Goodbye Misbah

Being a sports fan is a full-time commitment. You invest your time in it, but most importantly, there is so much emotion involved. The expectations, the nerves, the tension, the pain. The indescribable joy and the hard-to-get-over pain. The anticipation, the celebration, the dilemma. Sportspersons feel it and we experience it while sitting on the outside. It is a life cycle. The wins, the celebrations, the losses, the tears .... and repeat. It is fandom at its peak.

Being a player's fan becomes a part of your identity. You are a Tennis fan, but you are identified as a Federer fan. It is not that different in team sports. You support a team, but you follow individual players too. You idealize them. You idolize them. Sadly, every player in every sport has an expiry date. Just how do you bid goodbye to someone who has been a part of your life, in whom you have invested so much of your time and emotion, for so long?

I am trying to answer this question right now. I have been trying to do so since last night when Misbah-Ul-Haq played the final shot of his career. There is a latent sense of sadness and it will remain for a while. It is at times like this that I wish there was some way to arrest time. But time waits for none. Often time is our greatest enemy. One wishes to dictate time but it is impossible.

Yet Misbah almost succeeded in doing so. He obviously couldn't bid time to stand still, so he dominated it. Age became just a number. While pundits hemmed and hawed over his advancing years every year, Misbah went out in the field wielding his bat to do what he knew best. Play cricket, score runs. While critics criticized everything from the way he looked and moved to his ability to make decisions, he continued to plot the downfall of his opponents clinically.

For most Pakistanis, Misbah was the odd one. Most cricket fans were unable to identify with him. A generation that had grown up watching the 5-min dazzling displays of Boom Boom, a generation which had feasted on the exploits of the famous Pakistani pace bowlers, people who used the word aggression in every sentence uttered in context of cricket - Misbah became the captain of the team of these people. Caution and method replaced aggression. This was enough to have the people up in arms against him. Media became the voice of these people. Misbah admittedly did have his flaws, basically in reading the shorter format of the game, but he didn't deserve the vilification he got.

Misbah found his place in Test cricket. Yet, even here he continued to do what Pakistanis weren't accustomed to. While leading the Pakistan team, Pakistan who had been known for its pace battery in the past, Misbah chose spin as his key weapon. A successful run followed, first with Saeed Ajmal, then with Yasir Shah. Representing a nation that thrived on the word "attacking cricket", Misbah mastered the art of slow choke.

With Misbah it was all method. People deplored him for never choosing to enforce follow-on in Test cricket. There were cries of "Oh, but the strike rate"(Yes, even in Test cricket!) till the last Test series of Misbah's career, yet Misbah always chose the safety first way. Pakistan cricket had always been about heart and passion, Misbah chose to lead it with skill.

Misbah set out to lead by example. Seemingly runs never quite flowed from his bat, but they never really stopped either. They came steadily and heavily. It is just that he had to work hard for each and every one of them.

Misbah put his heart and soul into playing for Pakistan, yet when compared to his predecessors and keeping the local opinion about cricket in mind, there was something un-Pakistani about him. Here was a thinking man - calm and sedate. With Misbah it always seemed as if he was making up for the lost time. He wanted it all.

Misbah's greatest trait, however, was his mental strength. A lesser man would have given in in the face of the stinging criticism he was subjected to by the local media. Not Misbah. All that the media ever got was his wooden face and answers as straight as his bat while playing. This strength helped him garner great success in the test arena too. All great ones have this trait of resilience and superior mental toughness. Misbah had it all in abundance.

The greatest achievement of Misbah was to rebuild and restore the image of Pakistan cricket in world cricket to a large extent. He found more respect in foreign media than he ever did in the local one. It was largely a blemish-free period of cricket under Misbah.  The team camaraderie during his tenure was great too. Misbah found the perfect partner in Younis Khan, and he in Misbah. Honesty, dedication, and hard work replaced flamboyance, and became the fundamental pillars of the Pakistan Team

Pakistan at large should forever be grateful to Misbah. That for Misbah Pakistan always came first, that Misbah gave Pakistan Cricket his all, that for Misbah nothing was bigger than cricket, should never be doubted.

I hate goodbyes. It is exceptionally hard to say goodbye to someone you have followed so ardently over the past few years. Someone like Misbah. There will be other players. There will be players bigger and better than Misbah. But there will never be another Misbah.

