Gamla Stan, Stockholm, and proto Indo-European

My flight had started boarding. I was gathering up my laptop, iPod, magazine and assorted paraphernalia to head to the gate when my cell phone rang. It was my wife. I told her I'd reached Istanbul airport, was heading to my flight, and that I'd be home soon.

My wife was surprised. She thought I was in Stockholm, Sweden, not in Istanbul, Turkey. As always, my wife was right. I was, in fact, in Stockholm.

In my defence, I had had a long day. And, the part of Stockholm I'd just walked through was called Gamla Stan, which sounds like it could be in Istanbul. How did the heart of the capital of Scandinavia wind up with such an oriental sounding name?

It turns out that Gamla Stan, which means Old Town in Swedish, has familiar Indo-European roots. Stan is a contraction of the Swedish "staden" (sta'n), meaning "the town". This derives from the proto Indo European root sta - to stand, set down or be firm- ; the same root as English words like stand, stance, status or stadium and Sanskrit/ Indian words like sthal, stapit, stupa or Hindustan.

The origins of Gamla are a bit more tricky. Gamla meant camel in ancient Aramaic or Syrian. Gamla morphed into the Hebrew kamal which led to camel. It is tempting to think of Gamla Stan as Camel Town; perhaps ancient caravans from the Sahara trekked right across Europe to do business with the Norsemen of Scandinavia. Unfortunately, linguists seem to think there is no link between camels and Gamla Stan.

Gamla comes from the old Norse gammel, which means old. I find it easier to recognize the comparative forms of gammel: alder and aldest which lead to the modern English elder and eldest . Wikitionary tells me that gammel might be from the proto Indo European word for winter. If so, Gamla Stan could be understood as Winter Town, or perhaps even the Town Nourished Through Many Winters, which would be more evocative of the heart of the Scandinavian capital than just Old Town.

It also turns out that Turkish is not a part of the Indo-European language family at all. While Turkish has borrowed through the Ottoman years from Persian, Arabic and possibly even Sanskrit, it is from a completely distinct family of Turkic central Asian languages.

Hindi and Swedish, however, are cousins. Locating Gamla Stan in Delhi rather than in Istanbul may have made more sense. Gamla Stan sounds like a natural fit in old Delhi...Gamla Stan could roughly translate to Garden City...maybe a few miles past Hazrat Nizamuddin...

Sachin's Century, Zizou Zidane and Slumdog Millionaire

India won the World Cup. Wow!

How did we do it? (A) we cheated (B) we were lucky (C) we have a team of geniuses (D) it is written. And yes! Ladies and gentlemen, you are right. The correct answer is (D). We won the World Cup for the same reason that a chai wallah called Jamal Malik won Rs 2,00,00,000 in a quiz show. We won the World Cup because - it is written.

I didn't just make that up when I was celebrating our win. I have it on good authority that we won because it is written. The authority in question is India's coach Gary Kirsten. Here is what he had to say to Cricinfo:

As the tournament progressed in those knockout stages, I just felt a sense of destiny there. I felt we were going to do this thing. To the point that, the day before the final we knew were going to win. We actually even spoke into it. That we were going to win this thing. It's how we prepare to deal with the success, because we are going to win. Mike spoke about it: we are going to win this thing tomorrow. There was never any doubt at that stage.

I don't think Gary Kirsten is seeing ghosts here. He is talking about something real, a very tangible spirit that was present in this Indian team, that helped them raise their game when it mattered. This spirit is most apparent when it is absent, like when a team or player can't summon up the self-belief to win, and therefore crumbles or chokes, like Jana Novotna at Wimbledon 93 or South Africa in the cricket World Cup 99. But the converse is also true. The presence of this spirit, this deeply experienced sense of destiny, gives a team or player resiliency, an extra edge.

India didn't have this spirit in 83. After that win, Kapil Dev told the media that he had brought champagne into the dressing room before the final, because even if India lost, we'd done quite well to reach the finals, and that was something to celebrate. That quiet sense of destiny was a lot more apparent in Gavaskar's team in 85. Of course, a sense of destiny doesn't guarantee success. Saurav Ganguly's team had a potent sense of destiny in 04, pushing for an epoch-making win at the SCG. But it was not to be, as Steve Waugh denied fate in his final test match.

