The rise and fall of a dynasty

Now that I have seen the rise and fall of an empire, I realize that no matter how brutally and viciously the empire ruled during their days, in their moment of weakness you can’t help but look back with fondness on their days of glory.

I used to be a hardcore cricket fan as a teenager. Religiously following every match in every format of it (that was the era before 20-20 was a legal format of the game) on star sports and ESPN. It dint matter which country was playing whom. I even watched the highlights, the presentation ceremony, the senseless talk shows with scantily dressed women in it. It was like a disease, I would loose sleep over it, praying for the Indian tail-ender’s bat to kiss the ball so that we could steal some runs and lower that impossible ‘required run rate’. But engineering college with its unpredictable schedule and one-TV-for-the-entire-hostel rule cured me of this disease. I tried picking up the habit again but it was difficult because by then there were too many unfamiliar faces for me. Its frustrating looking at the batting line up and not knowing if the next guy is a “Matthew Haydon” type or a “Rahul Dravid" type.

Coming back to the time when I was still passionate about watching the game, I remember the one team that was so unbeatable that it was almost evil. They were the formidable Aussies led by the very glamorous Steve Waugh and later by the Adam Gilchrist. It was easy to hate this team. The rival teams easily had nightmares of the kangaroo with the fosters T-shirt running away with the trophy even before the series began. That nightmare was repetitive. Every win against the Aussies, if there was ever any was celebrated all over the world irrespective of the rival team. Even a drawn test was seen as a failure to the Waugh’s tough boys.

Any hero who did his magic against this team was garlanded and worshiped like a god. It was during one such tournament down under that VVS Laxman and Harbhajan Singh appeared to me as serious cricketers’. It was then that a sports editor decided to christen Laxman with the Very Very Special (VVS) tag.

For over a decade journalists and TV show anchors could easily refer to them as the “world champions” and people would understand who we were referring to. I miss that aggressive bunch badly. As much as I thought they were rude snobs it was always a treat to see them do what they did best—Kick ass on the cricket field. To watch a white lipped Shane Warne’s arm movement as he took his last steps before releasing the ball and wonder if he was going to bowl a “flipper” or a “slider”. To anticipate which corner of the ground Mattew Hayden would smash the ball. Mark Waugh’s never rarely disappointed his bowlers in his fixed position in the slip, diving for even the most impossible catches. Glen Mcgrath’s “faster than witches” balls. Bret lee was a newbie then, very very handsome and martial issueless. Adam Gilchrist the “pitch hitter” stole the show from his opponents more times than one. Not to forget Justin Langer’s infamous word games with the opposite teams and the umpires.

Ashes, is the most notable legendary rivalry in international cricket that dates back to 1882. The ashes cup contains the Ashes of the bail used in the 1^st Ashes series. During the days I used to watch the Ashes, the English were raped match after match, series after series. They had my sympathies even before the match began. From 1989-2003 the Aussies won six consecutive Ashes extremely convincingly. It looked like there was no stopping this monster. Like they could go on and on forever, and no savior would ever come to break the monotony of their success. But nothing lasts forever, and slowly one by one the great legends in the Australian team had to retire. Soon it was fresh faces with Punter boy to lead them all. This ended their fairytale story.

Last month I closely followed the Ashes in the news papers. I wanted them to loose, yes. Even after 3 previous Ashes loses, and many humiliating defeats with teams all around the world I still can only remember them as that snobbish sniggering team that grabbed all the trophies greedily. This included three consecutive world cups. Yes, the Aussies did loose this Ashes too, not to mention convincingly. But when the score turned to a 3-1 my feelings to the Aussie changed a little, I suspect it to be pity, sympathy. Out of the last four Ashes series, England won three. I would like to blame Ricky Ponting for the crisis. I never liked him, not one of the players I admired. But that would be unfair. They had failed as a team and it wouldn’t help to blame the captain, we the Indians should know that better.

