lean patches. So hang in there. Or take a break to iron out a few things if you have to. But don’t jump to retirement yet. I’d also like to remind you of what you’d said earlier, on this same terrible topic. That the final call would be yours alone. I know you didn’t mean the selection committee but mass opinion. Please do not get so tired of the situation that you end up listening to those who know no better.

I don’t have an issue with objective appraisal but there seems to be a gleeful call for your head, a kind of public gloating that I can’t understand or accept. It’s not like everyone else in the team is playing exceptional cricket. But then, you’re used to being singled out. Even at the height of your powers, there were some for whom you weren’t good enough. So it’s very easy for them to ask for your head when your cloak of brilliance is wearing thin. Truth is, superhuman talent is intimidating because it looks super human. Your fallibility tells them that you’re flesh and blood after all. It tells them mistakenly, that you’re just like them. So I have this to say to you, and them. Your time in the sun may be running out, sir, but theirs never came.

Pause also, in this dark hour, to allow yourself a smile. Remember what you’ve really accomplished. You sir, have done more than change the way the game is played or inspire a future line of warriors. You’ve also managed a much tougher thing than scoring a hundred hundreds. That is a staggering statistic, but one that limits you to 22 yards. To roughly quote Rohit Brijnath who said this of Federer: “Others can win but not like this.” Many can dispatch a ball through the covers but none can do this. You have made children finish their homework early, adults forget their cares and the ailing feel happy to be alive. (Though it must also be said that you’ve made the perfectly healthy call in sick at work). You’ve made waifs walk like their bellies were full, you’ve given struts to weak men and made India unite in a non-violent way reminiscent only of Gandhi. Here, sir, is the true measure of your contribution. This sir, is your real Impact Index.

I’d also like to remind you of another fact. While cricket may be the only life you’ve known, it still isn’t life. It’s sport. A game. Something simple and (yes) silly at the heart of it. So in whatever time you think you have left – please shut everything else out and go enjoy. Be happy as a 16 year old. Don’t defend, but offend. Have a ball. Have many. Play like no one’s watching. And get that twinkle back.

And when – and may that day never come – if you do decide to put that bat away, please know that many, many, many of us retire with you. Yes, we’ll cheer an India victory, follow the odd game and even gasp when Kohli tries a Tendulkar. But it will be with the detached eye of the sports follower, the Indian who wishes the best for his nation. It’ll be mostly through online scorecards and corridor banter; no longer will TV seats be grabbed like prized lottery tickets and no longer will life move in slow motion.

This is not to say there will not be other champions. This is only to say that a generation that grew up and grew old with you will have nothing left to give to those who try and follow your small giant footsteps. Our time too, will be up.
Saachin Sachin!
Ram Cobain

If you notice the prefix “sir”, this is deliberate. Many summers ago, my brother and co-believer Gaurav Dudeja and I decided to anoint you Sir Sachin Tendulkar. This we felt did not require the Queen’s permission. It was ours to give freely but we were stingy about whom we chose to give it to. We’ve given it to no one else.

(Picture Source: Mark Dadswell/Getty Images AsiaPac)

Monday, October 8, 2012

When writing doesn’t come easy.

Today's that day.

Today is the last day of my first job.

I came to JWT Delhi on April Fools Day, 2001 – flashing a trainee’s foolish grin, intimidated by advertising and the sheer size of the agency.

I came for one month and have stayed on for close to 11 years.

Eleven fucking years. I can’t help but use the F word when I write this. It has been that fucking long.

It has also been that fucking sweet.

As I leave, let me tell you something about this company, something that’s true but not told often enough. It’s the ocean of opportunity and of learning. JWT gives you the freedom to fly and stretch yourself. It is so huge that you can try briefs many sizes too big for you. As a trainee I got to work on films and campaigns, and the chance to pit my brains against those daily earning more than my monthly stipend.

And don’t mistake its size for the lack of soul. JWT takes care of its people. I had a nasty bike accident – broke my skull clean – and was at AIIMS because my best friend’s father was a doctor there and I would get the best care. JWT thought I might be there because we couldn’t afford any better and wanted me to move into a swanky hospital. This when I was a junior writer and entitled to 7000 rupees of medical help. I didn’t shift, but 9 years later, I still remember that gesture.

It forgives. I’ve put in a few debatable food/conveyance bills in my junior days, including one Pakistani food bill where I doubly profited because of the exchange rate. I’ve been found out, hauled up but not fired. (This is not to set a precedent and maybe I’m lying).

