Sachin Tendulkar on Dvaita and Advaita

Sachin Tendulkar and Cheteshwar Pujara

Cheteshwar Pujara, looking back on his test debut, remembers that “ he (Sachin) told me that God has given you this chance to play; he will help you score runs, don’t worry.” 

Pujara’s words give devout Sachinists a rare insight into Sachin's religious thought. To Sachin, it is clearly self-evident that God exists, and that God is merciful and kind. Sachin also seems to be describing a God who is out-there rather than in-here, the Dvaita God rather than the Advaita God. He is not asking Pujara to search for the spark of the divine that dwells within, he is asking Pujara to trust in the Almighty, a power distinct and different from Pujara. 

Sachin’s advice worked. Pujara kept his cool and made a fourth inning 72 to steer India to a memorable series win against Australia. That is good evidence in support of Sachin’s theology. 

Spiritual faith can’t be evaluated for truth, because its truth or falsehood can never be empirically tested. Spiritual faith can only be judged, if it can be judged at all, by the yardstick of usefulness: does this faith result in better human behaviour or performance? Pujara’s experience suggests that trusting God, and therefore freeing up the mind and spirit to be present in the moment, does improve performance. 

Sachin believing instinctively in a God-out-there, in a higher power than man, feels natural. He is so gifted he could make an atheist believe in God. 

Radheya and his Guru Parashurama

Yet the Gods are capricious. They can be cruel even to the devout, even to their most favoured sons. The gifts the Gods give so liberally they can take away, especially when they are most needed.

This happened to Sachin at a pivot point in history. After he was player of the tournament in the 2003 World Cup, he was touring Australia with Saurav Ganguly’s team in 2004. India were going toe to toe, eyeball to eyeball, with Steve Waugh’s team, the greatest cricket team since Clive Lloyd’s Windies. India were playing with courage, conviction and skill, matching the Aussies’ every move. Dada, Rahul, Laxman and Viru had all scored career defining centuries. 

But where was our best player? Sachin was missing. 

It was as if Sachin was Radheya in the Mahabharata, the greatest archer in the great war at Kurukshetra, who lost his skills at the war’s most crucial moment. In the first three tests, Sachin had managed scores of 0, 0, 44, 1 and 37. Worse than the scores themselves was the way he was batting: scratching around, groping for the ball, hanging his bat out to dry. 

Now, even Sachin was a mere mortal. 

As the series reached its climax, Sachin responded to his mortality by reaching within, by discovering that he was man enough to make his own destiny.

For the final and decisive test match in Sydney, Steve Waugh’s last match, Sachin turned his game upside down. He did not put his trust in God. He did not trust his God-given instincts. He did not play at anything outside the off stump, an area which had been so productive for him over the years. He did not drive at half volleys secure in the knowledge that the Gods would guide the ball to the cover boundary instead of into second slip’s hands. 

Sachin playing the shot
he denied himself in Sydney

He completely cut out his favourite offside shots. He didn't score a single boundary between point and long-off. He made the Aussies bowl on to his pads, batted all day with VVS Laxman, remained unbeaten on 241, and took India to a position from where Australia could not win.

This was unquestionably Sachin’s greatest innings, and it was completely unlike anything Sachin had ever played before. It wasn’t about incandescent, outrageous talent blowing away the opposition. It was about character and craftsmanship, grit and determination, the gifts of the God-found-within as much as the God-above. 

Sachin did not turn his back on the Gods. He was not bitter that the Gods had abandoned him. He accepted God's  wrath as graciously as he accepted His munificence. But Sachin was no longer solely dependent on God's munificence; he was now twice-born, having given expression to the God-within as well as the God-above. 

On his test debut, Pujara discovered that the Gods can be kind, the Gods had given him a chance to play for India. He found out that the Gods can be cruel, like with the grubber from Mitchell Johnson that got him LBW in his first test innings. He discovered that faith in God can be useful, like the faith that kept him calm during his match-winning second innings. But the longer he plays, the more he will discover that he needs to find the God-within to join the ranks of India’s great players, like Saurav Ganguly, Zaheer Khan, Anil Kumble, Sunil Gavaskar, or that ultimate fighter, Mohinder Amarnath. Or like Sachin Himself.

Altoids: On Britishness and Capitalism

This post was born from the frustration of an unsuccessful shopping trip. I wanted Altoids. I checked the local supermarkets - Sainsbury's, Tesco, Asda. None of them had it. My local independent pharmacy used to carry a few tins, but alas, no longer. As I made peace with poor substitutes like Fox's Glacier mints and Starbuck's After Coffee Mints, I reflected on the irony that such a quirky, idiosyncratically British brand was so popular in America - it was not unusual to see colleagues carrying Altoids tins from meeting to meeting back when I worked in the US - but was unknown in Britain. Perhaps that reflects British identity, which, like India's unity, is more apparent from without than from within.