With the world cup only days away the Aussie team must have a plan to keep the world cup with them. But even while watching that team play I am sure I miss a few familiar faces. The world cup shall miss those formidable players. Something tells me the world cup will also miss the Aussies.

Unholy secrets of the confession box

I love the holiday season for many reasons, but mostly for the visitors it brings. Not, the foreigners or strangers, but residents from the same locality. People who left to do their education, in search of employment, in the pursuit of happiness, to make a dream come true, for a better life. They returned to this serene parish every Christmas, to celebrate with family, and familiar faces. Whenever they came they brought with them a joy of a different kind, long forgotten stories of this land. They brought with them laughter, fine clothes, expensive smelling perfumes, constant aroma from the kitchens, extravagant donations to the church and the usual hustle and bustle.

This also meant more people came to hear my sermon during the mass, especially on Sundays. The mass at Christmas eve and new years was a treat to look at, with everyone dressed as best as their money could afford. The little girls with their frilly frocks with matching socks and hair clips, the boys in their full sleeve shirts uncomfortably buttoned till the first buttons. It was a welcome change to see the young men give their oversized tee-shirts a rest and switch to well pressed striped shirts. Everyone young and old had a smile on their face, some were fake but they still took the effort to fake it.

Even the church looks happier with its decorated ceilings and baby Jesus cozily sleeping in his crib. Yes there were other benefits for me too, those that my patriarchal ancestors would’ve liked to censor out. The Scotch whisky bottle from gulf still lies unopened in my cupboard along with the many packets of Swiss chocolates and expensive perfumes. The glass painting of the last supper from “the holy land” hangs beside my picture with the pope taken in Rome. These were gifts of thanksgiving from the visiting parishes, but I knew as well as them that the gifts also doubled up as bribes. Bribes so that I would keep praying for the families, bribes to the gods through me.

But I hate the holiday season for the secrets it brings with it. I dread the confession box, and my priestly duties that come with it this time of year. The visitors bring in the evils of the entire world into my isolated little church in this sub-urban Kerala setting. They spit out their darkest secrets and their unspoken fears to me with only the blurry mesh to separate their lips from my ears. The mesh was meant to give discretion, but that itself was a lie. I could see their faces as clearly as I remembered. It was ironical.

The boy who went to a metro city three years ago to become an engineer confessed that he was “doing cocaine” now. But his biggest secret of the year was that he had made a mistake” and had aborted his baby after impregnating his college sweetheart. It pained me to hear this, he was one of my favorite alter boys, the one who knew all the duties and always showed up on time, even for the early morning mass.

The eldest son of the church’s sweeper worked in a northern state. His confession was that he had stolen a couple of expensive mobiles. This was because he couldn’t afford gifts for his younger siblings. He told them he had bought it from the city, they showed off with the cell phones even though they still hadn’t figured how to use it. I reminded him of the 8^th commandment “Thou shall not steal”. He assured me that it was only once, he did not want to come back empty handed and let his family think he wasn’t saving enough. His voice dropped as he said the last part. It was then that I asked him what his job was. He dodged the question, said it dint matter. It was these secrets that they dint disclose that worried me, because that only meant that he was doing something “unholy”, but would continue doing it even though he felt guilty. Some of them held back details for a fear that I might speak about it to the rest of their kin.

Then there were the Bible doubters, their confessions started with “sorry father, for I have questioned the authenticity of the word of god”. They would go on to ask scores of questions about contradictions in the bible. Some compared it with scriptures of other religions. They always impressed me, these mavericks, for most of them were young. To read so much and understand was not an easy task. Of all the people I knew that for like every other catholic priest of my time I had to get through the tough teachings at the seminary. This year a young girl who had gone to a nearby town to do her masters in Psychology was the one who questioned me. She mustered up enough courage to say that they thought the Catholic Church was a big lie, and thought the crusades and holocaust was no different from the Jihadis. She was ashamed of the history of the vatican. But as long as she was saying this to me in the confidentiality of the confession box I knew she still believed in the system and felt guilty for thinking these uncatholic thoughts.I knew there was Hope. I would sometimes surprise these scripture rebels by confessing that I agreed with them, to let them know that I was on their side. Then I would go on to suggest books that supported and cleared doubts of Christianity. These were not by priest but mostly by converts and Ex-drug addicts. The young were inspired by controversy and conflict.

