Monty Python's The Life of Brian. (Almost) Starring Jiddu Krishnamurthy

Jiddu Krishnamurthy was the chosen one. He was the messiah.

He had been anointed as the messiah, as the World Teacher, the new Maitreya, by his adoptive mother the very powerful by Dr Annie Besant. He was fourteen at the time. He had no say in the matter.

Jiddu Krishnamurthy tried very hard to stop being the messiah.

As an adult, he repeatedly declared that he was no messiah, that the only guidance he could offer was for us to find our individuality, to strike out on our own, to find our unique paths to the truth. He dissolved the large organization that he helmed, that was dedicated to celebrating him.

Yet, despite Krishnamurthy’s clear and consistent denial of his divinity, to his dying day he couldn’t avoid people treating him as if he were the messiah.

When I was telling my daughter Jiddu Krishnamurthy’s story, I couldn’t help noticing that it perfectly parallels the narrative arc of Monty Python's The Life of Brian (available on Netflix).

Monty Python fans will recall that this is the story of Brian Cohen of Nazareth, now living with his Mum in Jerusalem circa 32 AD, who is mistaken for a prophet when he descends from the heavens (because the rickety balcony he is standing on to escape from the police breaks).

Brian of Nazareth,
at his Mum's window

His simple words are understood as divine revelations:

BRIAN: Good morning.

FOLLOWERS: A blessing! A blessing! A blessing!...

BRIAN: No. No, please! Please! Please listen. I've got one or two things to say.

FOLLOWERS: Tell us. Tell us both of them.

BRIAN: Look. You've got it all wrong. You don't need to follow me. You don't need to follow anybody! You've got to think for yourselves. You're all individuals!

FOLLOWERS: Yes, we're all individuals!

BRIAN: You've all got to work it out for yourselves!

FOLLOWERS: Yes! We've got to work it out for ourselves!

BRIAN: Exactly!

FOLLOWERS: Tell us more!

BRIAN: No! That's the point! Don't let anyone tell you what to do!

But, no. Brian’s denials don’t work. The devout, the crowd, the mob, is having none of it. They continue to deify him until he is crucified.

Was J Krishnamurthy crucified? Well, I found this online article describing him as “Indira Gandhi’s guru”, and therefore bracketing JK with Dhirendra Brahmachari…

Lamenting the loss of Kalami, Scramoge and Scackleton, while celebrating the triumph of Hextable, Scraptoft and Corriecravie

This blogpost started as an elegy for words from The Meaning of Liff which are no longer relevant.

Consider Kalami: The ancient Eastern art of being able to fold road maps properly.

Or Scarmoge: To cut oneself whilst licking envelopes.

Or Scackleton: horizontal avalanche of CDs that slides across the interior of a car as it goes around a sharp corner.

It’s been at least a decade since any of us were folding maps, licking envelopes, or stacking piles of CDs in a car. These things are no longer a part of our material culture.

However, it turns out that some The Meaning of Liff words have been amplified even if the material culture around them has changed.

Consider Hextable: the record you find in someone else’s collection that instantly tells you you could never go out with them. A Spotify playlist is now a perfect Hextable, even if vinyl records played on turntables are no longer a thing.

Or Scraptoft: The absurd flap of hair a vain and balding man grows over one ear to comb it plastered over the top of his head to the other ear. Who would have thought an American President would be the world’s #1 Scraptoft?

Or this set of corrie words:

Corriearklet: the moment at which two people, approaching from opposite ends of a long passageway, recognize each other and immediately pretend they haven’t. This is to avoid the ghastly embarrassment of having to continue recognizing each other the whole length of the corridor.

Corriedoo: The crucial moment of false recognition in a long passageway encounter. Though both people are perfectly aware that the other is approaching, they must eventually pretend sudden recognition. They now look up with a glassy smile, as if having spotted each other for the first time (and are particularly delighted to have done so), shouting out “Haaallooo!” as if to say “Good grief!! You!! Here!! Of all people! Well I never. Coo. Stap me vitals,” etcetera.

Corrievorrie: Corridor etiquette demands that once a corriedoo has been declared, corrievorrie must be employed. Both protagonists must now embellish their approach with an embarrassing combination of waving, grinning, making idiot faces, doing pirate impressions, and waggling the head from side to side while holding the other person’s eyes as the smile drips off their face, until, with great relief, they pass each other.