However, after a little Google powered research, I was left reflecting not on the subtle ironies of Britishness, but on the brutal nihilism of business. Altoids are no longer British. The red and white tins no longer proudly say Made in Great Britain. The factory in Bridgend, Wales, which used to supply the entire world with the curiously strong peppermint has been mothballed. Production has been moved to Chattanooga, Tennessee, so that the product is made closer to its biggest markets, which are in America.

I am generally a fan of globalized, optimized supply chains, but this is ridiculous. It is like moving the Jack Daniel's distillery from Tennessee to Nanjing province so that the whiskey is made close to Shanghai, the world's largest market. It isn't Jack's if it isn't from Tennessee.

The advertising is no longer edgy or self-mocking. The official web site claims that: "Altoids honours the authentic - people who stay true to themselves no matter what. Those who are confident, honest and unwavering. Those who are CURIOUSLY STRONG."

Like, for instance, Altoids honours people who contribute to a blog about beautiful coffee. "For most people, coffee's just a morning beverage. But to the contributors of this blog, it's high art. Dedicated to looking past coffee's buzz, they find a subtlety that other's simply miss. Filled with striking imagery from the world's best latte artists, this cup of Joe is almost too beautiful to drink"

Altoids also honours Cameron Adams, who writes a blog called The Chattanoogan: "highlighting street style in Chattanooga, Tennessee, Cameron Adams' blog focuses on the well-hidden gems of a small town. Why, you might ask? The innocence and spontaneity of the images that capture the residents' local flavor seems to answer, why not?"

Why not, indeed. But does shrinkage ever occur?



I had to find out how this train wreck happened. How did The Man destroy Altoids' spirit by turning it into a motherhood and apple-pie candy from Chattanooga, Tennessee? It turns out that capitalism didn't just destroy Altoids, it also made it the icon it once was. Altoids' golden age came after it was acquired by Kraft, following a series of takeovers and leveraged buy outs.

Altoids were invented in the late 1700s, and were promoted for over a century as a "stomach calmative". The brand was owned first by Smith and Company of London, which became a part of Callard & Bowser-Suchard, which became a part of Beatrice Foods, which was bought and broken up by KKR, when Altoids was sold to Terry's of York, which was then acquired by Kraft General Foods of Chicago in 1993.

At this time, Altoids was a tiny brand, but with a devoted word-of-mouth following among the heavy-smoking, coffee-guzzling Seattle club set. A Kraft marketing manager called Mark Sugden, working with Leo Burnett Chicago, the agency which created the Marlboro Man, "got" this Seattle set's devotion, did not get a big advertising budget, and came up with a campaign that was consistent with what the brand already stood for. "We were talking to a cynical, smart, cutting-edge audience, and nothing mediocre was going to sell," says Burnett Creative Director Steffan Postaer. What sold were advertising posters that looked like this:



Market share rocketed from too small to measure to 10% in 1997, or $40 million. Something good had happened. A curiously strong breath of fun from old Blighty had blown into the lives of millions of people.

I guess the trouble with capitalism is that it doesn't know when to say "enough". Common sense says that a brand can't retain its quirky, smart, foreign, cynical, funny, laconic, iconoclastic soul if it gets very much bigger than 10% of the market. But woe betide the poor brand manager who might naively suggest this. Many new variants were launched, budgets were found for TV advertising. I wasn't able to find out how successful this SKU proliferation was; but in due course Kraft sold Altoids on (along with Lifesavers) to Wrigley for $1.4 billion amidst talk of revenue "headwinds" in 2005.

Wrigley closed the plant in Bridgend and increased capacity utilization at an existing plant in Chattanooga. The humour in the advertising drifted from under-stated to over-the-top, from Sir Humphrey Appleby-funny to Borat-funny. Somewhere along the way, the brand name became associated with enhanced blow jobs.

Mars acquired all of Wrigley for $23 billion in 2008. Altoids was obviously not the main point of the buyout. The current Pottery Barn-esque creative platform, wholesome authenticity, looks more like damage control than an effort to build a brand around either the British legacy or the dedication of the Seattle club cultists.

Maybe, though, there is something deeply British about this story, about inventing something that then goes abroad and takes on a completely different character. Like cricket. Or the English language. Or democracy, or capitalism, or scientific method. Altoids is in good company. Maybe I can explain all this to my local pharmacist to get him to import some quirky Britishness from Chattanooga, Tennessee.