The rich widow who still wore colorful expensive saris told me she spend her 2^nd consecutive Christmas alone, both her children claimed to be too busy in Europe. They still hadn’t recovered from the recession they said. For the first time since her husband died of cancer 7 years ago she felt like was all alone, and the unthinkable crossed her mind—SUICIDE . I told her how there was no worse sin than taking ones own life that the lord had blessed us with. She wept, she dint need the advice, she was ashamed even before the thought crossed her mind. Gently but sternly I told her it was time to submit herself to god, and join us for the daily mass. That usually helped the old and lonely in getting back with life. I had witnessed it before my own eyes, old friends would reunite, family rivals would get invited to each others homes for breakfast. I believed that it was the daily visits of these aged men and women to the church that saved the locality of many evils.

The home beside the church was to have marriage this year. There were one of the richer families and among the many visitors that came for the wedding was the boys uncle and family from America. I remember the uncle when he was younger, almost ten years ago when he left for the first time, he sought my blessings. But I never saw him or the likes of his family in my church after that. They now belonged to the new lot—the “Born Agains”, the protestants. The more I saw of them the more I wished they would leave sooner than later. With their fine clothes, heavy pockets, children with thick American accent and sophisticated manners they were a temptation to the hitherto loyal catholic. Everybody wanted to know what they did, how they turned millionaires overnight. To which he had one answer “I was born again.” The truth was even I yearned to know what the real secret was.

Elizabeth and her husband had one great sorrow in their life, they were childless. Her confession was that she secretly visited the Hindu temples, and prayed to a certain ‘godman’ to bless her with a child. A friend of hers suggested it she said. Three years and no conception later she realizes that she was wrong and it was all the devils doing. I was angry, she had disobeyed the 1^st commandment, this was no joke. She said she was desperate but now had decided to adopt, two—a boy and a girl. My heart softened when I heard that. I told her that ‘Jesus’ would forgive her and I was proud of her decision. With a drop of pitch I added that it would be better to pick the children from the convent orphanages. Not that I had anything against the others, for all children were innocent, but it was easy to poison their mind, and who knew what poison the other orphanages drank on. I assured her that convent kids were disciplined and would blend in well.

Jacob was soon to have his 1^st born. His wife was at her house in the next town preparing for the same. His secret was that off late he had perverted thought about his 13 yr old niece who came from Sweden. I was disappointed; Jacob was a good man, a regular in church, in the choir, a front man in the Jesus youth. “Oh what shame you bring? Oh what shame onto yourself, onto your family, the little girl and to your unborn child.” He told me he would do anything to drive the thoughts away, the niece was his favorite. When the girl was born he was in his late teens, since his brother the girls father lived in Sweden right from then Jacob had stayed in the same house . He took her around in his bicycle all around town, taught her to speak too. I did not have to listen to these stories. Earlier I used to cut people short when they went on with their history, but now I had learned better. What he was telling me was to defend himself from being judged too hard, moreover he had to tell someone. But who would listen to the shameful secret? I doubled up as a close friend at times like these. I had no choice but to listen, he asked me if he should tell his wife. I hated when people asked me to make decisions for them, because it was then that I would be as confused as them. I told him not to, his penance I said would be a week long retreat, lest his child be born with his sins. I dint feel guilty at playing god anymore.

Then there was Rose, the smartest of them all. She wasn’t a big fan of the church even as a kid, but the parish remembered her as the first to reach the famous IIT. She worked in a distant land now, and brought with her the most prominent souvenir ever—a foreign husband. A Kenyan, and worse a Muslim. The news had created quite a stir when we heard it six months back. I imagined him to be angry looking with a long unkempt beard. On the contrary he was clean shaven and well dressed well dressed, from the looks of the high school girls I knew they thought him handsome, in spite of his skin as black as charcoal. I knew I would have to work on this, make these girls believe he was the enemy in the Sunday school classes. Tell them stories of doom that hit on young men and women who married out of religion, site example from the bible. Some called this “brainwashing.” But I had to do it, or they would consider her their rebel heroine, and the church would loose many more good young women soon.