Corriecravie: To avert the horrors of corrievorrie (q.v.), the corriecravie is usually employed. This is the cowardly but highly skilled process by which both protagonists continue to approach while keeping up the pretence that they haven’t noticed each other – by staring furiously at their feet, grimacing into a notebook, or studying the walls closely as if in a mood of deep irritation.

Cellphones have made it easy for the whole world to corriecravie without being suspected of cowardice.

Moonballs from Planet Earth would like to propose that the magical powers that cellphone screens seem to have is not because of their hypnotically glowing pixels, but because they save the world from the torture of Corrievorrie.

BTW…one pleasure that I did not have when I first encountered The Meaning of Liff was googling up the places that lend their names to these words. 

The Women’s Institute of Hextable picture is especially evocative. I wonder what these WI members have in their record collections/ Spotify playlists?

Kalami Beach, Corfu

Scramogue, Ireland

Scackleton, Yorkshire. In Winter

Hextable, Kent. Celebrating the 100th anniversary of the Women's Institute

Corrievorrie, Scottish Highlands

Atal Behari Vajpayee, please meet Cliff Richard: a fellow bachelor boy from Lucknow

Vajpayee mural in Lucknow

Prime Minister Atal Behari Vajpayee was unquestionably one of Lucknow’s greatest citizens. 

Vajpayee was a freedom fighter, poet, orator, and diplomat. The late Prime Minister represented Lucknow with distinction in the Lok Sabha for three decades. He was a statesman who could work for peace with Pakistan even while decisively defeating them on the Kargil battlefield. His term as India’s Prime Minister is still remembered as a time of unprecedented progress and prosperity. 

Lucknow is justly proud of Bharat Ratna Atal Behari. 

The City of Lucknow honoured him with a giant mural.

The City of Lucknow also honoured Sir Cliff Richard with a similar mural.

Cliff Richard mural in Lucknow

While Sir Cliff is not generally associated with Lucknavi tehzeeb, he was born at King George’s hospital in Lucknow. His Anglo-Indian parents worked for the colonial Indian Railways. They were based in Dehra Dun at the time. They came down to Lucknow for looking for better maternity care. Cliff Richard's family later moved to Calcutta and emigrated to the UK in 1948, when Cliff was eight years old. 

So, what do Cliff Richard and Atal Behari Vajpayee have in common? If their murals were to come to life, would they find anything to talk about?

Maybe they could talk about being bachelor boys. 

One of Sir Cliff's greatest hits is "Bachelor Boy". The song goes: 

“Son, you are a bachelor Boy

And that’s the way to stay

Son, you’ll be a bachelor boy

Until your dying day.”

Sir Cliff, being a man of integrity, lived by his own advice. He dated many charming ladies, including Sue Barker a tennis player and former French Open singles champion. But he has remained a bachelor (at least until his eightieth birthday).

Atalji was a bachelor too. 

The way Vajpayee put it "main kunwar hoon par brahmachari nahin" (I'm single but not celibate). 

Sir Cliff might relate. They might just have something to talk about. 

Though I doubt if even Sir Cliff’s persuasion could get Atalji to do the dance steps from the Bachelor Boy video (click here to watch). Those immortal moves can belong to one and only one of the Lakhnavi bachelor boys.

Summer Holiday - the album featuring Bachelor Boy

Victory to Kamala Harris! Or...Jaye Jaye He Mahishasura Mardhini Ramyaka Pardhini Shailasute!

 

See the picture above? 

Meena Harris (Kamala Harris’ sister Maya’s daughter) tweeted it a few weeks ago. 

It has to be my favourite image from the just concluded US presidential election. It’s a crazy, whacky, light-hearted juxtaposition of the Mahishasura Mardini Stottram with the rough and tumble of electoral politics, just what the doctor ordered to lighten the mood at a time when both religion and politics feel awfully serious. 

Unfortunately, Meena Harris had to take this off Twitter because it "offended Hindus”. 

I find that odd. I am a Hindu and I see nothing offensive in the image. So, I’m recirculating the image now with a little explanation on how this image can be an access-point to deeper Hindu ideas like advaita, karma yoga and bhakti. 

Consider advaita, the idea that divinity is latent within each of us, that the purpose of life is to give expression to the divine within. In this context, Kamala Harris could be seen as giving expression to the power of Maa-Durga, the divinity who lives within her. 

