Letter to Freddie Flintoff - Sidin Vadukut

Dear Mr. Flintoff,

It was my privilege to see the India - England Twenty20 match last night live on TV. You will agree that it was quite a memorable match of cricket especially because India won and once again proved without doubt that England should restrict itself to inventing games but not actually expect to win any of them. This is a small selection of such sports and games for your perusal:

- Football
- Cricket
- Tennis
- Hockey
- Rugby
- Badminton
- Anything that involves running (except running industry to ground), throwing (except throwing up outside pub) and jumping (except jumping on the head of supporters of a rival football team).I am not trying to rub this into you in any fashion except that, when I really think about it, I am.

But while I try to wipe the grin off my face I also want to highlight the crux of this correspondence. The essence of this letter is to prevent you from committing again, the very grave mistake you did yesterday.

I am referring to that moment before the nineteenth over when you walked up to Mr. Yuvraj Singh and told him something that made Mr. Singh very very angry. If I remember correctly Mr. Singh approached you rapidly with cricket bat in one hand, I think right, before the umpire restrained him and saved you from buying a new English face post-match. Of course we all know what happened next. Mr. Singh went on to thulp six sixes in the next over which was lovingly presented to him by one Mr. Stuart Broad. I do not know how this comes across in English but in most parts of North India they would say that “Yuvaraj Singh made England’s mother and sister into one…”

I know you are now regretting this move and wished you had not riled Mr. Yuvaraj Singh so.

Earlier today it occurred to me that you may have committed this folly because of a certain ignorance of the finer aspects of India’s great ethnic diversity.Not to forget you tried doing something without your shirt to our very own DADA some years back and DADA gave it straight in your hole at LORD's during the NATWEST Final !!!!! Though the only aftermath of this shirtless swirl was born by Mohd Kaif - The Star of that night, when dada thumped several rounds of pelvic thrusts in his abdomen ..optimistically out of a fit of joy (no hard feelings) .... dada is definitely MALE !!!

So I have taken it upon myself to inform and educate you on how to avoid such mistakes when playing against India again. The first thing you do, when you feel garrulous on the field of play, is that you gently check up on their surnames.

Let us take the case of Yuvaraj Singh.

If you observe carefully you will notice that his surname is Singh. You can do it. Try again....!!!!

When you observe this surname on an Indian person in a competitive setting, such as a cricket match, traffic or in a crowded disco, you do not rub them the wrong way. In fact you avoid conversation at all costs. I would go so far to say that you complement them on their looks/wealth/health and relieve the location of your presence immediately.

While I am not a Singh myself I have had the opportunity to interact with several Singhs many of whom, inspite of my jokey, sarcastic demeanour, did not impel me to undertake critical surgery of any kind. But that is because I said NOTHING. NADA. NIL. This is a very good policy to follow with Singhs.

Singhs, by and large, are some of the most jovial people in India. They love a good meal, heady drink and back slapping good humour. They work hard at whatever they do, party all night to the most infectious music and believe in living life to the fullest. I know some Singhs who have two washing machines at home: one for washing clothes and the other for making Lassi. (True Fact.)

But within this merry, albeit cholesterol full, demeanour hides a race that can rapidly combust when angered. When the average Singh has been driven to wrath he often throws things, throws things at things and sometimes drives things through other things. Such one other thing, once I observed, was a tractor. And it’s not just action but also words. And whatay words!

Rivaled in his insulting fervour only by a hardcore Chennai Tamilian from a suburb like Washermanpet, the average Singh can run through entire generations of Flintoffs, bestowing individual terms of endearment, without ever using the same abuse twice, or waiting to catch his or (this is the scary part) her breath.

Coming to the lands of Punjab, which contains many many Singhs. Consider the case of a typical SINGH wife - SINGHNEE : Whenever you leave laundry lying around or forget to pay the Power bill she immediately updates you of your responsibility by reminding of who you are, where you came from, what will happen to your tender parts and where you will end up in the long term all in one succinct, crisply delivered sentence that would make an average member of the Barmy Army fall to knees and beg for forgiveness at which point she may let him off with a minor rap across the knuckles with a fridge or sofa. She also has this fearsome backhanded slap which whizzes past your face and you hear it moments after it hits you because, when sufficiently angered, her palm moves faster than sound.

You may also like to know about one Mr. Navjot Singh Sidhu who used to don India’s blue many moons ago and is today a well-known cricket commentator and TV presenter of ill-repute. Mr. Sidhu once had a minor tiff with another individual in a traffic-related situation. Now I am aware that Englishmen also get into traffic tiffs and then resolve it by hurling abuse at each other or a little pushing and shoving. Mr. Sidhu, after due thought and introspection, killed the other man. Kaput. Khallas. Phineesh...!!!

Which is why you should be thankful that Yuvraj Singh hit that ball for six so many times rather than, oh off the top of my head, your kneecaps. And finally I must tell you about an old friend of mine in engineering college. A Singh of, until this incident, mild repute.

So, in closing, I ask you to refrain from such verbal excesses in future. Currently we have Mahendra Singh Dhoni, R.P. Singh, Harbhajan Singh and of course Yuvraj Singh in the team. And perhaps in time, because there is no logic or cricketing reason to do so, BCCI may pick VRV Singh as well.