Destiny's intent for this World Cup was for Sachin Tendulkar to score his hundredth hundred in a World Cup final in Bombay, to lead India to victory. Over thirty thousand India fans at Wankhede had read this destiny in the stars, and in the palms of their hands, and were fervently willing it to happen. It didn't. Malinga punctured that dream.

The aspect of India's performance in the finals I was most impressed with was the calm, purposeful confidence with which we played even after that dream had been punctured. That tells me that the team's dream, the sense of destiny Kirsten talks about, was not about individual performances but about winning the World Cup. Because if the team had believed deeply that Sachin was destined to score his hundredth hundred that day, they would have been shattered by Sachin's dismissal. They would have been shattered like Zizou Zidane was when he head-butted the Italian Materazzi during a football World Cup final.

Here is former England batsman and Kent and Middlesex captain Ed Smith's take on Zidane's World Cup final:

"Scratch a brilliant sportsman deeply enough and you reach a layer of self-certainty in his own destiny. The greater the sportsman, usually the more convinced he is of his own predestined greatness. The big stage means it must be his stage, victory has been prearranged on his terms, it is his destiny to win the World Cup or the Olympics or the Ashes. It might be perfectly rational for a great player to believe he has a good chance of decisively influencing the big occasion. But that isn't what he thinks. He thinks it is inevitable. After all, well-balanced self-awareness and genius seem so rarely to co-exist.

If you could bottle that self-certainty you would have the most potent winning drug. That is why champion teams so often have a talismanic force at their centre - someone who believes the match, the day and the championship have been set up in accordance with his own destiny. His self-belief radiates to the rest of the team. Zidane had exactly that quality. When France really needed something special, he believed he would do it. That belief can be so strong that not only your own team but even the opposition can fall under its spell.

In extra time of the World Cup final, with Thierry Henri off substituted, France again looked to Zidane, almost exclusively to Zidane. We can be sure that Zidane, despite being unusually exhausted and having played longer than he would in normal circumstances, shared that view...the script had gone according to plan. Zidane had taken France to the final... one last moment of pre-destined brilliance was all he required.

And he almost did it. In the 104th minute, summoning up one last effort, Zidane made a decisive run into the penalty box, a cross was delivered just in time, and Zidane's soaring header sailed inevitably towards the top of the goal...Just as it was meant to be.

Having complied with Zidane's will so far, the gods finally made a mistake. The Italian goalkeeper Buffon made an inspired save in response to an inspired header. What followed was the most revealing and desperate image of the World Cup. Aimed at no one in particular, not at the keeper, not at himself, perhaps at the heavens, Zidane's face contorted into an agonized scream. This should not have happened, cannot have happened, must not be allowed to stand. Zidane's face resembled Edvard Munch's famous painting.

Having come this far with him, how could the gods now abandon him? But they finally went their own way, and left Zidane in solitary despair... Which would weigh more heavily on a champion's mood - a verbal insult to his family (the kind of insult that sportsmen hear all too often and nearly always manage to ignore) or being denied, in a state of physical and mental exhaustion, what he considered to be rightfully his: the winning goal, the perfect narrative, his destiny...

Zidane wasn't thinking logically when he headbutted Materazzi. He wasn't thinking at all. He was acting at a level, as he often did, which was beyond the bounds of normality."

It was written, yet it was not. Zidane was not grieving a game, or even a trophy. He was grieving an entire world. The world in which he had lived had broken apart, the fabric of fate had been shredded. Buffon's unbelievable save threw Zidane squarely within the twisted reach of crazy sorrow. Headbutting Materazzi was only a part, and not an especially important part, of Zidane's experience of crazy sorrow. In Ed Smith's words, "it's not a long journey from extreme self-belief to madness".

Fortunately, the Indian team believed in their destiny to win a World Cup, but they didn't really believe in Sachin's hundredth hundred in the World Cup final. Sure, that would have be nice, but that was icing on the cake. That lack of belief let them keep their heads when Sachin fell. That lack of belief allowed them to give Sachin a glorious World Cup winner's send-off. Zizou Zidane also deserved a send off like that. It was written, even if it didn't come to be.

Sachin Tendulkar Winning Ugly @ the World Cup Semis

Sachin's 85 in the semi-finals against Pakistan yesterday has to be one of his worst knocks ever. He had four, maybe six lives. He couldn't pick Saeed Ajmal, he couldn't time the ball, he was not batting like Sachin. Yet, he stuck it out, ground out more runs than any other batsman in either team, and took India through to the finals in Bombay.