Or consider karma yoga, the idea that spiritual attainment is not the exclusive privilege of world-renouncing monks, that the divine can be fully realised by engaging wholeheartedly in worldly work. In this context, Kamala Harris could be seen fighting the good fight on the electoral battlefield, therefore getting ever closer to the divine by treading her chosen path as a karma yogi. 

Or consider bhakti, the mystic experience of oneness with the divine, unfettered by intellectualism or duty. To me personally, that is the association the image brings to mind most readily. The Mahisura Mardhini Stottram, which this image is riffing on, is one of my favourite prayers. I was brought up listening to it as a part of life’s ambient soundtrack. This stottram is typically set to a rhythmic, hypnotic beat (click here to listen) that lends itself to the immersive rapture of bhakti. 

The point (hopefully the now obvious point) is that there is nothing anti-Hindu about the picture above. It's not even anti-Trump. Caricature has always been (and should be) a part of politics.

So, let’s keep alive our sense of humour and sense of perspective and enjoy the jokey juxtaposition of the Mahishasura mardhini stottram with American politics. Let’s enjoy the fact that Kamala Harris will be the first person of Indian descent to ascend to the White House. And let’s trust that the Devi will manifest herself in Kamala, Maya, Meena, and in strong women everywhere, as the cycle of time turns and good times return.

St George the Dragon Slayer? Or St George the Lizard Eater?

St. George's Day Posters in London c. 2014

Is England’s patron Saint George a dragon slayer? Or a lizard eater?

The question is prompted by these posters promoting St. George's Day, prominently displayed across the metropolis, blessed by the Lord Mayor of London himself. The weapon the beast is impaled upon is, obviously, a table fork. In which case, the beast itself can’t be much bigger than a garden lizard. 

Do people eat lizards? Do heroes eat lizards?

Quite different from the way the dragon slayer was depicted in more heroic times….

St. George Slays the Dragon, by Raphael c. 1504

The wind beneath my wings does NOT make me fly high

Bette Midler singing "Wind beneath my wings"

Actually, it's the wind above my wings that makes me fly.

Air flows faster over the upper surface of the wing, which lowers pressure, and therefore provides lift and enables flight. The mechanics are the same for a airplane wing, a frisbee, a sail, a swinging cricket ball or an eagle's wing. Similarly, the spoiler blades at the back of F1 racing cars are designed so the wind passes beneath the wings. This pulls the car down towards the tarmac, and provides stability.

This science is complex enough to provide many engineers with a lifetime of work, but is neither new nor controversial. It follows from Bernoulli's principle, which I was taught in 8th class by Kanaka Eshwaran-Miss (aka Kinetic Energy-miss).

So why does Bette Midler keep showing up on Muzak tracks around the world singing:

"I can fly higher than an eagle,
'cause you are the wind beneath my wings"?

Wrong! The wind above her wings makes her fly high. The wind beneath her wings brings her down to earth. Ignoramus. Fancy dress Fatima! Bougainvillea! Pithecanthropus! Odd-toed ungulate!! Nit-witted ninepin! Squawking popinjay!

F1 car, that uses wind beneath the wings to stay low

Airplane, that uses wind above the wings to fly high

PS: I'm kidding. It's fun to win an argument conclusively in an age of "it depends".

How do you solve a problem like Maria Sharapova?

Maria Sharapova and Grigor Dimitrov, in Milan

News from the Aussie Open is that Maria Sharapova has a new boyfriend, fellow tennis pro Gregor Dimitrov. Is this guy Maria's Mr Right?

The great Tamil lyricist Kannadasan might be on the pro-Dimitrov side of the argument. One of the greatest love songs he ever wrote, naan pesa nenaipadellam nee pesa vendum, goes: "naan kaanum ulagangal nee kaana vendum", meaning, "you should see the world's I see". This is a deep insight. Understanding each other's worlds is a critical (and under-celebrated) aspect of love. As an East European tennis pro, Grigor Dimitrov has a better chance of really getting Maria's world, than, say, a Tam Bram management consultant.

On the con side of the argument is yin-yang balance, a theme I've riffed on before. Maria is one tough cookie, she has plenty of yang in her soul. She needs a guy with dollops of yin-energy for them to be in harmony. Ex-boyfriend Andy Roddick clearly didn't fit the bill. Apparently, ex-fiancee Sasha Vujacic did't either.