It is a fun place to come to work to. I’ve never once dragged my feet to office in 11 years. Truth is, ideas come to happy people and this place allows you to be yourself. True, there may be those who disagree with your need to play heavy metal loudly or wear Slayer tee shirts or shorts or slippers or drink beer in the afternoon, but mostly you can still do the good things.

It’s also the place that can make you richer on the personal front. It made me meet my soul brother, Gaurav Dudeja and my real-life superhero, Sachin Tendulkar. One most of you may not know, the other knows me by my first name. And for both, I really cannot thank JWT enough.

(At this point, even I wonder why I’m leaving).

Wipe of tissue. Tug at testicle. Back to note then.

I owe a lot to many people here. Some who’ve made me, and some who’ve made me stronger by being jerks (of course, you know who you are).

Juhi, my first-and-always-boss, who showed me how to wield a pen and who saw my arrogance for cuteness and made me the big shot I always was. I had the greatest fortune of starting my advertising journey under her. How you start often decides how far you’ll go. She’s can lead, inspire and dazzle. She taught me my craft, and equally importantly, she instilled in me the values that make you a better person at your job – not being insecure, backing a junior, giving him credit and the best of chances. All this, by just being herself. My palm is always at your feet, sir – just as I hope your hand stays on my head.

Sandy, my art-partner-turned-brother for over 10 years. He made me lose my dreadlocks and I made him put on a few pounds, but he’s the best man to be teamed up with. His art is excellent, his integrity better and he has often improved my writing. He shares my careless contempt for incompetence. We’ve pissed off most of our seniors because we couldn’t give respect if it wasn’t earned. It thrilled us because it put pressure on us to deliver – we knew our work alone would save us. It’s been that way for all these years, thank you, bro.

Aggi – deliberately unassuming, deliberately angelic and deliberately brilliant. Thank you for bringing us to Bombay and the national role you created just for us. Receding hairline apart, I hope to be more like you someday.

Preethi, the softest toughie I’ve known. Thank you for the perspective, the sheltering and the agenda-less support. You’re one of the finest servicing people I’ve worked with. I’m also a huge fan of your energy, your honesty and your sailor’s tongue. Please change nothing.

Tista and Senthil, for the free rein they gave us on our brands. Thank you also for the confidence you showed in me.

Tarun, for the PIPs he’ll still pay me.

My team – Mayuresh, Van, Kuber, Sagar, Nishant, Abey, Karan, Deepak and Jay. Also Eshani. I couldn’t have asked for a more passionate, driven and loyal bunch. I have relied on you more than you know. Last words of advice: fuck the shit and believe in yourself. You’re all very good. Also because I say so.

My extended Unilever team: Pete, Divya, Tanvi, Siddharth, Mahek, Nikita, Vikram, Sonal and Roneeta. You’ve owned the brand as much as I have, and it has been a pleasure working with you.

The 3 Ss on Amit Enterprises: Samarth, Sameer and Shvetank, and the Colonel Sachin Anand and his troops on Ahuja/Smirnoff. We’ve done some of the better work in this agency, and I really owe you a lot for that. I know we’re not the easiest team to work with, thanks for putting up with us and me.

My friends in the films department: Vishant, Kaushal, Anu, Asmit and Ahvil. Filmmaking was so much more fun because of you. Also my friends across departments and those I haven’t worked with too. I will miss you.

There are also many other truly good people I would like to mention here: Rajul, Chandrakant, Kiran, Gorettie, Ashwini, Zelia, Rose, Cyril, Sachin, Rakesh and gang. You’re often unsung but it’s your commitment that makes it easier for us to work. I’ve only ever got solutions from you. Much love and all the best.

Mahendra and his team in Dispatch, the security guards and the canteen boys. I have felt your love, and I thank you for it.

(Sorry for rambling on. Guess part of me wants to keep writing so that I stay far away from saying bye.)

JWT has been much more than an organization for me. It has been both teaching school and a playground, mentor and a friend, canvas and art itself. I have no doubt that the company has made me what I am, and in turn, I hope I have been able to do it proud. Occasionally, at least.

I have decided to give the big bad world a shot and see if I can make it there. I won’t say goodbye because life is too fucking short and I have had too good a time here, to not want to return.

I’m sorry that I’ve said “fucking” too many times. But it’s just that “awesome” doesnt communicate the same thing as “fucking awesome”. Plus JWT has been home and I’ve always seen you guys as family.

So blame it on my upbringing.

Peace, love, empathy and a big fucking thank you for everything!

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Violent Revolution

Like all revolutions, it began fearlessly and then hit a brick wall.

