Anger management

Of late, I’ve started finding faults in people more often that not. I get irritated at things that I would have normally dismissed as silly or unworthy of my attention/thought. In short, I’m getting pained. It’s not so much about people paining me as me getting pained. I see the virian virtue of empathy slowly trickling away from my blood. But I ask, is it for my good or bad?? And how do I even get an answer to this?

I hate to get angry. It makes me lose control over my emotions, or rather, an expression of my emotions. Often I’ve wriggled out of the misery convincing myself, and trying to convince others that I’m not angry, but just irritated. But how thin is the line that separates irritation from anger?? True, I do not break glasses or throw things at people or shout at people at the top of my voice. In the few times that I’ve been really convinced of my anger, I’ve expressed it in my own ways. Often in funny ways, as witnesses claim.

It’s an art to hide a range of emotions behind a blank expression; I am but a dilettante. And anger robs one of the canvas to dabble in this art. Some argue that masking one’s expression is a dishonest pursuit, a travesty of emotions. That they have a right to know what others think and feel. But then don’t we need to look at both sides of the coin?? There is, perhaps, a third side??

I know I’m a hypocrite at heart. But, does owning it cleanse me of the sin of hypocrisy?? Also, does a false claim of hypocrisy make one a hypocrite?? I make no attempt to answer.

I greet people I loathe with an equally fervent smile as I would someone I consider close to me. It is so well-knitted into my demeanor, only a VERY few would actually notice the difference. But I admit the difference, however infinitely subtle.

Now, someone having a sudden surge of curiosity may ask, “Why all this badinage?” I have my reasons, vague and contrived as they may seem.

Let me elucidate, with a tactful use of bullets, of which I have become a fan of late.

• S borrowed my all-out the night before. He wanted it for 5 minutes, or so he claimed. Now, when someone borrows something u really need and assures u he will return it in 5 minutes, u expect him to return the something in 5 minutes. He returned it the next night, through an intermediary. My night, however, was spent in the envious company of mosquitoes, covering myself in a blanket in this dreadful Chennai heat in a desperate attempt to thwart off their ruthless attack. The greatest human civilizations were built on the sound foundations of empathy, a concern for fellow beings. When that is not forthcoming, u start wondering where our own civilization is headed to!!
• I had to submit a letter to prof. S. Which I did. He refused to take it on the irrefutable grounds that the sheet was folded, at three places, if I might add. Hence, I had to get it typed by the guy in the office. The guy was supposed to come in another 10 minutes, and I waited. As 10 became 20, I decided to take my chances and asked S if I could use the comp to type it out myself. “Can you type?” he asked. “Well, I can try.” Much to his surprise I typed it out at a fairly decent speed and finished in a few minutes. Took a print-out, deleted the .doc file. “Fine,” he accepted. I heaved a sigh or relief, a huge one at that. As I started walking out of the building, Ma’am S called me back. Prof. S, scrupulous that he is, had noticed a profound fault in my letter. The letter should have been dated the day before. Couldn’t I just strike out the date and write the correct one. I’ve even got a pen with black ink. Better type it out. Hmmm..
  

Test

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P.S. In case it does, can someone strip and flog the guy with the headband??

Maria Maria!!

An event that surreptitiously went unnoticed behind the World Cup hungama was this year’s Wimbledon. Even Federer’s outrageous performance, which one journalist claimed to be the best performance on grass since Jimi Hendrix's in the 60’s, escaped the attention it deserved otherwise. What did catch my attention was something else.

There was something about the two women’s finalists. One had muscles, looks and build that had an uncanny resemblance to that of a man. The other, to put it subtly, was flat-chested. It was a dreadful disappointment for a lot of us who had been religiously following the performances of the Sharapova’s and Hantuchova’s and Vaidisova’s.

In the yesteryears, I didn’t care so much for the Monica Seles’s and Sanchez Vicario’s as I did for the Steffi Graf’s and Gabriela Sabatini’s. In recent times, the increasing ubiquity of the Russians in women’s tennis (that has surpassed that of the Baldwin’s in Hollywood) has turned out to be a boon in disguise. They have revived what was thought to be a lost element in women’s tennis – grace and beauty on court, with no concession on talent.