Maria Sharapova and Roger Federer, in Sao Paulo

The problem is, professional sportsmen with yin-energy are rare. But they do exist. Roger Federer is a great example.

So will Grigor Dimitrov be Maria's Mr. Right? It depends, on whether Grigor can be more like Roger Federer than like Andy Roddick, and I'm not talking about winning grand slam titles.

James Bond style woozling

Sitting around staring at brick walls is called "woozling" in my family. I just discovered that James Bond woozles too. From this interview with Daniel Craig:

"I keep an energy level up through filming and then as soon as it finishes I just relax and drop. We all do. You’ll find most of the crew kind of sitting around staring at brick walls because it’s been full on, all day, every day. "

A simple solution to America's fiscal cliff problem

Allow congressmen to vote in private.

This isn’t my idea. I’m channelling the noted political philosopher, Sir Humphrey Appleby. Sir Humpy explains to Jim Hacker in the very first episode of Yes Minister that Jim’s election winning slogan, “Open Government”, is in fact an oxymoron. You can be open, or you can have government, you can’t have both. I’m also channelling Fareed Zakaria’s excellent (and serious) book, The Future of Freedom.

Zakaria’s argument is that most American politicians are not stupid. Most of them don’t want to drive off the fiscal cliff. Most of them would happily cut a deal to avoid disaster, if they could. They can’t. Because they lack the privacy needed to cut deals.

For most of America’s history, Congress could do its work in private. Politicians could imply one thing while talking to constituents, go to Washington, exercise their better judgment on what is best for the country, and go back to their constituents with a shrug and an I-tried-my-best story. For most of America’s history, that worked well enough.

At some time in the 1960s some well-intentioned people thought pols should not be allowed to tell lies to the public, and decided to make their deliberations and voting records public. As a result, politicians live in a fish bowl, utterly at the mercy of special interest groups. They can’t exercise mature judgment, and therefore can’t fulfil the design of representative democracy.

This shouldn’t be hard to explain. Perfect transparency is unhelpful in most everyday contexts: in family life, in sports teams, with friends or at work. But, unfortunately, even my ardent inner optimist doesn't think politicians are going to be allowed to escape their fish bowl world any time soon.

Wish you were here, Sir Humpy. We miss you.

Sir Humphrey Appleby

Ithaka is to some what Tatooine is to others

Luke Skywalker strides towards the twin sunset on Tatooine

I'd posted yesterday about the poem "Keep Ithaka always in the mind", in which Ithaka is a metaphor for home, for integrity. Other classical traditions have their own Ithakas, their own sacred places that stand for integrity. For instance, Star Wars fans might think of Tatooine - the desert planet in a galaxy far, far away where Luke Skywalker was raised - as their Ithaka.

The mythic, metaphorical Ithaka has a physical analogue: the island of Ithaki in western Greece. It turns out that Tatooine also has a physical analogue: Tataouine, in southern Tunisia.

George Lucas filmed the desert landscapes of Tatooine on location in Tunisia, the Breber architecture in Tataouine is recognizably the inspiration behind Luke Skywalker's childhood home. Apparently, he borrowed the name of a local town as well. Adherents of the Jedi faith are now making pilgrimages to Tataouine. The World's latest Technology podcast has a story about a Jedi knight, Mark from Norwich, who got married at Tataouine.

If only the people in power would uphold Britain's traditions of tolerance and include the Jedi religion on the census questionnaire, conversion to the Jedi faith would hit a tipping point...pilgrim traffic to the Tunisian Sahara would take off...the Tunisian economy would improve...the Arab Spring would be reinforced...inexpensive and effective nation-building in the Arab world!

Berber granaries in Tataouine, Tunisia

What Ross, Chandler and the F.R.I.E.N.D.S really lived through, by Joshua Ferris

F.R.I.E.N.D.S was more than a successful TV serial, it was a cultural phenomenon. I think it had such a big impact, beyond what one would expect of any well-written, well performed sitcom, because it filled in a gap in popular culture. It was the first extensive exploration of a life stage that people like us now routinely live through, but which falls outside our traditional frameworks of life stages.