The old choir boy with the strongest voice I had ever heard has a rock band in the city now. Four years ago he confessed that he liked men, I told him it was normal at his age to be confused, but it would pass. I would’ve suggested marriage as a solution, but he was too young and unemployed at that time. Even in my boarding school I had seen “boys with boys,” as young an age as eleven. But, that was because there was no other choice. Now those boys were old men with grandchildren . Happily married. But this year the choir boy shocked me, he said he was living with someone—a man he was in love with. He asked my blessings, he wished the state church would let them get married. How dare he say this? That too inside my holy church. How could he call himself catholic anymore? I cursed the gay bishops in the west, this was their atrocious doing. I cursed the internet too.

The girl who had left to do her MBA said she had fallen prey to the evils of drinking and smoking, and she was sorry. Even as she said this I could get the stick of tobacco through the mesh that separated us and I knew she wasn’t sorry. Most people were like her, repeating the same old sins, no repentance, but just like a duty. Me repeating the same penance. The vicious circle would continue.

Now that the holiday season is over they would all leave, to move on with their lives. But I am still left back lord. Left to with their secrets.to take it to the grave. To pray and be their savior. It was difficult to look at their family members after that. It was hard to restrain myself from telling the mother that her son was using her hard earned money not one college, but on drugs. It was hard to smile at the lady whose husband was visiting whore houses in Dubai. It was hard to not be judgmental.

Forgive these stained souls father. And as you forgive them, please remember to help me forget these unholy secrets whispered in the confession box.

‘Oh god, what do I have to tell them’ to win back their trust

“Business Journalism is all about money”, is the 1^st thing that my Professor who is also an editor for the Businessline, The Hindu told us in our Business journalism course. What my professor tried to do with that introduction was to tell us to be ready to look at the financial implications with every political decision, charitable act by the big names etc. But we couldn’t help but look at the pun in his statement, after class we went on to discuss the five-star-hotel press conferences, sample gifts from corporate, paid holidays etc that was a part of business journalism.

So if we were to think in the same lines as what my professor told us, then is “political journalism all about POWER”. Well maybe not, but the last two weeks of newspaper headlines tells me so.

Barkha Dutt is not any Tom, Dick or Harry in the Indian industry. For many Indians she is to the Indian media what Sachin Tendulkar is to cricket. So hearing power broking and lobbying allegations against Barkha is not digestible in the 1^st gulp for many. But then reality is a B****, and the tapes are there for everyone to hear. What to believe and what not to believe is the question.

No I have not taken sides, neither Barkhas nor the critics. But I feel the cover up/clarification technique taken up by Barkha was one taken in haste and has only added to the fire.

Barkha in her personal statement in the NDTV website tried to defend herself by saying “As journalists we deal with different kinds of people, who sometime solicit information and at other times, provide news leads. Unless we believe in only press-conference driven journalism, the need to tap into what's happening behind-the-scenes in the corridors of power involves dealing with a multitude of voices”.

Not only did Barkha try to clean up her image by herself but NDTV too came to her rescue by writing an article against Open magazine’story which put Barkha in bad light with connection to the Radia tapes in their official website stating, “to caricature the professional sourcing of information as "lobbying" is not just baseless, but preposterous.”

NDTV even went on to publish in their website the SMS messages exchanged between Barkha and Manu Joseph, Open magazines editor. These messages try to question Manu’s ethics as a person i.e. telling Barkha something, and doing something else. But if that was supposed to take away the attention from the issue itself, then I can only say “sorry NDTV, the trick dint work”.