Make that a concrete wall. An iron wall. An ironic heavy metal wall, if you will.

First, the great Indian government denied Iced Earth – one of the co-headlining acts – their visas. For unclear and clearly vague reasons. And then the hallowed Palace Grounds, no stranger to heavy metal, inexplicably retracted/did not give permission. And if that wasn’t bad enough, many sponsors pulled out at the last minute.

Those were the odds. Now stack them up against the intent. Bangalore Open Air was India’s first attempt at being a daylong metal fest. Something that borrowed from Wacken and would also pay back in full, by sending there one of India’s best, judged Wacken-class after a grueling slugfest with other local zonal acts. BOA was to be 12 hours of metal massacre, with 4 zonal finalists competing for a spot at Wacken, followed by 6 of the bigger Indian bands, and to be sweet-spotted by 2 international acts.

It was designed to be a day only for those who had seen enough Sam Dunn documentaries to want to script that own.

Like I said, the revolution hit a wall. And then like all good revolutions, it didn’t lose steam or die out. It simply turned violent. Suidakra, one of Germany’s melodic death metal bands with Celtic influences, stepped in for Iced Earth. Acharya Institute of Technology, a less-known college in a lesser-known area lent their grounds, and as far as the sponsors that pulled out went – BOA just went along without them.

Quite often, the quality of a pilgrimage is determined by the effort the pilgrim has to put in. And this was no exception. The change of venue and the sheer purity of purpose meant that those who flirt with metal stayed home. Kreator being the main act, didn’t help their cause. Now to BOA. The college was far away. On Hesaraghatta main road, off the face of Bangalore. So far away that a cold beer would be warm by the time you raised it to your lips. But once you reached, you knew you were among your own. The ground was big and the stage – a tribute to one of the biggest metal legends ever, Ronnie James Dio – was big enough. If the revolution needed a sign, this was it.

I missed the Wacken winners, Zygnema, as it took me a while to locate the media desk and get my entry-band. It’s entirely my loss, as they must have been good enough to beat Crypted, who I thought were simply magnificent. The other zonal band – Damage Era from Gangtok – was tight but today wasn’t their day. One zonal band couldn’t make it; and so three bands ultimately competed for a spot at Wacken. After the zonal bands, the first of the “non-Wacken-competing” Indian acts took stage.  

Theorized, a melodic thrash band from Bangalore, was a last minute addition to the list. They started the first mosh pit of the day and played some of their newer stuff like ‘Genetic Variants’ and ‘Venomous Tormentia’. You could see that the intensity was up and so was the sound. For while the levels were going from loud to low to muddy when the zonal bands were playing, this clearly was the gig at the next level.

Albatross from Mumbai played next. They are doomy, gloomy and this was the first time I saw them play. Actually, the first time I heard their music or even heard of them. But they were quite good. They also played tribute to the Dio stage by doing a very competent rendition of ‘Holy Diver’. Their original, ‘The Dining Table’, whet the appetite though the intro section reminded you of Megadeth’s ‘Sweating Bullets’. 

Bevar Sea took stage after Albatross, and you could see that the crowd loved them. The riffs were slow and ominous and brooding, a cross between Black Sabbath and Mastodon and something more funereal. They also looked like one of the more professional acts – the band art was stunning and added to the ambience. ‘Abishtu’ was the pick of the list, the crowd chanting the chorus like they’d written it. And when Jack ended with “We’re Bevar Sea…” the crowd knew what to say: “…and so are you!”. Overall, it was a tight performance with a fair bit of showmanship thrown in.

But I was craving for something heavier, something that would grab me by my throat and grudge me my breath. 1833 AD, a bleak black metal band from sadda Dilli, was the answer. Now, I’ve heard of these guys but never heard them play, and I realized what I’ve been missing. The vocalist, Nishant, could be from Norway and the fury and beauty of their compositions was unbelievable. They had to pause when the guitarist’s string broke and bled him, and that’s when the crowd demanded a drum solo and Raghav gamely obliged. It was a moment that I saw with the clarity of oncoming headlights – here I was among my own, here metal heads could ask and they would be heard. Here, the revolution was in safe hands. And when I heard the much demanded ‘Who will kill the Emperor?’ I knew Ihsahn had something to think about. 1833 AD, truly, you are something from another age.