Ross, Chandler, Rachel, Monica, Phoebe and Joey have finished with formal education, have started careers, but haven't yet married or started families. This time in life falls somewhere between youth and adulthood, somewhere between brahmacharya and grihastashram in the Hindu tradition. This life-stage is growing: people live longer, young men no longer get drafted into armies, more women are becoming professionals, careers demand ever longer apprenticeships. This is clearly a formative stage in life, at least as formative as the university years. This is the time in life when most of my peers found their professions and life-partners, and solidified their identities. While the angst of both youth and middle age have been mined extensively in popular culture - think Rebel Without A Cause and American Beauty - the angst of this life stage remains relatively unexplored. F.R.I.E.N.D.S captured the public imagination so powerfully because it was good, but also because it was the first show to extensively explore this life-space (the closest benchmark I can think of are one-dimensional rom-coms).

However, for all that, even F.R.I.E.N.D.S didn't explore one huge aspect of this life stage: work. In my experience, this is the life stage when work consumes more psychic energy than anything else. This is the time when the soaring expectations of youth are still very much alive, when the frustrations of the real world are an everyday reality, and when the tension between those two haven't yet found a happy equilibrium.

In real life, a young scientist like Ross probably spends a vast chunk of his energy obsessing about whether his research paper will get published, about where he will get his next grant from, and about how he can get on to this high profile consortium that might lead to a couple of Nobel Prizes. He would spend most of his social time with other research scientists. They would share, and therefore amplify, each other's career anxieties, and gossip endlessly about other research scientists. A young business executive like Chandler would obsess about departmental politics, about the hopeless incompetence of his colleagues, and about whether he should go work on Wall Street and get seriously rich. A few blocks away, journalist Carrie Bradshaw might obsess about whether freelance writing about her friend's love lives will ever win her the Pulitzer Prize, and if she should become a real journalist who risks losing an eye reporting from a war-zone.

In F.R.I.E.N.D.S, work forms the backdrop to the characters' lives. In reality, work would be in the foreground. I accepted that easily, assuming that other people's work-lives are intrinsically boring. It turns out, that assumption was wrong.

I just read this outstanding book called Then We Came To The End, by Joshua Ferris, which takes the work-lives of people like us as its raw material, and turns it into a thoroughly entertaining novel. It is set in an advertising agency, in Chicago. This agency is a big little world. It includes people of all sorts - married people, blacks, people with kids, people with cancer, people who die. But "we", the collective of cool kids from whose viewpoint this story is written, the gang who are the social and spiritual core of the agency, are squarely in the F.R.I.E.N.D.S stage in life.  

A sample of one character's thoughts:

"good God, was work so meaningless? Was life so meaningless? It reminded him of when an ad got watered down by a client, and watered down, until everything interesting about the ad disappeared. Carl still had to write copy for it. The art director still had to put the drop shadow where the drop shadow belonged and the logo in its proper place. That was the process known as polishing the turd. Those two poor saps hosing down the alleyway were just doing the same thing. All over America, in fact, people were up and out of their beds today in a continuing effort to polish turds. Sure, for the sake of survival, but more immediately, for the sake of some sadistic manager or shit-brained client whose small imagination and numbingly dumb ideas were bleaching the world of all relevancy and hope..."

The novel takes a little dig at itself. There is a writer at the agency,

Joshua Ferris

"working on a failed novel. He described it as "small and angry". We all wondered who the hell would buy small and angry. We asked him what it was about. "Work," he replied. A small, angry book about work. Now there was a guaranteed best seller. There was a fun read on the beach. We suggested alternative topics on subjects that mattered to us. "But those don't interest me" he said. "The fact that we spend most of our lives at work, that interests me." Truly noble, we said to him."

That is what this book is. It is a small, angry book about us at work. It has observed us so precisely that the blurb from The Times printed on the back cover is entirely true. "Very funny, intense and exhilarating...for the first time in fiction, it has truly captured the way we work". In a way, Joshua Ferris' book completes the F.R.I.E.N.D.S life experience.

Happy Easter from Anthony Gonsalves

An old friend put me on the spot recently, and quizzed me on how I found the enthu to keep blogging.

I wasn't expecting the question. So, understandably, I lapsed into my native language: geek-speak. I chuntered on about "intrinsic motivation" and "the universal need for self-expression, for which there are only limited opportunities in contemporary corporate life". Instead, I really should have answered my friend musically, by serenading him with the Amitabh Bachchan - Kishore Kumar classic "My name is Anthony Gonsalves".

