Haka for World Peace

The Rugby World Cup is on. I am cheering for the All Blacks.

India is not playing, so I can swear allegiance to any team in the tournament. I would, ideally, choose my team based on their skills, tactics, character and creativity. However, sadly, I don’t know rugby well enough to exercise that kind of nuanced judgement. I’ve worked out the scoring system and sort of know the main rules – like you can’t pass the ball forward – but I still find penalties baffling, and I can’t tell a fly-half from a hooker. No, I didn’t become an All Blacks fan because of their game.

Some people think I’m supporting the All Blacks just because they are going to win the World Cup. That is not the case. Yes, the Kiwis are the bookie’s favourite, but I’ve been a sports fan for too long to read much meaning into the bookie’s reading of the tea leaves. My natural instinct is the opposite: to support the spunky underdog rather than the favourite. The truth is, I am cheering for the All Blacks because I love the Haka.

There is a lot to love about the Haka. The lilting melody, uplifting lyrics and the balletic grace of the performers never fails to stir the spirit. But, on reflection, I think the main reason the Haka resonates with me is its political symbolism.

The Haka is obviously a Maori war ritual, yet, both Polynesian and Caucasian Kiwis embrace it as their own. It doesn’t seem to be an in-your-face assertion of Maori pride, like say the Tommie Smith’s Black Salute at the 1968 Olympic Games. It doesn’t seem to be an ironic or mocking adoption of Maori imagery by a dominant Caucasian culture either. Daniel Carter and Malili Muliaina both seem to perform the Haka in the same spirit, with the same pride and conviction.

I sometimes hear about being "tolerant" of other identities in multi-cultural societies. Personally, I don't actually like being tolerant. When I'm being tolerant, I'm just keeping the lid on irritation, resentment or even anger that are simmering beneath the surface. A zestful, whole-hearted embrace of another identity, like the Haka, feels so much better than mere tolerance. Maybe that is the path to genuine, successful multi-cultural societies.

The way John Lennon might have put it:

"You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope one day you'll join us
And the world will do the Haka as one...."

C'mon All Blacks!

Yorkshire Souls experiencing the Brahman

"And then a scholar said, Speak of Talking. And he answered, saying...
In much of your talking, thinking is half-murdered. For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words may indeed unfold its wings, but cannot fly."

From The Prophet, by Kahlil Gibran.

The words were on my mind because my family and I were at the Yorkshire Sculpture Park last weekend. We encountered these Yorkshire Souls: these alphabet-lattice figures sitting under a tree hugging their knees. From certain angles, or in certain light, they were hardly apparent, they melted into the background. From other angles, they looked solid.

We walked through the Yorkshire Souls, and their big brother The House of Knowledge, and looked out at the world through their alphabet lattices. The view from inside the Yorkshire Souls was sort of like my view of the world itself. I perceive the world through words, symbols, which automatically distances and separates me from the world I am perceiving.

The way Paul Simon put it:

"...From the shelter of my mind,
Through the window of my eyes..."

The world seen through words and alphabets is maya, only an illusion. I have to step out of the beautiful alphabet-lattice of maya, step out of the Yorkshire Soul, to experience truth, to experience the Brahman. Many spiritual practices are about escaping this illusion of maya and directly experiencing reality: Vipassana Yoga, or the Trappist practice of silence, or the Japanese tea ceremony, or perhaps even the Mevlevi dervishes, dancing themselves into a trance to escape the boundaries of the self. Today, I could taste a little of that sense of liberation, just by looking through the alphabet-lattice of the Yorkshire Souls and stepping back into the sunlight. Wow.

Were other people who came across the Yorkshire Souls similarly reminded of maya and the Brahman?

I wasn't sure. So I asked my daughters what they made of the Yorkshire Souls. My nine-year old said "They must be chatterboxes. They have so much to say." My six-year old was reminded of a trick the children play on Mam'zelle in Malory Towers. Mam'zelle sat on a stool and came away with a bright pink "OI" on her black-skirted behind. Maybe the children played a similar trick on the Yorkshire Souls' beds, so they were completely covered with alphabets. Which makes sense, because the Brahman can be experienced by a chatterbox, or in children's pranks, just as much as it can be experienced in the sanctum sanctorum of St Peter's Basilica, or in an ice-cave at Gangotri.

More pictures of the Yorkshire Souls and The House of Knowledge are here. The Jaume Plensa exhibit that these Yorkshire Souls are a part of is still on, and is totally worth a visit.