Epiphany hit me like a beautiful woman whispering sweet nothings. This show was getting better with each band and we hadn’t gotten to the main act yet. Only, the seductive siren turned out to be a four-member, all male act that growled, vomited and carried the burden of doom. Dying-fucking-Embrace. Take-a-fucking-bow-already. They began with ‘Blood Rites’ from the Misanthrope EP, and took everyone back some twenty years. As a band, their importance to the scene cannot be overstated. They were tough on the ear when Indian metal was finding its feet and they’re still tough on the ear when newer acts are walking tall. They demand respect, earn it easily and hold their own. ‘As Eternity Fades’ saw Jimmy Palkhivala rouse himself from the afternoon siesta and attack the strings, and the soloing was as much a lesson as it was a treat. ‘Grotesque Entity’, ‘Degeneration’, ‘Dagda – His Time Has Come’, ‘The Passing Away’ and ‘Spawn of the Depths’ (with its Slayer-like opening riff), were gems rarely brought out and lovingly spewed by Vikram Bhat, whose throat is as diseased as it is palliative.

Eccentric Pendulum played next, and while they were tight, their progressive metal act found it tough to make inroads after Dying Embrace. ‘My Eucalyptine Death’ was well received, but to tell you the truth, the long day was beginning to take its toll, and the crowd looked like they wanted to save some energy for Kreator.

The same happened with Kryptos, one of Bangalore’s own. They were the last of the bigger Indian bands to take stage, and I dare say they would have been even better received if they played earlier. ‘Mask of Anubis’, ‘Heretic Supreme’ and ‘Descension’ were some of the songs they nailed. Nolan (vocals/guitar) connected well with the fans and as they walked off, chants of “Krytos…Kryptos!” stayed on.

Indian metal had raised its fist and punched its way through. I remember feeling thankful for being there, for feeling that even without seeing Suidakra and Kreator, this day was a landmark one in our metal history.

And then it was time for the German-Celtic metallers. Never mind the fact that Suidakra had just recently played in Bangalore some four months ago, when they opened for Opeth. In fact, sometimes, familiarity breeds appreciation. When Suidakra took stage and the banshee bagpipes filled the air, the very heavens opened in applause. What began as a drizzle soon became a downpour. Imagine brooding skies, rain and the haunting melody of the pipes. The vocalist Arkadius Antonik in fact, stepped off stage and got drenched with all of us, who loved him more for it. Few songs later, the drummer joined him as the duo crowd surfed, much to the alarm of the Security guys. The bagpipes were complemented with a Mandolin piece, and when Suidakra played their last number, the devastatingly-beautiful instrumental ‘Wartunes’, it was obvious that they had made new fans. Suidakra announced the Wacken winners and said they’d be playing the week after with Zygnema and Kryptos. For free, at Palace Grounds.

And as they left to loud cheering, the crowd grew silent. The day had been long and lovely, but the night promised more. The Kreator crew fiddled with lights and sound check, the backdrop came up and stood and teased, and you could have cut the anticipation with a blunt knife. German thrash gods, Kreator took stage more than half an hour after their scheduled time. And the first song they played? Prophetically enough, it was ‘Violent Revolution’. And as Millie Petrozza screamed “Society has failed to tolerate me, and I have failed to tolerate society…”, we knew all was very right with the world. Here was a band we’d all idolized growing up, here was a man who was still our hero. Kreator played mostly their fast old stuff, and they played it fast and like they were young. Violent Revolution led to the title track from ‘Hordes of Chaos’, and the just released ‘Phantom Antichrist’ and then ‘Phobia’, ‘Extreme Aggression’, ‘People of the Lie’, ‘Voices of the Dead’, ‘Terrorzone’, ‘Enemy of God’, ‘Pleasure to Kill’, ‘Terrible Certainty’, ‘Endless Pain’ and the new-and-deceptively-softer ‘From Flood into Fire’ followed like a scream. Each song was perfectly set to Ventor’s belligerent bludgeoning; his drum kit glowered down from front-center of the dais. (As if one could have ignored him, even if he were to occupy the traditional back-of-stage spot). Sami Yli Sirnio, their other lead guitarist, played some blazing solos while maintaining an indulgent smile on his face, his calmness in complete contrast with the rage bursting from his six-stringer. Petrozza brought forth a huge Kreator flag and we knew itewas time to raise the ‘Flag of Hate’. Millie repeatedly commanded mosh pits to the left and right of stage and it was evident (and he said as much) that playing in India was as much a dream for them as it was for us. I might have missed a few songs or messed with the sequencing, but frankly, my head had other things to worry about. Like how to stay on while my neck tried to fling it off. For a band that had just celebrated its 25th anniversary, the years had left the fingers and the voice remarkably untouched. The riffs, the rage and the rasp – it was all were there. As was our respect. The last song was probably ‘Tormenter’, but I can’t be sure.