Anthony Gonsalves has a real insight into an amateur blogger's psyche. His phrase "you are a sophisticated rhetorician intoxicated by the exuberance of your own verbosity", is spot on. In fact, if I'm asked the same question this Easter weekend, I might enhance my answer by emerging from an egg, unless "such extenuating circumstances coerce me to preclude you from such extravagance".

Happy Easter blog readers. For further clarification, please refer roop mahal, prem galli, koli नंबर चार सौ बीस . Excuse me, please!

Che Guevara: Fidel Castro :: Jesus: Christ

Che Guevara is an iconic hero, universally beloved and revered. Fidel Castro is often seen as a villain, hated and reviled as one of the world's last Stalinist thugs. But, are they really all that different? Or, did Che just have the advantage of dying young and therefore remaining pure, while Fidel lived on, grappling with and being tainted by an imperfect world?

This thought was triggered by the book I reviewed in my last blog post, The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ, by Philip Pullman. Pullman's intent was to contrast noble, idealistic Jesus with his cynical fictional twin brother, Christ. Pullman conceived Christ as a metaphor for the institutional church. I understood Christ even more broadly, as a general metaphor for institutional life. The tension between an organization's ideals and its reality is universal. The only way to be genuinely Jesus-like is to die young, and to therefore avoid the failures and compromises that inevitably come from engaging with the messy real world.

To further strengthen the analogy, Che and Fidel have really cool beards, like Jesus and Christ. Though I don't think either Jesus or Christ smoked cigars...

Che smoking a cigar

Fidel smoking a cigar

Che and Fidel

Follow your dream, not. By Garry Trudeau

"Let us take what the terrain gives" is kinder...

Kolaveri Di and the Eurovision Song Contest

Kolaveri Di has lived out fourteen out of its fifteen minutes of fame. So, one final thought to occupy that last minute: Kolaveri Di has what it takes to win the Eurovision song contest.

This thought comes straight from Only Mr. God Knows Why, an article by Anthony Lane (which, refreshingly, is still visible to the public on the New Yorker website). Anthony Lane's thesis is that a Eurovision contestant's main problem is reach out across a continent which doesn't know your language or culture. Consider these extracts:

“Europe has a problem...if you don’t speak English, you’re immediately at a disadvantage. The Greek guys? Good song, but it’s in Greek. Will they play that on the radio in France?"

...of the songs that have reached the finals over the years, two hundred and sixty-three have been in English, the lingua franca of pop. French, with a hundred and fifty, is the only other language in triple figures; the rest lag far behind...

On the one hand, the contest is an obvious chance for European nations, especially the less prominent ones, to flaunt their wares by singing in their native tongue. On the other hand, when you sing in English, you may be blasting through the language barrier to reach a wider audience, but are you not abasing yourself before the Anglo-American cultural hegemony...

 ...there are three well-established methods for avoiding it.

One is to be France, whose performers, as you would hope, grind away in French, year after year, repelling all intruders, giving only the barest hint that other languages, let alone other civilizations, even exist...

The second method is to be Ireland, the nation that has won the contest more often than any other. Seven times it has struck gold, and no wonder; if you can sing in English without actually being English—all the technical advantages without the shameful imperialist baggage—you’re halfway to the podium already.

The third method, which is by far the most popular, and which has brought mirthful pleasure to millions on an annual basis, is to sing in Eurovision English: an exquisite tongue, spoken nowhere else, which raises the poetry of heartfelt but absolute nonsense to a level of which Lewis Carroll could only have dreamed. The Swedes are predictably fluent in this (“Your breasts are like swallows a-nesting,” they sang in 1973), and the Finns, too, should be hailed as early masters, with their faintly troubling back-to-back efforts from the mid-seventies, “Old Man Fiddle” and “Pump-pump,”

 ...hence such gems as Austria’s “Boom Boom Boomerang,” from 1977 (not to be confused with Denmark’s “Boom Boom,” of the following year), Portugal’s “Bem-bom,” from 1982, and Sweden’s “Diggi-loo Diggi-ley,” which won in 1984. The next year’s contenders, spurred by such bravado, responded with “Magic, Oh Magic” (Italy) and “Piano Piano” (Switzerland). Not that the host nation relinquished the crown without a fight, as anyone who watched Kikki Danielsson can attest. Her song was called “Bra Vibrationer.” It was, regrettably, in Swedish.