Sachin was winning ugly, in Brad Gilbert's immortal phrase. Sachin's companion in winning ugly was his captain MS Dhoni, who must be right up there, along with Simon Katich, as the least elegant batsman in world cricket. I love them both for being willing to win ugly.

Sure, I love watching Sachin blaze away majestically, like he did against South Africa in Nagpur. But I love watching India winning ugly even more.

Brad Gilbert's point is that most top sportsmen win when they are on song. Real champions are the ones who learn to win even when they are not, who can carry a mis-firing serve or forehand, and still scrap through to a win. Winning ugly does not mean sledging or behaving badly. Neither SRT or MSD does Aussie-style sledging. They just do whatever it takes to raise the likelihood of winning. They don't care if it doesn't look pretty.

My admiration for winning ugly has something to do with the world I grew up with.

I grew up when India's heroes were players like Gundappa Vishwanath, Erapalli Prasanna and Bishen Singh Bedi, who wowed the cricketing world with their magical silken artistry, but didn't win matches. I grew up believing, at some pre-cognitive level, that being Indian meant being gifted, graceful, gracious, and losing. Noble and honourable, but still losing. Like Vijay Amritraj and Ramesh Krishnan in tennis. It fitted in perfectly with Nehruvian socialism, the Hindu rate of GDP growth, our non-aligned policy, and Bollywood heroes who never got their girls.

Fortunately, that loser-India is now gone. A whole generation has now come of age - after Kapil Dev lifted the Prudential Cup at Lord's in 1983, after Ravi Shastri drove his Audi around the MCG in 1985 - to whom it is perfectly natural to be Indian and to win.

MS Dhoni was almost two years old in June 1983. Yuvraj Singh is six months younger than Dhoni. They wouldn't get why India winning ugly matters to me. But to me, and to many Indians of my generation, and my father's generation, the most precious Indian wins are the ones which are won ugly. Because winning ugly is the opposite of losing gracefully.

Pine Boats @ El Piano, Granada

Have you ever been annoyed at a picnic by a paper plate that gets soggy with gravy and starts collapsing in your hands?

Did this paper plate collapse at the precise moment when your eyes met Hers - she of the sparkling eyes and lustrous locks - so you had to cut short that magic moment to prevent the chana masala from descending on to your trousers? Did She then go off for a walk with the creepy guy from Accounts, so true love which was meant to be remained forever unfulfilled? Tragic. My sympathies, dear friend.

And to think that this tragedy would never have happened if the catering was by El Piano of Granada, Spain, a take-away restaurant I discovered on my travels.

El Piano serves delicious, organic, locally grown vegetarian food, not on paper plates, but in pine boats. Unlike paper plates, pine boats don't get soggy. They remain firm through your meal. Ergonomically shaped pine boats fit comfortably into the palm of one hand. And pine boats are morally good, because unlike styrofoam, pine boats are biodegradable.

So the next time true love strikes, dear friend, as it doubtless will, like it did for Oliver in Love Story, be sure that delicious, organic, vegetarian food from El Piano restaurant, of Granada, Spain, is secure in a firm pine boat. Because then you can be certain that true love will blossom.

Though, stepping away from the advertising script, surely the standard dish-design for away-from-table dining ought to be something like a pine boat? If pine is scarce, bamboo or sugarcane based alternatives are also possible. The design specs for any away-from-table dining surface should have asked for something which is rigid, fits into one hand, doesn't absorb moisture, can't dribble over the edges, is cheap, and can be thrown away safely.

Hence, this blog is calling for a revolution. Humanity should herewith be liberated from balancing dinner plates on one hand, from landfills stuffed with styrofoam, and from struggling with soggy paper plates. Until that revolution is complete, humanity is at liberty to sample the excellent veggie food at El Piano while visiting Granada, or the sister restaurant in York.

Tennis and the Emigrant Experience

I was down at the club last night. Tennis social. Dusted off my old racket - the same Prince Spectrum composite that I had back when I was in college - and gave my game a spin.