Kreator came as a whirlwind and left in the same way, without so much as an encore. But hopefully they loved what they saw, just as much as we did. Bangalore Open Air had not only survived, it had grown stronger as the curtain fell.

What does it mean for the scene? Good things, great things. A concert may end once the stage has been dismantled, but the statement lives on. Metal in India is alive and kicking. The bands know it. The fans know it. And hopefully now, the bureaucracy does too.

The violent revolution is here to stay.

P.S. This post was originally written for Metalindia

Thursday, July 8, 2010


All was wrong with the world.

A nice-looking girl, a nice-looking guy, sitting together but sitting alone.

I had come to my usual bar, and was by myself except for my draught – and there I saw them. They were the alonest people in the whole bar, aloner than me, maybe aloner than the whole city. Their bar stools were next to each other, their coasters close. But the girl was looking one way, the guy another. They said nothing, exchanged no smiles and made no conversation. They looked tired, aged beyond their years, irretrievably lost. And pained. Like they were sipping hangovers. The jukebox changed tunes, fervent voices sang of rock and roll and yet their heads did not sway and their fingers did not tap the counter. I kept time with my beer refills, and the minutes were short and long. Each time I looked at my mug, something had passed me by. And when I looked at them, nothing had. The girl, after many such minutes, said nothing. And the guy kept quiet. I was getting depressed by the glass. I thought of walking up to them, shaking them up and saying, “Boo!” Or if that was a bad idea, at least hitting on the girl. But I said nothing, did nothing. I just watched them, watched them watching the bar and watched them watching each other. The girl twirled her hair and the guy blinked. And when he reached for his drink, she leant forward ever so slightly. She turned her head away and he looked. She looked into his eyes and he stared.

And then the girl left, stiffly, singly, like she was always alone. The guy got up and followed. Only casually, silently, like he weren’t following. I felt for them just as silently, and had another beer. But after some fifteen minutes, she was back. And he was back. And they were back. He was smiling. He was playing with her hair and she was smiling like they were the only two people in the bar, the only two people in the whole city.

I don’t know what happened but all was right with the world.

ram cobain

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Pain is a face in the mirror.

20 years later, the world has come a full circle.

On 5th November 2009, chasing an Aussie total of 350 runs on run-hungry Hyderabad ODI wicket, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar made 175 runs off 141 balls.

18 runs were needed off 17 balls and there were 3 wickets in hand. And to no one’s surprise, the rabbits lived up to their name, and the little master, up to his curse.

India had lost after another sensational Sachin innings.

The critics continue to have a field day (no pun intended). Experienced as they are, they say that Sachin played a bad shot, that he, as a set batsman should have seen India home, that he should have finished things. To even think such a thing is not only cruel and criminally unjust – it questions his ability and strips the man of his fight and his heroism.

The fact is that there is a difference between opening the innings and being a finisher, a difference between setting the game up and performing the last rites. Dhoni at number 3 has a different role from a Dhoni at number 6, but then what saves him from the critic’s scythe is the fact that he is Dhoni and not Sachin.

Cricket is a team sport and is made up of 11 players. One player can be the Man of the Match but cannot be the team. Give the same equation to any other team in the world – Sri Lanka, Pakistan, New Zealand, SA, England or West Indies – and chances are, the champagne would have flowed long into the night, instead of the awe-filled pain the honest, passionate and educated Indian fan felt.

If the #2 team in the world cannot keep their nerve, is the title worth its weight?

To be a #2 team in the world means not just being physically and technically superior, but also being mentally tough. It means to curl up your fists, hold that breath in that dares to be the last, and to deliver.

The all-important question to be asked is that who failed to deliver?

There is only so much one man can do. Even in the epic Ind-Eng test match in Chennai, it took a brilliant Sachin hundred to win the game for India, and not lay to waste a breathtaking Sehwag 80-something blitzkrieg.

Sachin has often missed that Sachin.

20 years later, the world has come a full circle. There are the Pontings of the cricketing world who know and admit with an admiring grace that “it was not just the best innings Sachin has played, but perhaps the best that any player in the world has played.” And then there are those for whom he’ll never be good enough, no matter what he does. Those who would have bayed for his blood should he have gotten out say, 10 runs after reaching a simply staggering landmark. They would have smugly, sagely nodded, “I told you so… he’s playing for statistics and not for the team.”

17168 runs later, Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar has looked at the mirror, felt a pain that he only knows. And kept quiet. And once again, he has let his bat do the talking.

Peace, love, empathy
Ram Cobain

Saaachin Sachin