As much as we like to see Sharapova looking her prettiest self, we love to see her decimate her opponents on court with consummate ease. It is the fighter in her that appeals to us, and not her gold accessories, that are, but just accessories. It is when her immaculately placed forehands and neatly spun backhands leave her opponent bewildered that she looks her best. It is when her grunts reach a crescendo that her fans’ lubb-dubb of the heart starts a-thumping.

Strangely, the Sharapova’s and Hantuchova’s do not seem to carry all their grace off-court. In their public appearances, they do not seem to exude the same elegance that they do on court. Their appeal, sexual or otherwise, is limited to the court, and perhaps, rightly so. Though it borders on vulgarity to describe a Sharapova v. Sania match as porn as one over-imaginative blogger did a while back. Kourinikova, not much of a player as she was a teen-model, failed to impress for long. Her elegance (if she had any) never seemed to appear on court. (I won’t be surprised, however, if Herbert Herbert doesn’t agree).

At the end of the day, we want the best to win. Only the best. Is that asking for a lot??

Manipur Diary

• If there was anything that dictated the way I lived, it had to be the load-shedding routine. It was complicated, and my attempts to completely decipher it proved futile. Roughly, the current came at 8-10a.m., 2-4 p.m. and according to a complex method, it would be decided whether it would come again at 6p.m. or 10 p.m. which would last till 4 or so in the morning. With the monsoons arriving, one would have expected the situation to improve. It did. An extra half an hour was added to each slot, before and after.
• Each morning, by the time I wake up and finish brushing my teeth, my brother would be back from his two tuitions. At 8, when the load is unshed, I would laugh myself to an episode of ‘Whose Line is it anyway’. A heavy breakfast of rice after that. Lunch (chara wanba) is late. A game of footer with an airless ball in the evening with the kids. Late night: watching TV if the current comes, or read something otherwise. By 9, everyone is sound asleep and I am well alone, awake.
• There are 5 trees growing in our garden bearing 4 different kinds of mangoes. I had stripped a diminutive tree of red cherries of all its fruits, as and when they ripened. Now, the mango trees bore the brunt. Raw mangoes are the best when it comes to beating a post-afternoon-nap-lethargy. Add a few mint leaves, green chilli and salt to taste, and u have the perfect recipe to jerk u out of ur lethargy. Not recommended for those with a penchant for stomach upsets though.
• Books have been a good company for me this vacation. Apart from old Graphiti’s and etc’s, the Illustrated weekly of India’s, and Sputnik’s, I have been gorging on novels, finishing off all that I could lay my hands on. The list includes Two Lives, 2 John Grisham’s, short stories of Anton Chekhov, a Peter Straub ( Mystery), an Agatha Christie, Harold Robbins (one of his better ones), and one romantic novel (some Delinsky), and The Rule of Four. Thanks to W. for providing me with most of the books!
  
• The streets in the city (if u can call it one) are dusty, and clogged with ubiquitous, yet inconspicuous one-ways. They are sure to be missed but for the traffic policewomen stationed at these little alleys. I tried smiling my way through once, but the policewoman stuck to her job!! For an outsider (I felt like one myself) it can be a frustrating experience, finding one-ways where u least expect them. The junctions are manned by incompetent traffic policemen, and more often than not, the roads get clogged due to an extra wave or gesture of the hand.

• Football fever hit the place hard. From my 8 year old cousin to 60 yr olds, references to the ongoing finals were abundant. Dad, a staunch supporter of German football, would be annoyed when players of other teams don’t shoot and pass as the Germans would have. He was quiet when the Germans exited before the finals. My cousin studying in 10^th standard explained why she would watch only England’s matches – Frank Lampard. Her anecdotes on football mania at her school were amusing enough. My 8 year old cousin, who had taunted me for days when his left-handed Nadal beat my right-handed Federer in the French Open finals, would greet me in the morning with his own prediction of the day’s matches. His was an opinion I revered, Sarathi’s in Poknafam was not. He did write a decent book – Nungsibi Greece – but his extravagant use of words (and not much else) left a lot to be desired. One big disappointment during the finals was the failure of the electricity department to fulfill their promise of providing uninterrupted power during the matches. It left a lot of people irritated, and once again, devoid of trust in the department.

I'm happy!