My game was filthy. I still play squash regularly, so I had no problem hitting the ball, but I had no control. I was spraying the ball all over the place. I resorted to tapping the ball back over the net to keep it in play, until I finally lost patience and started giving it a whack and hoping for the best. And, heck, whaddaya know? A few of those whacks actually landed in the court :). All in all, I had fun.

None of the other players at the social knew me. None of them were colleagues, or parents at my daughters' school. I wouldn't blame any of my doubles partners if they didn't remember my name today; I'd struggle to remember their names now. I was just a brown-skinned guy in a blue t-shirt, hitting yellow spheres across the net. I felt no shame, despite the filthy game. That is probably why I had fun.

The nice thing about being away from home is the anonymity, the absence of context, the freedom it brings. That sense of freedom shows in many ways, including the way I hit a tennis ball.

In Suzanne Vega's words, "I was in a timeless, placeless place, out of context, and beyond all consequences".

Yet, the worst thing about being away from home is also the anonymity. Hitting a tennis ball isn't intrinsically fun or not-fun. Tennis is worth my while because of context, because of the references to tennis running through the rest of my life.

I first played tennis at the Madras Cricket Club, my father's spiritual home. My father had been a very good player in his college days, and was still on the MCC tennis team. Marker Venkatesan - the tennis pro in western terms - would toss me a balls as a favour to my dad. Members who walked by easily recognized me as Chandru's son, as Raju's nephew, as Nari's nephew. They would stop to watch me play, throw in a word of encouragement, a well-intentioned tip...they wished me well. One of them, Ayya-mama, bought me a Tintin comic for every Merit Card I won at school. It was all very warm, and intensely personal.

One of my earliest memories is being woken up in the middle of the night by my excited dad, being bundled into a car and driven to my uncle Chander-mama's house. They were showing a recording of the Roscoe Tanner vs. Bjorn Borg Wimbledon final on TV. In my mind's eye, I can still see a blurry black and white image of this game in a crowded, darkened room. Otherwise, my entire clan gathered on our terrace to follow Wimbledon on BBC shortwave radio. By the time the great age of McEnroe, Borg, Chris Evert and Martina Navratilova rolled around, tennis already was in my blood-stream.

When I was a teen-ager, I was sometimes invited to play doubles with my dad's friends. These were very good players, they played seriously, they played to win. My dad's friends still wished me well. But now, with my young legs and sharp eyes, they also expected me to perform on court. I was eager to impress. But I also understood that the MCC ethos did not smile kindly upon double faults or foozled volleys. I especially didn't want to let myself down and be an embarrassment to my family, so wound up playing a cramped, self-conscious game. But there was never any doubt in my mind that the game was worth playing, and worth playing well.

My dad's friends aren't playing tennis at MCC more. But I still couldn't show up at those courts and play the filthy tennis I played yesterday. At a minimum, I'd need to put myself on a regimen that would get me back to being a good player. No anonymity there, and no freedom.

Yet, Janis Joplin's words, "freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose, nothing ain't worth nothing, but its free".

Of course, the ultimate zen state is not perfect freedom, but to be in a context full of meaning and still play with freedom; to be Sachin Tendulkar playing for India in a World Cup final, in Bombay, and still play with freedom to lead India to victory. That dream is still possible as this post goes to press. C'mon India.

Martin Crowe and The Lake Wobegon people-model

"So that is the news from Lake Wobegon, where all the women are strong, all the men are good looking and all the children are above-average."

Every week, Garrison Keillor concludes Prairie Home Companion with these wise words. Similarly, every week, the titans of the corporate world conclude that that they will compete for the future by winning the war-for-talent. They all strive to hire above-average people, and instruct their human resources departments to design "people-models" that allows their company to hire talented employees, as talented as the children of Lake Wobegon.

However, for a practicing business executive, this war-for-talent is mostly irrelevant. Winning the war-for-talent takes too long to matter. I, and most of my peers, have windows of about three years to deliver on our objectives. Over that time frame, the talent we have to work with is usually a given.

Even at Talent Masters, companies supposedly flush with talent like Procter and Gamble or GE, it is rare to step into a role worth doing with a crack team already in place. Best case, one can parachute in a handful of exceptional individuals into key positions. From then on, business leadership is mostly about trying to get your team to punch above their weight, by giving them a sense of unity, direction and belief, and by tactically shaping the game to amplify strengths and cover weaknesses.