Of Aesthetics, Swing, and Fandom - Alan Mullally

I am a Pakistani. I live in Pakistan, a cricket-crazed nation, and I am a die-hard supporter of the England Cricket Team. It is surprising enough for a lot of people at home to see a woman following cricket so ardently, but they are left perplexed when they see me cheering for the England Cricket team.

Cricket has always been a big part of the lives of Pakistanis. It has always been something big in my household as well. I was quite young when Pakistan won the World Cup in 1992. I have better memories of Sri Lanka’s terrific run to the World Cup trophy in the 1996 final. Come ICC Cricket World Cup, 1999, and I had started following cricket avidly - Started following cricket for the sake of cricket, not just the Pakistan Cricket team.  

Opening match: England v Sri Lanka at Lord’s. Glued to my TV screen, the atmosphere of that match was just fascinating for me. The beautiful Lord’s cricket ground, overcast conditions, and the ball in the hands of the English bowlers. I watched Alan Mullally bowl for the first time in that match. He bowled beautifully that day and ended up with figures of 4/37. England won that match by 8 wickets. It was a very good win for England. Beating the defending champions in front of the home crowd in the opening match of the World Cup? It certainly couldn’t have been better than that. I made it a point to tune in to England’s remaining matches, partly to watch Mullally bowl. England lost to India in their last group match and Zimbabwe’s win over South Africa resulted in elimination for England. Alan Mullally ended up taking 10 wickets in that World Cup at 17.60. I fleetingly followed the career of Mullally from that point onwards. 

Pakistan has been known for producing world class fast bowlers. Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis are considered the gurus of reverse swing. Growing up, Wasim and Waqar were the cricketing heroes of every other cricket fan in Pakistan. Wasim took 14 wickets in the 1999 World Cup. The ‘Rawalpindi Express’, Shoaib Akhter, was sensational in that tournament and claimed 16 wickets.

So what was there about Mullally’s bowling that left a Pakistani cricket fan absolutely fascinated? Aesthetics have always caught my eye, even in cricket. Be it the one handed, athletic catches behind the wicket or out in the field, or the fluid strokes through the covers. With Mullally, it was his bowling action that attracted me.  There was something deviously effortless about it and it helped him to move the ball away from the batsmen. Also, I don’t know how correct my surmise is, but he always seemed to be enjoying himself out in the ground. 

One does not have to be perfect to be good. Life is messy, life is imperfect. The best one can do is to remain true to himself, the way Mullally did until his retirement in 2005.

Losses, fans, and (a lack of) graciousness in defeat

US Open 2015 final: Novak Djokovic beats Roger Federer.

These were the first words I saw on my screen when I switched on my mobile phone in the morning.

Another loss. Third straight loss for Federer in a Grand Slam final. He has now lost his last three Grand Slam finals to the same player, Novak Djokovic. I was not surprised. Djokovic had performed magnificently at the Grand Slam finals this year, the French Open final being the only exception where he had been outdone in brilliance by Stan Wawrinka. No, it was not a surprising result at all.

My Twitter timeline, however, was in meltdown. It was worse on Facebook. Most of them were Federer fans who were bitterly disappointed and sad. They had every reason to be. Federer's form in Cincinnati, the only pre US Open tournament he had opted to play had been nothing short of brilliant. Hope for an 18th Grand Slam had been ignited and an uninspiring performance by Federer in the US Open final had snuffed it out again. But the name calling and slurs were uncalled for. Calls for Federer to quit were even more grating. I realized how the concept of graciousness in defeat did not limit to players only, but was extended to their supporters as well.

As sports lovers we tend to get carried away when supporting our favourite players and teams. It is human psyche to look up to winners and to associate oneself with them. In many countries, sports personalities are seen as heroes, idols, sometimes even as demigods. Heroes, idols, gods don't lose; they can't lose, they shouldn't lose.

Yet sports people are mere mortals and losses do occur. Being a Pakistani, cricket has always been a big part of my life, and Pakistanis often do not take losses in cricket well. Stories of slogans being raised against cricketers, their effigies being burnt, and houses being pelted with stones following high profile losses are well known. What we often forget in the flow of emotions are the players. Isn't it only natural that they feel overcome with emotion more strongly than the fans around the world? It is hard to forgo the image of Pakistan test captain Misbah-Ul-Haq's trembling lips and teary eyes on the TV screens following Pakistan's loss to Australia at the quarterfinal stage of the 2015 cricket world cup.