Lover's Bridge, Sofia, Bulgaria

I spread my map out across the reception desk, pointed to a scribble on a chit of paper, and asked the concierge, "How do I get to this restaurant?"

"No problem, sir." the concierge gesticulated broadly towards the Hilton Hotel's glass frontage. "Just walk across the Lover's Bridge, through to the end of the park, and the restaurant is just two streets away." He bent down to ink the restaurant on the map.

"Lover's Bridge?" I asked, remembering the Bridge of Sighs in Venice and Pont Neuf in Paris. "It is right here, near the hotel?"

"Yes sir", said the concierge. "Very famous in Sofia. Loving couples always come there. It is very nice, sir. You will see on the way to the restaurant." So I joined my colleagues in the hotel lobby and set off for dinner at the restaurant, half imagining a scenic, pastoral walk over tinkling streams.

It turned out that Sofia's Lover's Bridge is a concrete pedestrian walkway, across an enormous eight lane motorway. It is topped by a McDonald's golden arches logo, advertising a restaurant located in the traffic island between the traffic lanes. It is flanked on either side by government issued informational posters about Bulgaria's cultural and archaeological heritage. There were plenty of business people in suits walking over the bridge on that sunny summer evening; there were also a noticeably large number of young couples holding hands.

I asked my Bulgarian colleagues about this Lover's Bridge at dinner, about how young Bulgarian couples feel about romantic rendezvous a few meters above roaring traffic. They explained that at one time this bridge passed over a stream. During the Soviet era, it was found that the path of the stream was ideal for a motorway through the city. So, Soviet engineers built a motorway over the stream. The stream now emerges from under the motorway a few kilometers away from the city. Despite this, the bridge remains an favourite romantic spot. Nobody really minds cars instead of water. Above all, Bulgarians are a pragmatic people.

It was after dark when we walked back from the restaurant to the hotel. The atmosphere on the bridge was now distinctly steamy. My colleagues and I could not help but observe that love was now blooming on the concrete walkway, while the molten yellow stream of traffic flowed underneath the young lovers. A busker started to play as we approached the end of the bridge. He was playing Californication, by the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, in English.





More pictures of my walk across this bridge are visible here.

Dhrishtadyumna and Serena Williams

Once upon a time, King Drupada ruled over the land of Panchala. Drupada was wise and just, his subjects were happy and loyal.

However, King Drupada was not as strong as he was wise. He was drawn into war against the Kauravas of Hastinapura, and was comprehensively defeated. He was captured on the battlefield, bound in chains, and presented as a prisoner to Dronacharya, the victorious Kaurava commander. Drona showed mercy on Drupada and spared his life, but annexed half of Panchala.

Humiliated, Drupada swore revenge. He prayed to the gods for a valorous son who would defeat the Kauravas and kill Dronacharya, and performed the putra kameshti yagna. Lo and behold, from the sacred flames rose a perfect warrior, fully armed and ready for battle: Dhrishtadyumna. This fire-born warrior fulfilled his destiny. Dhrishtadyumna was commander-in-chief of the victorious Pandava army through the great eighteen-day war at Kurukshetra; he slew Dronacharya on the fifteenth day of battle.

Yet, as the eons passed, Dhrishtadyumna remained an uncelebrated character. Children are traditionally named after other Pandava heroes like Arjuna, Bheemasena, Krishna, Abhimanyu and Satyaki, even Yudhishtra, but not after Dhrishtadyumna. The defeated Kaurava commanders Bheeshma, Drona and Radheya are all arguably more revered than Dhrishtadyumna, the victorious Pandava commander.

I think this is because Dhrishtadyumna was never more than a warrior, he never became a hero. He was born complete. He therefore never went through the hero's journey. His character was not forged in the crucible of events, like, say, Bheeshma's vow of celibacy, Duryodhana's embrace of Radheya as a true kshatriya, Bheemasena's fury after that fateful game of dice, or Arjuna's reluctance to wage war on his grandfather. It was never obvious that Dhrishtadyumna fully felt the shame of his father's defeat, or of his sister Draupadi's humiliation. His character and destiny were a given, preordained by his progenitors. Therefore he remained a bit of a cynical automaton, more a Terminator-like android than a real hero worthy of adulation.

Dhrishtadyumna's spiritual descendants are modern sports "professionals", who are brought up from birth to fulfil a single, narrow aim. These modern-day Dhrishtadyumnas include a vast number of Soviet era athletes, mass manufactured by the communist machine to win Olympic medals. Tennis once had a surfeit of these bloodless, colourless, insufferably boring androids, especially between the Borg-McEnroe era and the Federer-Nadal era. Anyone want to watch Thomas Muster vs. Michael Stich?