NDTV then made a brave move by inviting the main critics and experts in the field to a talk show, where the guests could ask questions to Barkha on the incident, and she would clarify(defend) them on camera. I believe “the idea” by NDTV was a good one, contrary to what many renowned journalists think. NDTV tried to show that they were transparent, and by trying to get all three sides of the story (accused, accuser and expert) they were doing good journalism in the process. Moreover it was a plan to save their senior editor’s face. But unfortunately the plan did not work.

Barkha who is normally seen grilling politicians in her show “the buck stops here” was made to exchange seats and was in turn made to defend herself on the “BarkhaGate” accusations. And that was not not easy for her. As much as she tried to keep her cool, and act a participant in the discussion, she could not hold back her instincts. She did loose it in between, her emotions were evident withevery nod of her head and twitch of her nose.

The Open magazine editor, Manu Joseph infact had a good time, he stole the show and managed in sailing it the way he wanted. He got to ask the question he wanted to ask her, which he knew she dint have the perfect answer for, and thus he succeeded in making the statement he wanted to without saying too much. Barkha tried to bring in the issue of whether publishing “raw material” like telephone transcripts was in the lines of Journalists ethics. That is a debate in itself, but to get to the bottom of the lobbying scandal many of the ethic gurus have made an exception to overlook the ethics of publishing the tapes.

Both the articles in the website, and the NDTV talk show dint serve the purpose they were supposed to. While many journalists have remained silent on the whole controversy, a few have spoken in favor of Barkha. The Hindustan Times has decided to suspend Vir Sanghvi's column Counterpoint after tapes of his conversations with Niira Radia surfaced last week.

Will Barkha suffer a similar plight? Or will she be able to convince the entire nation that she was just speaking to a source to get her story?

All said and done, this is one case that asks Indian journalism to wake up, and start mending their ways or more skeletons in the closet will be exposed and more tapes shall be leaked soon. God save us all. Period

How long will we keep fighting?

November 1995

Post-lunch classes were always a drag, so I wasn’t listening to my social studies teacher that afternoon when she spoke about Kashmir issue. Instead, I was looking at the Indian map on the same page of my textbook. I imagined it without Kashmir; I even covered the Kashmir part with my still-growing palm. The image looked weird, like a headless body, I thought with a silly grin.

Was that my own imagining? Or something that was indirectly inculcated into me by my teacher, who just taught us what the book said and didn’t have an opinion of her own? Or from the textbook itself, and from my previous years’ textbooks that told me that Kashmir was a vital part of India that Pakistan tried to steal?

A 9-year-old’s world is simple: You relate to things with your preconceived roles of villain, hero and the helpless soul that needs saving. To me, there was no doubt that India “the hero” would save Kashmir from Pakistan “the villain.” I believed that Kashmir the “head” was an original and essential part of the Indian body, as I was taught. But now as I hear all this controversy about whether Kashmir is an integral part of India, and as I use the “Google god” to learn more, I realised that I was taught a bunch of lies. My conception of the pretty state of Kashmir with the breathtaking mountains and the beautiful valleys was all based on lies.

Avial a few weeks before Onam

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Yes, that's what I had on independence eve night at Bangalore, a good mix of Avial. No, we are not referring to the dish here but the Mallu rock band Avial. My 1^st real rock show, so nothing much to compare it to. But yes it was fun for me, and inspired the very malnourished Malayalam singer in me to sing along.

The crowd was very much an Avial crowd in-spite of the organisers move of advertising the show with Parikrama as the main heroes.

Tony, the main singer of Avial very much reminded me of The Devil, with his sexy bald hair, pixie pointed ears, pale skin, sharp eyes, and just fit body. These not so mallu looks, along with his paccha (raw) Malayalam combined his trademark the rebel mallu attire consisting of a school boy white shirt and a black lungi was what the crowd out there loved most about him.

The “Tony, Tony” chants went on throughout the performance, and he dint disappoint his fans one bit. In between the hit numbers he had his own corny malayalam lines like “are we roking, and rolingg makalle?” to keep the crowd entertained.