Rudo y Cursi y Asif y Amir

Rudo y Cursi is a Mexican film about football, made by the same team as classics like Y tu mama tambien and Amores Perros. My wife and I watched it about a year ago, on an impulse, largely because it had Gael Garcia Bernal. We had the movie theater entirely to ourselves through a Monday 7:00 screening, which was a little odd initially, but that gave us complete freedom to laugh out loud at the many hilarious moments on this rollicking ride.

It came to mind because of the sordid story now unfolding about Pakistani cricket players and their "spot-fixing" (this doesn't give away any more of the movie's plot than the official trailer). How disgusting! Really, how could they? And it hurts just that little bit more because the Pakis look like us. Are we South Asians, and our game, cricket, somehow naturally corrupt?

Rationally, I know that is nonsense. Match fixing has been a problem in many cultures and many sports for generations, yet sport has continued to thrive. Cricket in the time of WG Grace, the baseball world series in 1919, football, tennis, snooker, boxing and sumo wrestling have all been under the cloud at various times.

But my heart still sees the fall of Asif and Amir, of Azharuddin, Ajay Jadeja and Hansie Cronje in vivid technicolour, a vividness that I am unable summon for Nikolai Davydenko, despite being a tennis fan. That is where Rudo y Cursi comes in. It is textured, lively, authentic, funny, good-looking retelling of a familiar tale of simple beginnings, meteoric ascent, the intoxication of the high life, temptation and a tragic fall from grace. The language, music, sport, landscapes, rituals and styles feel unfamiliar, the emotions feel authentic and are entirely familiar.

What to do? We are like that wonley. But we are not alone.

The Unbearable Lightness of Scones

"There was nothing wrong, he reminded himself, in appreciating a bourgeois paradise when every other sort of paradise on offer had proved to be exactly the opposide of what paradise should be."

These wonderful words were spoken by art gallery owner Matthew Duncan of Edinburgh, the kind hearted but unremarkable son of a rich father, in The Unbearable Lightness of Scones. Haven't quite put my finger on it yet, but this sentiment is a big part of the reason why Alexander McCall Smith now occupies such an exalted place on my bookshelf, not too far away from PG Wodehouse.

Avatar: The Worship of Vishnu

Watch Avatar. It’s a great film. If you have watched Avatar as entertainment, I urge you to watch it again, now with a piety in your heart, in the spirit of bhakti, for this is no ordinary Hollywood blockbuster, it is the tale of a blue-skinned hero, animated by a celestial spirit, who was born to save god’s righteous people, and leads them to glorious victory over evil.

Our blue-skinned hero’s people are noble and devout. Yet, our hero arrives among them in troubled times. Many doubt him. Unfazed by the doubters, our glorious hero slays demons, charms the tribal elders, frolics in a scented grove with a beauteous maiden, does battle to save his father’s soul, and rides the skies on a sacred eagle. He is accepted as one of the chosen people, is appointed commander-in-chief, and leads his tribe into an apocalyptic battle that pits right against wrong, good against evil. He leads with courage and cunning in this battle, wins a decisive victory, and restores the natural order of the universe.

You’ve heard this story before, you will hear this story again. In James Cameron's telling of this story, the blue-skinned avatar is called jakesully, the animating spirit is Jake Sully, the righteous tribe are the Na'vi of Pandora, the slain demon is a Thantor, the beauteous maiden is Neytiri, the father figure is Dr Grace Augustine, the sacred eagle is a Toruk, and the evil forces defeated in the apocalyptic battle are the US Marines. In previous tellings of this story, the blue-skinned avatar is called Rama, the animating spirit is Vishnu, the righteous tribe are the Raghuvanshi of Aryavrata, the slain demon is Taataka, the beauteous maiden is Sita (or perhaps Radha is better cast?), the father figure is Dasharatha, the sacred eagle is Garuda, and the evil forces defeated in battle are Ravana's rakshasas.

Other Vaishnavite inspirations are less obvious. Are the floating mountains which protect Pandora's sacred forests inspired by Govardhan? Is the carriage of the Na'vi people, who walk tall and lithe, and swish their tails with pride, inspired by the vanaras of Kishkinda?

Google tells me that these parallels haven't gone unnoticed. Some cranks were offended. Many Hindus, including me, enjoy these resonances. A film maker called Sudipto Chattopadhyay likened Jake Sully to Kalki, the long awaited tenth avatar of Vishnu. One of the beautiful things about Kalki is that every tribe, every culture can locate their own messiah in that placeholder.

The story that you have heard before, that you will hear again, is what Joseph Campbell called the monomyth, the single narrative that underlies all the great stories ever told, the Odyssey, the Norse myths, the stories of Rama, and Gautam Buddha and Jesus. Contemporary mythology - Lord of the Rings, Narnia, Star Wars and now Avatar - follows the same narrative structure, sometimes instinctively, sometimes intentionally.