Kolaveri Di fits this third formula perfectly. One doesn't need to really know either Tamil or English to get into the spirit of Kolaveri Di. "Distance-u la moon-u moon-u, moon-u colour-u white-u", is right up there with anything the Swedes, Finns or Portuguese can create. Please note: it is entirely conceivable that India will participate in the Eurovision song contest one day, last year's winner was Azerbaijan.

On an aside, maybe the Punjabization of India I posted about last week is because Punjabi is the most onamatopoeic of Indian languages. I don't know Punjabi, yet, I have no problem understanding "Chak de India" or "Tootak tootak tootiyan hey jamaalon". The language used by Premchand, Tagore, Bharatiyar, or for that matter, Shakespeare, is necessarily for narrower audiences.

How to Play a Limca Cut

Perceptive readers have noticed that this blog's name has changed from Moon Balls from Planet Earth to Limca Cuts from Planet Earth, and have asked me what Limca Cuts are. Like a Moon Ball, which is a spinner's slower ball, a Limca Cut is an obscure cricket term. Unlike a Moon Ball, a Limca Cut comes from the street cricket played in Mylapore, Madras, back in the 1980s.

Here is a step by step guide to playing a Limca Cut:

1. Stride. Get fully forward, right to the pitch of a ball on an off-stump line, and fuller than a good length

2. Stroke. Bring your bat down towards the ball in a smooth, vigourous vertical arc, with your left elbow held high, and with the face of the bat towards extra cover

3. Bamboozle. Mystify your opponents by striking the ball with the inside edge of the bat

4. Bisect. Direct the ball past the leg stump, along the Limca angle, bisecting the wicket-keeper and the fielder at fine leg

5. Acknowledge. Raise your bat and pump fists in the air, as the ball races past the diving fielder at fine leg to cross the boundary line and bring up the winning runs. Celebrate with Lime and Lemoni Limca as the crowd goes wild.

The banter after this shot typically goes:

Bowler: What kind of a shot is that?
Batsman: A stylish cut shot.
Bowler: A cut goes that way, man.
Batsman: No no. This is a special cut, a Limca Cut.

This shot is also referred to as a french cut in some other parts of the world, but hey, we are like that wonley. Mind it!

Why do Dervishes Whirl?

Jalaluddin Rumi was wandering the streets of Konya, overcome with grief at the death of a dear friend, when he was captured by the rhythmic beat of a goldsmith's hammer. He started whirling, found consolation, and inspired a tradition that has continued for seven hundred years.

Sufi whirling has always been laced with lamentation. Though, arguably, the whirling in the cartoon above, whirling to lament a moment which is about to die, is even more poignant than traditional Sufi whirling. I found this cartoon at xkcd.com.

Incidentally, I did get to see a dervish sema ceremony on my last trip to Istanbul, at the Hodja Pasha Cultural Centre. Real dervishes do whirl counter-clockwise.

Death to Rummaging

I am in the market for a new bag. Nothing special, just a simple duffel bag for everyday use. The one specific feature I want is an optic yellow inner lining.

This is the bag I use today.



It isn't bad. It is a Samsonite, the fabric is tough, the zipper works fine. But the inside of the bag can get as dark as the belly-of-a-whale, especially indoors. Finding my wallet, blackberry, goggles or even a dark coloured t-shirt involves a fair bit of rummaging, rather than just spotting.

This is the bag my children use.



It is clearly better than mine. The cheerful optic yellow inner lining makes it easy to spot stuff inside the bag. No rummaging required. I bought it years ago in the USA, without realizing its virtues. I want another bag like this.

However, this is surprisingly hard to find. I looked around the shop at the club. All the bags on display had black inners, even if they had florescent colours on the outside, sort of the wrong way around. I don't know how representative the shop at the club is, but clearly, brightly coloured inner linings for kit bags are not an industry standard.

The same shop sells tennis balls. The tennis balls are all optic yellow, which is mildly irritating, because the tennis balls are optic yellow for exactly the same reason the inside of the kit bags ought to be optic yellow, but are not.

Why has the better-product-wins logic played out so neatly with tennis balls, but not with kit bag linings? It might be because luggage is more about fashion than function, whereas tennis balls are entirely about function. Though, I don't quite buy that; generally, good function is fashionable. It could be because of the institutional unity of tennis. Once the grand slams decide yellow balls are better, the entire tennis world follows their lead. There is no similar grand slam-like authority for luggage, identifying and modelling the better products.