Dealing with losses isn't easy generally. Just ask Roger Federer who wept bitterly at the
2009 Australian Open trophy presentation ceremony following a tough five-set loss to Rafael Nadal. Or Andy Murray, who couldn't keep a lid on his emotions during the post match ceremony after losing the 2012 Wimbledon final. Crying after a loss is not a sign of weakness. More often than not, it is caused by disappointment after build-up of hope, expectation and the tension caused by it. What is important is how one picks oneself up after defeat. It is very easy to fall into a mire of negativity and self-doubt following a loss, and just as hard to take a loss on the chin and put it behind you. According to Federer's coach and other team members, Federer is pretty good at putting losses behind him and keeping negativity at bay. He himself has stated at numerous occasions that he prefers to take away positives from tournaments despite defeat and does not believe in looking back. Still, despite players often possessing superior mental strength than most individuals, they have sometimes given way to self-doubt. Federer struggled with it throughout 2013 following injuries. Nadal seems to be struggling with it in the current season following a dip in form.

Fans generally go through the stages of grief, denial, and acceptance following a loss. Denial usually comprises of lack of acceptance of the simple fact that the other team or player was superior than the one they were supporting. Acceptance doesn't come to all fans. A lot of fans remain in denial till the next match comes around and beyond.

Roger Federer will be fine and will be back playing soon. His fans will be all right too, and before they know it, will be counting down the days to the next tournament he plays. But rules don't change. There can only be one winner at the end of the day.

"Sometimes the only way to prove that you are a good sport is to lose." - Ernie Banks.

Musings of a lost writer - Sense and Senselessness

God knows how I have been itching to write - to write something. People often write their musings down; those with a troubled mind do it more often to vent their closed up feelings. During dark times, I tend to close up; tighter than ever and let my troubles eat me up. They advise to let one's emotions settle and then pick up the pen. I have been waiting, waiting for the seething emotions to die down. But there has been no sign. No sign of the darkness letting up, no miracles, no human intervention - nothing. Rather the darkness has intensified, becoming more clingy and annoying in the process.

I blame myself - blame myself for letting the situation get out of control, for letting the darkness close up around me, for blocking out all the rays of light that ever tried to penetrate that darkness. But it isn't the darkness that is bothering me. After all, darkness is a permanent part of so many people's lives. No. Its something else this time - something that I can't quite put my finger on and that is what is annoying me more than anything else.        
    
Am I making any sense? I am afraid I am not. But then since when did sense become an acceptable entity in this world? If human beings are the creation of the same God, are they all not liable to same rights? If God bestowed His traits upon man, then oughtn't we be living in a perfect world? Why the lust for power and money when on the other hand people are cutting each other's throats for the sake of a penny? Why the show of enlightenment in a state which is sinking into the greater depths of abyss with each passing day?

But I digress. I am looking for my muse so that she might enable me to ink the blank sheets in front of me. But then why would she come? Who would want to tread in the dark, twisted alleys of my mind?  So I let the white sheets lie in disarray in front of me. White sheets? Not anymore! Their purity has been impinged by    doodles all over them. The writing does not make any sense. Nothing makes any sense.

I am sitting in the dark with the new, white sheet in front of me standing out in contrast. My unknown tormentor continues to torment me. My pen suffers the anguish of my restless fingers which squeeze it every now hoping to see a dew of hope drop from them. My eyes linger at the door of my room surveying the cracks for any loose ray of light, my ears await the sound of the step of my muse. The white sheet waits to be embellished by some of the pearls of wisdom bestowed in the muses.

The Shadow

It had always been there. The nagging feeling at the back of the mind that it would not be enough. That there would have to be choices, such as the choice to switch it all off with a mere wag of a finger and enter another world. The strong sense that it would not do any good to harbour such feelings had existed simultaneously. One chapter ended - perhaps more quickly than I had anticipated, and another started. But the path that I had chosen did not turn out to be as smooth as I had expected. And it appeared for the first time. The Shadow. I was left standing in darkness. I tripped many a times; the cuts and bruises brought along tears with them. But a ray of light managed to penetrate the darkness every now and then. The best way at that time seemed to ignore the presence of the Shadow. With the ray of light appearing occasionally, I inched towards my destination steadily and finally, there was light. It was not just a single quivering golden ray. Rays of light rained down on me from everywhere. After a long time, I could see. I was there. There was a burning sensation inside me. I could breathe free. Not that I had come out unscathed. While tangled in the darkness, something that I had had for some time, and had grown to cherish, had been damaged beyond repair. Exhausted, I sank down to revel in the light. I was to walk that path no more. I had reached my destination.