Re-telling the monomyth becomes interesting because of rich detail which Avatar has in plenty, like, the complete Maori-based Na'vi language invented for the film, or the coral reef inspired jungle-scapes of Pandora. These stories aren’t about surprise endings. They gain meaning, resonance and emotional heft with repetition. The story of Rama is retold every Dussera. The story of Krishna is retold every Janmashtami. Perhaps the story of Jake Sully will be retold every April 22, on Earth Day, to honour the Na'vi's Gaian ethos? Perhaps we will be blessed with an Oscar winning sequel?

Kannadasan and Krishna Consciousness in the Peak District

காட்டுக்கேது தோட்டக்காரன் இதுதான் என் கட்சி

kattukkethu thottakaran, ithuthan en katchi

These words are from a favourite old song by Kannadasan, one of Tamil cinema’s greatest and most celebrated poets. This translates roughly to: does the forest have a gardener? His side is the side I’m on.

As it turns out, the forest does have a gardener. His name is Les Morson. His side is the Hartington Sports Committee. My family and I discovered him, and the woods named in his honour, on a recent walk through the Peak District National Park.





Kannadasan’s lyrics were written for a character disowned by his family, trying to assert that he still is one of God’s people. In that context, the kattukku thottakaran, the forest gardener, probably refers to God. Krishna is vanmaali, literally forest gardener, in many Indian traditions.

It seems perfectly reasonable to assume that when Mr Les Morson starting planting trees to make a forest, he did not intend to discover his inner Krishna-avatar, even if that is in fact what he did. The Lord manifests himself in mysterious ways.

The English: friendly or distant?

My daughters learn ballet. I take them to ballet class most Saturday mornings. While I’m waiting for class to finish, I sit around in a large hall drinking Nescafe along with dozens of other parents.

I see the same set of parents at ballet class every week. I obviously have something in common with the other parents, we live in the same neighbourhood and have children the same age. Yet, none of the English parents ever acknowledge me with a head nod or a smile. The people who do acknowlege and greet me are the other expats - American, French, Iraqi, Chinese, and of course other Indians.

Yet, the same English can also be very warm and connected.

For instance, yesterday my family went on a day hike in the Peak District. We had a wonderful time, walking through densely wooded dales and over grassy hills, spotting farm animals in the pastures and fossils in the limestone rockfaces. We passed many other groups of hikers through the day – other families, groups of middle-aged ladies, people walking dogs, courting couples, white-bearded gentlemen walking solo – they made our day even better by pausing to acknowledge us, and smile and greet us. They were all English.

So, are the English aloof and stand-offish, or are they warm and friendly?

I posed this question to an English friend of mine, a career politician married to a French-Canadian. His take was that context makes all the difference.

Ballet class in an affluent suburb is actually an anxious, competitive context. Subliminally or otherwise, parents are worrying about how well they are providing for their children, relatively speaking. They are sniffing out the other parents for minute differences in wealth, status and social class. Expats frustrate this process because foreigners are especially hard to sniff out and place on a social map. The fine radar which works so well among the English doesn’t work with foreigners; so foreigners remain distant and ambiguous. Status anxiety and ambiguity don’t make people feel friendly or inclusive.

By contrast, hiking is not competitive. Hiking the Peak District is no great physical achievement. Hikers check their status anxieties in at the gate as they enter a national park, and walk to celebrate the fabulous landscape. In a way, hikers share a secular religion: we have come together to worship glorious nature, a god far greater than any of us. The sense of believing in the same god, and of our personal insignificance before the greatness of that god... yes, that could make people feel warm and inclusive.

Makes sense. Plus, something a game theorist might call the risk of repeated interactions. A hiker greeting me in the peaks is fairly sure we are never going to see each other again. A parent who engages me in small talk at ballet might wind up having to chit chat with me every weekend, which would be terrible punishment for having committed a random act of kindness.

Here is how Kate Fox, an English anthropologist who wrote a very useful book called Watching the English, describes this risk:

It is common, and considered entirely normal, for English commuters to make their morning and evening train journeys with the same group of people for many years without ever exchanging a word.

A young woman, who I would describe as lively and gregarious, explained, “once you start greeting people like that – nodding, I mean – unless you’re very careful you might end up starting to say ‘good morning’ or something, and then you could end up actually having to talk to them.” The problem with speaking with another commuter was that if you did it once, you might be expected to do it again - and again, and again: having acknowledged the person’s existence, you could not go back to pretending that they did not exist, and you could end up having to exchange polite words with them every day. That’s right. It doesn’t bear thinking about.