For whatever reason, it seems I can't buy the kit bag I want even on the internet. Shopping websites show luggage outsides, but don't specify the colour of the inner lining. Looks like I will be rummaging around for my wallet in the belly-of-a-whale for a while longer.

Chennai Super Kings' Feminist Karma

Chennai Super Kings, my home town cricket team, just won IPL 4 in style. They have clearly been the best team on show since the inception of the IPL, with two trophies, one runner up spot, and one semi-final finish.

Many reasons have been ascribed to this performance, from MS Dhoni's captaincy, to the stability of the squad, to Stephen Fleming's coaching. I really like the tactical intelligence of CSK's game plans - Ashwin opening the bowling, Hussey and Vijay playing traditional cricket shots rather than low percentage slogs and Dil-scoops, Badrinath's clear role as the crisis man, Dougie Bollinger's yorkers at the death, shuffling the batting order to maintain left-right pairs - good, smart cricket.

But, as the many erudite Mylapore Mamis in CSK's fan base will be happy to explain, success does not derive only from one's tactics, from the flow of one's deeds on the field of action, from one's karyas on the dharmakshetra. Success also derives from karma, from the stock of goodness accumulated through many small acts of kindness and decency. These acts happened long before the men in yellow stepped onto the dharmakshetra of Chepauk.

One of these karmic factors working for CSK, which mainstream cricket commentators seem to have completely missed, is their co-ed cheering squad. CSK were the only IPL team with both men and women in their cheering squad. They were led by a shaven-headed fifty one year old drummer called Sivamani.

I certainly don't mean to pass judgment on the all-girl cheerleading squads, or on their admirers, as "bad". But CSK's co-ed approach just feels better, more comfortable, more natural. There is no obvious reason why leading a cheer for a sports team should be sexually charged. Cricket has long had a tradition of colourful, noisy and committed fans: Sri Lanka's Percy Abeysekara, India's Sudhir Gautam, West Indies' Trini Posse, England's Barmy Army. This cheering was never sexy (though the Barmy Army's chat with an Aussie fielder at the boundary line could involve pointed references to his sexuality). Sex and cricket always were fulfilling, but distinct, aspects of life.

When cheerleading was invented in America, at Princeton University in 1884, it was an all-male activity. Presidents Dwight Eisenhower and Franklin Roosevelt were cheerleaders in their time. Somewhere along the way, cheering a sports team morphed into the stylized sexual displays put on in the USA today in football and basketball (but not in cricket's cousin baseball). The IPL imported this into cricket in the name of "marketing".

Perhaps the greatest failure of NFL style cheerleading at the IPL is not moral but material: it doesn't seem to work in marketing terms. Several teams with great looking all-girl cheering squads are failing to fill their stadiums, or to animate their crowds. Ultimately, people who want to watch dancing girls can watch them elsewhere, without the annoying bat-ball distractions. The men and women who pitch up at cricket matches are there to enjoy the cricket. Sivamani and his co-ed troop successfully orchestrated the cheering of these real fans. CSK's fans were easily the most passionate and vocal in the IPL, effectively adding another player to CSK, making them almost invincible at home. Long may the force remain with CSK, and with Sivamani.

BBC North collaboration pods. Or speed dating wheels?

BBC's plush and stylish new offices in Salford, near Manchester, are sprinkled with "collaboration pods".

The idea is that useful work happens when people talk to each other, face to face, rather than sit around in closed-door offices. Doing away with offices and having these collaboration pods should encourage people to do just that. However, having sufferred in new-age work spaces for decades, I have a hunch these pods aren't really going to foster collaboration.

Collaboration generally happens when people sit at right angles to each other, or in an arc, facing a white-board. It happens at coffee machines or water coolers, when people stand at right angles to each other, or in an arc, and the space above the coffee machine or water cooler becomes an air white-board.

Collaboration doesn't happen when two people are sitting squarely opposite each other. This is how people sit at an interview, when they are assessing or evaluating each other. These collaboration pods feel too open for most recruitment interviews, and anyway the interviews I give usually need a table-top work surface and a whiteboard. But these collaboration pods might just have struck the perfect balance between openness and privacy for a speed date. Perhaps speed-romance will now bloom amongst BBC staffers in Salford, near Manchester.