Thanks to unequal growth hormones between the sexes I was right behind a bunch of tall guys who just kept jumping all the time, making my view of the concert much more difficult. The crowd was very sane for a rock concert, but off course there was the mood of alcohol, mixed with the fragrance of dope every 5 mins a new guy passed by.

The band is a ‘Rang De Basanthi’(with full reference to the movie) type band. In the sense it is one that has the power to make even the ‘Fraud mallu’ sit back, listen, feel proud to be a Malayali, and understand a few issues/stories related with the place he/she comes from.

The popularity of the band’s music is not restricted to just to Kerala, but crosses even the country’s borders. Many compare it to the popularity of the band to that of the German rock band ‘Rammstein’, with the similarity that both sing in strange languages, but the music is as good as ever.

Also called ‘Alternate Malayalam rock’ genre, the band is one that made me tone my tongue to twist it a bit further to sing their Malayalam lyrics. When someone makes you try hard to do something you never bothered to then that is what I call Influential. No doubt Avial is one such band in the history of Malayalam music.

Sania , Shoaib, aur hum

Disclaimer : This post is old news, and I should have posted it 2 months back. Let me apologize for my procrastination.

Let me quote one of the most sought after new age Indian authors of the current generation...
Love marriages around the world are simple:
Boy loves girl. Girl loves boy.
They get married.
In India, there are a few more steps:
Boy loves Girl. Girl loves Boy.
Girl's family has to love boy. Boy's family has to love girl.
Girl's Family has to love Boy's Family. Boy's family has to love girl's family.
Girl and Boy still love each other. They get married.
And now let me add to this a little more for the coveted Sania mirza-Shoiab Malik love story.
The Girl’s country has to love boy. Boy’s country has to love girl.
Girl and Boy still love each other. They get married.

Sania Mirza has always been a media favourite in India. She has made headlines for reasons in and beyond her control, be it because the Islam extremists decided to voice out loud that they thought her skirt hemline was too short for a modest Muslim girl, or her link up with a special bollywood star who was famous for being dumped at that time. But now she is in news for a reason everyone loves to hear, for love, for marriage, for a controversial marriage.
The perfect Indian marriage is one with no controversy, but the exciting and memorable one is one which has maximum controversy as it can take.
In most of the controversial Indian marriage the controversy, confusion, rejection, etc comes from within the family. The parents don’t approve of the guy/girls caste, the religions don’t agree with each other, parents choose totally poles apart partners for their kids etc, etc.
Sania has been spared that part of the great Indian dramatic wedding, but instead her anti-cupid forces are external, external from immediate family. There are two main enemies to this marriage. 1st is the ‘Other girl’ from Hyderabad, who is taken care of for now (hopefully). Let’s not talk about that part, because as far as we know that part has been taken care of and that girl will never interfere with the new brides life (or so we hope).
I would like to talk about the second enemy here, that is the ‘Other’ people who aren’t happy with the marriage. The reason they don’t agree with the marriage is the very famous ‘they aren’t a perfect match’ and this has nothing to do with personal interests, character or favourite ice screams, but more to do with nationalities, countries and borders.
Coming from a family where a few ‘not so perfect in the others eye marriages’ have taken place, i have seen how difficult the bride and the groom struggle to get the families consent, forget the society consent. Here we are talking about a whole country, a few people in the country feel that Sania’s matrimony is a national issue, and to asking Sania to get the blessings of every uncle ansd aunty in the country is ‘mission-impossible.
On a TV talk show almost 2 weeks before the marriage happened I had seen Sri Rama Sene chief Pramod Muthalik voice his opinion that he thought Sania Mirza choice of a Pakistani was an insult to all Indian Muslim boys. I really don’t know how that is relevant here, was it a competition here? In Muthalik’s view is every single adult Indian Muslim boy ranging from the tea-shop boy to the businessman who has just flown in from Switzerland after making a billion dollar deal supposed to feel like a failure in Sania’s eyes?
So finally they married after a lot of hue and cry. But is the drama over? I fail to think so. Lets wait for the next major tennis tournament to come, and hear if Sania wants to play for India. Then many self appointed tennis experts will come out to coach Sania on patriotism and betrayal.