A cricket captain’s job is like that of a practicing business executive. As a captain, you can preach, or whinge, about how your cricket board should have invested in the grass-roots game years ago, bringing better players through to the professional level. True, but irrelevant. You’ve got a squad. Your job is to win with that squad, warts and all.

Looked at this way, a good captain is not necessarily one who wins big tournaments. A good captain is one who gets his team to punch above their weight, who wins games he had no right to win given the quality of his players. By this yardstick my all time favourite World Cup captain is not Clive Lloyd, not Steve Waugh, but Martin Crowe in the 1992 World Cup.

Martin Crowe led a bunch of bits and pieces mediocrities, plus one quality player in Crowe himself. Yet, they competed on even terms with clearly superior teams by turning the prevailing cricketing wisdom upside down. Mark Greatbatch opened the batting, slugging the ball over the infield. Dipak Patel opened the bowling with his off-breaks. In the process, Crowe’s Kiwis changed the way 50 over cricket is played, forever.

Crowe’s team, which included dibbly-dobbly merchants like Gavin Larsen, Chris Harris and Willie Watson, were looking good for a spot in the World Cup final until an inspired Inzamam-ul-Haq blitzed Pakistan to a come from behind semi-final victory. Which goes to show that planning, spunk and tactical smarts can’t match god-given talent. However, in a contest between evenly matched teams, smart tactics should make all the difference.

Another brilliant tactician was Shane Warne. I've watched enviously as he conjured up victories out of nothing for Hampshire and Rajasthan Royals. Clearly the greatest captain Australia never had.

MS Dhoni has one of the best minds in contemporary cricket and can be genuinely inventive. One of my favourite passages of play in recent history was the Nagpur test against Australia in 2008, when Ishant and Zaheer dried up the flow of runs by bowling yorkers a foot outside the off stump, frustrating Australia into a epoch-ending series defeat. Another memorable Dhoni innovation was placing a fielder directly behind the bowler to catch-out a rampaging Keiron Pollard in an IPL final. I haven't worked out how the same cricketing mind bowls Ashish Nehra, or Joginder Sharma, in the last over.

I would love to see captains using more tactical inventiveness in this World Cup. Perhaps the ICC should institute a Spirit of Martin Crowe innovation award, along the lines of the ICC Spirit of Cricket or the Kingfisher fair play awards. If the ICC is not up to the task, this blog could fill the breach.

Captain Haddock's Bashi Bazouks

Ever wondered who Bashi-Bazouks are?

I first encountered Bashi Bazouks in The Crab With The Golden Claws. At the time, I didn't really wonder who or what they were. I just accepted them as another Haddock-ism, like lily livered landlubbers, or fancy dress fatimas, or ostrogoths, all good ways of describing people who don't understand that Loch Lomond whiskey is sacred. Nonetheless, I was delighted when I found Bashi Bazouks in a totally different context.

It turns out that the story of the Bashi Bazouks is much sadder than that of odd-toed ungulates, or duck-billed platypuses or even billions of bilious blue blistering barnacles.

I came across Bashi Bazouks while reading about the Ottoman-Russian war in 1876. Bashi Bazouks were irregular fighters in the Ottoman Army. They were unpaid, non-uniformed, and used as lookouts or sentries. They gained international notoriety when they were involved in horrific escalating tit-for-tat violence in Bulgaria, between Christian Bulgarian nationalists and Muslim Ottomans, which culminated in the Bashi Bazouks' massacre of the entire mountain-town of Batak.

It is hard to know what actually happened at this time. Open sources like Wikipedia can be unreliable when describing emotionally-charged political history like this. But to the extent that my Googled-up references can be trusted, the Bashi Bazouks were both tragic victims and brutal aggressors. Many of them were Muslim Circassian refugees from the Crimean wars, displaced from their homeland and repeatedly brutalized by the Bulgarian majority, before retaliating with even more brutality when they were finally given license by the Ottomans.

This story has a surprisingly contemporary feel. The soul-destroying ethnic violence in the Balkans and the Caucuses is still going on. The great powers are still learning that fighting proxy wars with low-cost irregular troops usually ends in tragedy, whether you call them Bashi Bazouks, Tamil Tigers, Sandinistas or mujahedeen.

Changing tack a bit, ever wondered who Archibald is? Captain Haddock's first name is Archibald. Fortunately, this Archie is not a carrot-top.