•Prostitute /ˈprɒstɪˌtut, -ˌtyut/ –verb : to put to any base or unworthy use : "to prostitute one's talents"

Every blogger needs material. He (pardon for gender bias from reader assumed) has to look around for things to blog about. Bloggers who religiously follow this golden law of blogging never run out of readers, all their blog posts have lots of comments, and lots of readers. Whereas bloggers who dont, who write convoluted shite like this very piece of shite you are wasting your time by reading, dont get readers. It is as simple as that. And since, inspite of all assertions to the contrary, Blogging is an activity that is analogous to baring your torso, this is sometimes a disquieting fact of life. Of course, as long as we are in this metaphorical (or, isn't it simile-cal?) realm, we might as well warn the reader of abstaining from any such blatant act of exhibistionism and, well, nakedness, if his fat intake is anything close to my fat intake. The ladies might not be so tolerant then.

But disquietude apart, I think I have unwittingly conditioned myself to the art for art's sake motto. Except when it is about Sourav Ganguly, who I consider an artist in his own right, and am instantly subjected to a million jokes and a billion sneers. But , thats another subject I wish not to dwell on in this post. A dear friend of mine has made a habit of writing about the hottest current topic, and right now, you can guess what it is. Now, I love and respect him deeply (in a purely platonic and heterosexual way, I should add), and this disclaimer has nothing to do with the fact that I am going to forcibly make him read this post in about half an hour, but I consider this some form of prostitution. I consider blogging a very high form of art, the boundless potential waiting at each moment at the footsteps of any blogger is immensely mindboggling. You can write whatever flows from your brain, flowing through your heart (a hypothesis that is widely disputed), and finally moving your fingers in a gentle dance across that discotheque called "The Keyboard". If there is any degree of truth in what I just said, I would think it follows naturally that you should not restrict the area of this metaphorical dance floor by placing at each moment political agendas on the floor.
Keep the dance floor free of garbage, and twirl your heart out.

Notwithstanding that rhetoric, I would still say that sometimes, as a blogger (albeit one who isn't particularly up to date in anything other than Cricket) , it is hard to resist to the temptation of taking the "hottest road" . After all, it is insane to write about blogging ideals at a time when Mumbai is burning, Live, 24 x 7 on NDTV. True that I didnt hear the bomb blasts, and the only hint of genuine, but repressed distress I sensed was in a friend from Mumbai who has spent the last three days watching CNN and BBC videos and laughing insanely and nervously while engaging in this activity, yet maintaining admirable calm in a situation in which I would have visibly panicked, still, as a blogger, maybe solely as a blogger, I have felt several times over the last three days that I ought to vicariously benefit from the plight of Mumbai as have so many Media people, and fellow bloggers from what, viewed dispassionately, is top quality blog fodder.

But till now, I have successfully resisted. Maybe I am old fashioned. But worry not, I am well on my way to modernity. By the time I am 80, I'll be as big a cunt as the rest of you.

Adieu Dada

I have always been a fierce fan of Dada. Fierce is indeed the word, for readers who might be smirking at my choice of the word. For ask anyone in class 12 B, batch of 04, Seth Anand Ram Jaipuria School, Kanpur, I once fought off an entire class of 50 in a heated debate over him on one of those not so infrequent occasions when our English teacher decided that English is better taught by letting people speak, rather than making them read. Over the years, the evolution of my own personality has mirrored that of Dada. That is probably why I am surprised that I actually feel this urge to write, on his last day in international cricket, to give an account of sorts, of what it meant to be his fan.

Being a fan of Sourav Chandidas Ganguly is at once the most gratifying and the most infuriating of experiences. People who were never would never understand what it is like. To really root for someone with your heart and soul, To be not just insanely happy when he scored a hundred or took a wicket or took a catch or even, ran a single (which, I must admit, he wasnt particularly good at), but to think what you'd give up, if it made any difference, to make him score another 50, hit another 6, caress another ball with silken grace past point. I still remember that when I was 14, before every match I used to imagine him scoring a hundred, I used to play out every ball in my mind. To his penultimate day in international cricket (and I am 22 now, and NOT a certifiable maniac), I never lost this habit. I used to conjure up from the depths of my brain fantastically grand images of brilliance, yes-he-can-ness, of sheer Dadagiri, and frankly, to me, it seems a lot more than 18000 runs and 38 centuries. For I have seen him score a hundred more, in my waking hours and in my dreams.

That is what being a Dada fan means. It was never part time, for me or the million others like me who rooted day in and day out for this man. It was an emotional bond, there was no room for the cleaner emotions if you were his fan. There was no dispassionate, unbiased, rational justification that made us such. He was never Sachin. He was never meant to be. You did not love him because he made so many runs that you'd hate yourself if you didnt. You just loved him, unconditionally. A slump longer than the Great Depression, statements that often were more indiscreet than Paris Hilton , controversies left and controversies right, it didnt matter. Once you were a fan, you just were a fan, and goddamn proud of him, no matter what he did. Such were the chords he touched in your heart.

Being a Dada fan was hard. For whenever he reached the brink of statistical greatness, he somehow contrived (or so we believed) to throw it all away in a maddenning flash of insanity. It meant that anytime you could teased by a whole bloodthirsty gang of classmates baying for his (and your) blood. But being a Dada fan was fun too. It was more fun than anything else. Because you got to see that incredulous, sheepish look on all those who doubted him, so many times. In hindsight, I think he rather enjoyed that. Adversity brought out true greatness in him, whereas calm collection of accolades never appealed to him. To him, it lacked that aroma of medieval adventure that his heart forever craved for.

In many ways, his life was a drama. Played out over a lifetime. There had to be a twist in the tail. and a twist in the tail of the twist. Ad infinitum. He enjoyed making people notice him. For you never could be unbiased about him. Sourav Chandidas Ganguly. You either loved him, or you hated him. You could not NOT care about him. A nation went silent when Sachin got out, but as far as Dada was concerned, the nation was never silent. You were always screaming. You'd either be heaping him with the most hyperbolic accolades and adjectives, or you'd be adorning him with the choicest obscenities. there was no middle ground.

That was what being a Dada fan really meant. For in some perverse way, even his bloodthirtiest detractors were his fans. He was like the Sith. For you could hate a Sith with all your passion and energy, and even that would turn you into a Sith. That was the power of Dada. The intensity of the passion he evoked in you. And that, I believe, is what you'll miss the next time you tune in to watch India play.