More than a ball game

A month Pune and Kochi were dancing. Why? Because they were getting their own IPL team, but today slogans of ‘Ban IPL’ are being screamed all over.

A month back IPL news meant ‘KKR thrashed again’ or ‘Sachin proves he is god in all forms of the game’ or ‘Yuvraj angry over captaincy issue’, but today it means ‘Was Shashi Tharoor really playing a foul game or is he another victim of controversy’ or ‘Modi not going down without a fight.’

So ultimately who is the joke on? Is it on Sunanda who was forced to give up her share in the Kochi team? Is it on the newly ex-president of the IPL Mr.Lalit Modi ? Is it on the million cricket fans who religiously followed every match, only to realize that it was all fixed in the 1^st place.

Tharoor’s little secret game has now become a major issue involving many big names in the underworld, and questioning the credibility of many politicians and the government. It all started with Modi’s casual tweet about Tharoor wanting to be all hush-hush about his girlfriend Sunanda holding free equity in the Kochi team, and that ironically has got Modi himself under the axe.

When Tharoor who claimed to be ‘only a mentor’ to the Kochi team found himself at the receiving end of the IPL and political blows, with no ‘team’ to support his case, he bailed himself out by resigning as foreign minister, with grace. His resignation speech was classy to say the least, and only a fool would think that was his vote of thanks to political life. Lets all hope that will rise from the dead.

Lalit Modi was the next victim of the IPL hurricane, but for all we know of him, he wasn’t one to give in so easily, the IPL was his brain child, his baby. For the past 3 years Lalit Modi has taken centre stage of the IPL, he hasn’t had to share the limelight either, because the rest of the world didn’t care for the supporting actors. Modi took the all the right and wrong decisions associated with the IPL unilaterally, and always thought it a better idea to tweet about it as soon as he decided.

But one who has lived by the axe must die by the axe, and ultimately at the end of IPL-3 Modi has been reduced to just another twitter fanatic. Most of the in-house people in the BCCI who Modi trusted he could depend upon has let him down. But then Modi’s best friend Sharad Powar had to play Brutus here, lest he dirties his hands and poses a threat to his own position as the next ICC president.

Modi’s top crime is that he was involved in betting and match-fixing allegations. The IT department has proof for that, but investigations have come out with more surprises, putting the whole IPL brand name into shame. Names were dragged in, denials were in plenty, and the media saw to it that no one was spared.

Earlier Preity Zinta had a lot of explaining to do over the alleged ‘proxy ownership’ of the Punjab kings XI. Now its Shilpa sheety’s turn to save Rajasthan royals face, and she has opted to do that by the language IPL best understands by now, tweeting.

The tax department and the government are determined to get to the bottom of the IPL mysteries. This has become bigger than a national issue, and the government knows that if they do messy job here the ICC will step in along with the international paparazzi and that could turn really ugly.

Except for the bookies no one likes the word match fixing, irrespective of the result of the matches. I remember the match fixing controversy during South Africa’s tour of India 2001. Too many hearts were broken when the secret was out, including mine. So if any hint of match fixing is whispered we want to know the truth.

I was watching Preity Zinta’s interview with Barkha in which Priety stated that, “everybody is talking about the IPL which is great in a way but I wish they would focus on the game, I wish they would focus on the sport which everybody's completely ignored.”

Yes Preity we wish for the same, we would also rather talk about and watch the game, than the dramatic IPL circus show. But we would also like to be assured that whatever happens on the field is the result of those 22 guys who toil is out in the field—The same guys who we idolize, the same guys for who we prayed, and not the result of a raw deal made between a bunch of high profile businessmen in the luxury of a 5-star hotel room. If the latter is found to be true then we definitely won’t be laughing, as the joke would undoubtedly be on us the fans.