When Serena Williams first came on the scene, I didn't warm to her, I didn't especially want to see her play. She seemed to be just another android, another avatar of Dhrishtadyumna. Serena was conceived by her parents, literally, to win the sweet prize money now on offer in tennis. The only self, the only personality, young Serena seemed to have was her parent’s warped ambition.

Over the years, however, Serena changed. She distanced herself from her pushy dad (he no longer attends Venus vs. Serena matches holding a placard that reads "Welcome to the Williams' Show”). She became a shopping-addict, and went through therapy. She threatened to shove a tennis ball down a match official's throat. She learnt to look sweet and starry-eyed at press interviews. She kept improving her game. She glammed it up at the Oscars. Serena went through a freak injury - she stepped on broken glass in a German night club, and that developed into a life threatening pulmonary embolism, which stole a stole an entire year of Serena's prime. She went through a string of failed relationships with rap artists and sportsmen. She dished out boyfriend advice to Caroline Wozniacki: “I told her never look through the guy’s phone,” Serena said. “That is the worst thing you can do. I told her most relationships end.”

Basically, real life happened to Serena. Real life changed Serena, and in those changes authentic self was created. Serena’s humanity is apparent now in a way that Dhrishtadyumna’s never was, which is why watching Serena play today is so much more compelling than it ever was.

The Arranged Marriage Algorithm

“So, Prithvi, we have heard that Indians mostly have arranged marriages. Is this true? How does that work?”

I was out at dinner with a bunch of business colleagues when I was asked this question. Conversation around the table paused. My colleagues were clearly interested in hearing about Indian arranged marriages. These colleagues included smart people from Brazil, Denmark, Poland, Bulgaria, Canada and Britain. I needed to come up with something truthful, credible, and that showed India in good light.

I had a hunch that this perception of Indian arranged marriages was shaped by Western media coverage of normal, happy girls from, say, suburban Birmingham, who are married off, against their will, to tribal chieftains in Kandahar province. These stories are true, and are terrible tragedies. However, my knowledge of this world in negligible, and comes from the same media reports as my Brazilian or Bulgarian colleagues.

My marriage, and marriages in my immediate family, have all been “love marriages”. However, several very good friends of ours have had arranged marriages. These couples generally are educated, professional, affluent, cosmopolitan, urban Indians. As far as I can tell, the texture of these arranged marriages is not all that different from love marriages. If anything, some of the most lovey couples I know - who cuddle together in company, and address each other as “honey” and “sweety” - came together through arranged marriages. I actively dislike the terms arranged and love marriages, partly because of the implication that arranged marriages are loveless.

I told my colleagues that while media reports about girls abducted to be married off against their will are true, they entirely outside my experience. Within the relatively privileged circles I inhabit, arranged marriages are quite common. However, here, they work quite differently from the media stereotype. Here, arranged marriages serve exactly the same purpose as the compatibility matching algorithms in dating websites like eHarmony.com or Match.com.

A couple brought together by an arranged marriage algorithm have a number of things in common. Their parents get along, or at least, are not contemptuous of each other. They are from similar social and economic backgrounds. They have similar levels of education, and are likely to have similar attitudes to a bunch of stuff. All these are good statistically significant predictors of marital success. What the arranged marriage algorithm, or the eHarmony.com algorithm, does not predict is chemistry - the magic electricity that crackles between, say, Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. Which is OK, because the arranged marriage algorithm works just fine, as long as individuals can keep exploring options until they find someone with the right (or reasonably good) chemistry.

This gambit worked: Everyone at this table was a quant. It led to some companionable geek-talk about how one could improve the quality of these algorithms (should one hold out a control sample, of couples who are intentionally mis-matched, to train the matching algorithm?) until my Bulgarian colleague chipped in. She was one of two women at the table. To her, algorithms to predict compatibility are worse than useless, regardless of whether they’re authored by clans or by eHarmony.com. They totally miss the point. Chemistry is not just one more factor in a marriage. It is the central thing, the only thing that matters.

This served a nice segue to a set of stories about how women are more romantic than men, and my defense of the Indian Arranged Marriage was successfully concluded.

Homogocene at the Istanbul Sheraton

Homogocene: the term ecologists and evolutionary biologists use to describe the current era, when ecosystems are becoming more homogenized, when tough generalist species take over large portions of the globe, pushing out the specialized species that developed in isolation.