I had never been happier. Now I was surrounded by people I had befriended some time ago, but had never gotten to know them, because I had been too preoccupied with my struggles with the Shadow. Starting a new chapter in my life, I struggled to get past the first few pages. There were times when I felt the presence of the Shadow, but I did not come face to face with it. The happy times stretched. Was the Shadow gone for good? Having known it for so long, I knew it was too good to be true. Still, I was determined to keep the fiend out of my paradise. It was a paradise! The smooth path, the soft, dewy grass tickling beneath the feet, the cool breeze, the chirping birds. I almost forgot the Shadow. Time passed. I was at peace with myself. There was a burst of energy that swept me off my feet. I chatted away, I danced, I sang. Forgotten were the struggles and the pain. I had what I had wanted, and I was not going to lose it.

To say I had not had forebodings would be untrue. There had definitely been signs. A strange uneasiness had settled upon me, and I could not put my finger on what was causing it. Time seemed to have come to a stand-still. Time had stood still once before, just before the Shadow had appeared for the very first time. I was beginning to feel afraid. Afraid of turning a corner, and running smack into the Shadow. I suspected my thoughts had been repossessed by the Shadow. Because they were not in my control anymore. And oh, the light! I had put it down to my shortsightedness. But even a new pair of glasses did not make any difference. There was nothing wrong with my eyes. The light was fading - it was fading because the Shadow was taking over. I did not turn a corner and run smack into the Shadow. I just found it standing next to me one day. I did not scream or try to get away. It would not have made any sense to do so when I had been expecting his arrival.

I am on my way again, trying to find the right path and my destination. The Shadow is with me again too, but this time I am not trying to get away. I am waiting - waiting to get rid of it for good.

The Waning Charms of Reading and the Effect on Writing : A Case Study of Sorts

My love-affair with reading dates a long time back. I still remember my first alphabets book vividly. Sure, the 'reading' was limited to recognizing the alphabet and the accompanied pictorial representation but the feeling of holding that book in your hand was comforting. The picture-stories, the picture dictionaries, 1000 action words, Children's Illustrated Thesaurus. Countless hours were spent looking over the figures, smitten by the illustration. Then windows to the world of fairy tales and the wonderland of Enid Blyton were opened. I am eternally indebted to the latter. The innocent children, the naughty gnomes, the beautiful fairies, the talking toys, edible houses, colourful countrysides did wonders to build my imagination. Later the abridged classics were discovered and there was no looking back. They gave way to original works. A liking for horror and mystery was also discovered. Stevenson's Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes Cases were devoured hungrily, and finally I arrived at the doorstep of the Queen of Mystery, Agatha Christie. The richest pieces of writing in terms of human emotions, human nature, historical facts were laid bare before me.

This is me with never having had a particular flair for writing but deeply in love with books and reading.Which brings me to the actual idea behind this piece of writing. Reading. Writing. Are these two connected to each other in any way? It is almost irresistible to mention the former when the latter is being discussed or vice versa. What is writing? Words woven together with unseen threads of purpose and idea. Yes. I refuse to accept the notion of writing without an aim and idea. There is always a force that leads one to form a piece of writing. Sometimes it is this unconscious aim and will behind penning down words that leads to masterpieces. Words come directly from the mind of the writer, his thought processes, ideas. Where do these ideas come from? The world around you; people, their problems, their joys, politicians, their ideas and the everyday events. Inventions, destruction, births, deaths, promises, lies, success, defeat. Plus there is a barrage of ideas in books: the works of fiction and non-fiction written by writers all over the world. Surely then writing cannot be difficult.

But in less than a year, this belief of mine has suffered a set back. The pieces of writing that my students put before me during my first year as an English teacher got me asking serious questions. I could have foregone the absence of structure in the model, but here there was no base-there were no ideas. A simple task of story-writing on any topic they pleased became their worst nightmare. They could not come up with a suitable theme. I was aghast, but I knew I had to find a remedy-fast. The mere question "whether they read?" became an amusing hands-on-war between my students and I. They read "sometimes" and they did not want to be bothered by the likes of Charles Dickens, the Bronte sisters, Jane Austen. They were thought to be too hard-an idea endorsed by some adults as well. I clarified the position to my students-if they were not to take up reading, they were going to fail! Well, it was true! They had a Shakespearan play to read and quite a few short stories. Themes, character development, structure were things not to be understood without reading. They tried. Sure they hemmed and hawed, but they had to pass the exam. In me, they found a Stickler for grammatical structure and spellings. Red marks in their note-books became the ruling feature. I tried. Tried to make the whole reading and learning process as much fun as possible. They did manage to ram that Shakespearan play down their throats in the end. Most of them passed the exam too, but none with flying colours.

How could the habit of reading have helped them in writing? Reading gives you the knowledge of sentence construction, improves vocabulary and diction. It broadens the thought process as the writer aims to prove and justify his point. It opens your mind to ideas. The technology boom has overshadowed the reading habits. Students prefer to "google" information than to look it up in books. They have taken to short forms of words and slangs due to texting habits. If only the present generation would rediscover the magic of reading, it would  not only broaden their minds and bring acceptance but would enable them to bring order in their lives and discover their true selves.  
      

The Somme Still Flows by Edmund Blunden - A Reflection

War. What is war? When two or more countries face off each other in the battlefield with weapons, indulge in bloodshed and at some point in time announce permanent cease-fire? Then arises a critical question - who won? Can this question ever be answered? Yes, those blinded by the lust for power will claim they have emerged victorious. A case in point, the U.S. success in Afghanistan and Iraq. Success. Victory. What are they? How do you measure success? Edmund Blunden shows us the real face of war in his essay. He writes as the one who has seen the reality of war. Blunden opines in his essay that neither of the two sides is a winner in a war. There is one winner, and that is War itself. It is easy to start a war, but hardly ever an end to a war can be seen or is achieved. The battle of the Somme started on July 1st, 1916. The British had surprises for the French in the form of jumping-off positions, field guns to be fired from the front trenches. But so had the French. Battalions disappeared. It is hard to imagine the presence of hope in a field where bodies are falling to the right and left of you.  But it was there. Hope to remain alive at the end of a day, and hoping to survive the next day - it was an eternal circle of hope. "The heart of the monster lay South", and so Blunden and his fellow troops entered it. This is when the nightmarish quality of War showed its head. This is where the significance of this essay comes in. The writer successfully breaks the false aura of glory woven around war, and paints its true ugly colours.  The colourful Summer painted the writer and his mates' world grey by bringing death and hopelessness. The smell of gunpowder replaced the fragrance of flowers, the chirping birds took the form of roaring guns. The youthful troops who had entered the battlefield bursting with enthusiasm, returned in odd numbers with the image of death ingrained in their minds forever. As the winter took its roots, the writer and his fellow troops left the battlefield - the season a fitting compliment to the young men who were merely ghosts of themselves. The writer then tries to explain what war really is. He says there are no cornfields, no glory. Only the silent grave waiting to swallow you in a sombre cemetery. War is a Monster which swallows one up. Even if it spews out few, they are permanently covered by its slime. It takes nothing away from those who died fighting for their country though - the only people who can upstage them are those who prick out the thorn called war.

What touches the reader in this essay are the words used by the writer, each dripping with feeling and stamped by suffering. The readers can actually see the life being sucked out of a brimming young man, leaving him as a ghost of his former self. The world hasn't become war-free. Cities are still being wiped out, youth is still being drawn into the falsehood of war. Only it has become deadlier. The nuclear war has wiped out the concept of bodies, graves and cemeteries. The writer expresses hope in the title of the story. "The Somme Still Flows." Is there hope in today's world? Is there going to be a favourable result of the Palestine struggle? Can anyone see a prosperous Afghanistan? Can anyone see a progressive Iraq? Is peace ever going to reign in Pakistan? Edmund Blunden concludes with the philosophical thought that life goes on and nature continues to bloom. Yes, life goes on; hope springs eternal;  but solution to today's problems.....??