I was in Istanbul recently. Typical business trip: airport, hotel, conference, hotel, airport. I had no chance to go exploring, to soak up the atmosphere of the eternal city, a title Istanbul deserves every bit as much as Delhi or Rome.

I did, however, have a ray of hope. We had a formal dinner on the night of the conference, with live entertainment. This live performance might give us some local flavour. Maybe a local poet would recite Jalaluddin Rumi’s poetry, and interpret Rumi’s immortal words for this English-speaking audience. Maybe we’d have some mesmeric, mystical Sufi music, with a black and white film of dervishes whirling playing in the background. Even a contemporary Turkish pop act would be cool.

Instead, we got a couple of guys wearing jeans and t-shirts, carrying guitars, who perched on stools in front of mikes and did cover versions of The Eagles, Dire Straits, and Eric Clapton. They played Tequilla Sunrise, Walk of Life and Hotel California. They finished with an impassioned rendition of Wonderful Tonight, which was especially well-received at my table, which comprised entirely of grown men with families and advanced degrees in quantitative disciplines. We solemnly clinked our glasses together, and congratulated each other on how wonderful we looked tonight.

From Wankhede to Trent Bridge. How? Why? What Next?

How could India lose like that? India are the world number 1, the world champions. And yet, we lost to England. Twice, By big margins. How could the team which won the World Cup just three months ago, playing with so much spunk and conviction, suddenly turn so spineless?

This question feels especially important because I was in the stands at Trent Bridge for three days. I took in the spectacle, the packed stands, the ever-changing conditions, the many pints of lager. I enjoyed the camaraderie, the corporate hospitality and the banter with knowledgeable English fans. I cheered a Rahul Dravid century. Yet, despite all that, I came away from the game feeling miserable, physically beaten up. How could India lose so abjectly? After being so far ahead of England?

The most common explanation flying around is that India play too much cricket, are therefore under-prepared for English conditions, and are carrying too many injuries. This is true. A less greedy cricket board would have scrapped that West Indies tour to give the team a chance to get acclimatized. I'm just not able to see that as an explanation. India have always played too much cricket. India have always been underprepared.

Looking back, India have never been a dominant world #1, obviously better than the rest of the pack. India, Australia, England and South Africa have been pretty evenly matched, player for player, ever since Glenn McGrath and Shane Warne retired. What made this Indian team special was that, despite their brutal workload, despite their limited bowling, they would reach deep within and conjure up exceptional performances when it mattered. This team's great moments have all been about fighting back from adversity... Eden Gardens 01, Headingly 02, Lord's 02, Multan 03, Adelaide 03, Bombay 04, Johannesburg 06, Jamaica 06, Trent Bridge 07, Kanpur 08, Madras 08, Perth 08, Napier 09, Durban 10...our success tasted that much sweeter because it never came easily. India's ascent over the past decade was the result of not just skill, but also exceptional spirit.

Yet, the World Cup, the ultimate prize, remained elusive. In 2003, India played like champions, until the heartbreak in the finals. In 2007, another heartbreak. In 2011, Indian team believed they were destined to win. Belief - vivid internal images which are (literally) the stuff of dreams - is a much stronger force than the will. That belief, that sense of destiny, lifted India during the 2011 World Cup whenever they needed to raise their game.

Now, India have won the World Cup. The dream has come true. This team's destiny has been fulfilled, their most soaring ambition has been realized. The movie is over, the credits have rolled. Now, they are emotionally flat-lining. They no longer have the emotional energy to lift their game, the way they have done over the past decade.

Ironically, the other team I've watched emotionally flat-lining after reaching a cherished goal is England. An entire generation of English players grew up dreaming about winning the Ashes. Nasser Hussain, Duncan Fletcher and Michael Vaughan gradually turned England into a tough team with a winning habit. In 2005, England played out of their skins to beat an exceptional Australian team and win the greatest Ashes ever.

Having scaled this summit, England wandered into years of mindless, meandering, mediocrity... meltdown in Pakistan, a 5-0 whitewash in Australia, Freddy Flintoff's adventures with a pedalo, losing in New Zealand, Pietersen's spat with Peter Moores. England finally recovered their sense of purpose only after Freddy Flintoff retired, after Andrew Strauss and Andy Flower were firmly established as the captain and coach, after they had a clear and motivating goal to focus their minds - beating Australia in Australia.

I don't think the return of Sehwag and Zaheer is going to fix the Indian team. The team, collectively, needs a renewed sense of purpose. The tough cricket in England this summer might help shape this purpose. In the meanwhile, we India fans may need to spend a season or two remembering everything our team has achieved over the past decade while this new purpose takes hold.