Keep your trap shut.

Namaste London,

PS - by Sidin Vadukut

The Monsoon Monologue

The cab was moving amidst heavy showers....howling in our ears louder than the husky voice of the singer ..." Dard mei bhi ye lab muskura jaate hain ... beete lamhe humei jab bhi yaad aate hain....." and all of us were sitting quietly, reminiscing something myriad about life, love, work and yes Rains...!!! I wonder what magic there is in these showers, they act as a perfect connect between us and the unseen... one is glued to the varied oscillations of the mind-with this water being the perfect adhesive. Most of the times after work journeys are dull and quiet or if at all people talk -they usually crib about work and bosses and schedules and deadlines and deliverables but there is something extremely strange about my current cab-mates and the way we gell.

Work has such a low quotient in our day to day discussions- we are more inclined towards general talks of wellness and occasionally about each-other. And surprisingly enough the cab-driver is party to such discussions too.... The other day something struck the driver and he narrated his history and life to me. Until this conversation I had always thought that hardships are many ONLY in my life and the world around is so rosy but ....

This man was married to a 17 year old girl from some village near Patiala in Punjab. He said he fell in true love with the girl right after they spent some days-usually dating and the so called "KNOWING EACH OTHER " phase doesnt exist in our conventional marriage system. Their love and life cruised on but off and on he used to smell something fishy about the girl's mental stability and reflexes. One fine day he decided to make things clear with her - and what opened up during and post the confession was nothing less than an Earthquake.

I was alone in the cab that day and somehow this was one reason that had prompted him to share this with me. He was married to one of the most sought-after prostitutes of GB Road, the red light area near the New Delhi station. The girl was in the profession since the naive age of 13. She had once come down to Delhi to meet some of her cousins, of which one was a pimp, he lured the girls' parents with lucrative benefits of letting her stay in Delhi. Poor fellows trusted him and what followed was silent massacre of an innocent life.

He doped her repeatedly for some days with some unknown substance, which the girl discovered later and then with consummate ease sexually assaulted her for weeks together. Slowly the girl's body and mind got used to the substance and the body-guess there was both pleasure and delight-at the ripe age of 13 but little did she know what was about to follow. Pleasure became plight and life a gloomy dank hault. Gradually some friends of her brother did the same with her and one fine day she entered her KINGDOM - the place which welcomed her with loads of money and grace and good food and later became her prison.

Sex became Rape and money flowed in to the show-runners. Food vanished with days and she lost her pride and appeal.... Which seemed obvious to me - When you bear 25-40 men a day... who are all sexually deprived maniacs...wonder whats gonna happen to you. Imagine the desperations of a man who hardly gets a woman to sleep with, who broke his virginity vow at the age of 23, when he started earning enough for a prostitute and now manages one every 2 weeks.... Or other Libido Lavish Kings who somehow feel they have the dick of an elephant at the age of 16 and are ready to bed every next woman they see on the road. Men are this way. Girls ofcourse have fun too, but man what pleasure with 25-40 men. And that too forced, without food and life.

Now, the girl was leading a normal married life, owing to a lucky police raid which actually landed her in jail.........and you rightly guessed, not to be punished or for some moral lesson - only to be raped by all men in uniform. Right from the Constable to the Diwan,SI, Inspector, DSP ... everyone made merry. As if it were to be some ancient treasure found after deep excavations. She returned home, managed to actually. Hid this history from her parents somehow who ignorantly got her married to my Desi-driver.

Here comes the real part - After getting to know all this, the driver dint even think of leaving her, he said he fell deeper in love with her for honesty made an indelible mark on his conscious. AMAZING - I must say. And rare-because MEN are hardly this way. However promiscuous they are, they would always want to bed a virgin wife. WHY??????? - I dont know myself - I am a MAN too...!!!

Nonetheless, the driver decided to exact revenge from the people only to realise that they were way too powerful and one fine day - his wife was brutally murdered. The only proof of the heinous past of that gang, the only LIFELINE of my driver was no more........ And now he lives with her picture - contemplating, what fault did he commit in his last re-incarnation to deserve such a broken yet touching part this time. I mean this is the usual and conventional Indian style of cribbing - pichhle janmo ya karmo ko yaad karke rona...!!

But what stunned me was the masculine thought - how could he still love her. Man, thats real courage and on top of it - he has the audacity to discuss it with me - Such are MEN - glorious and everlasting even in the darkest hour in life.

By now, the song was nearing its end - " Dard mei bhi ye lab muskura jaate hain......."
but the cab wasnt roaring - something more loud and empowering, may be something extremely inhuman yet divine had struck and charged the air within. I popped out of the cab at my drop-point and the driver smiled............!!!

I shiver with the very thought - what if, I was the driver ??????????
and what about you.....Do you have it in you to..." Live and Smile"
.... Come meet my driver......

THE OCEANS SHORE

As I walk along the oceans shore...
The feeling of peace, longing for more...
As I sit upon soft wet sand...
The gentle waves, touch my hand...

This Aura of wonder and tranquility...
Stretching as far as my eyes can see...
Watching the reflections move with the flow...
Feeling the comfort, of its inner glow...

Oh how I wish, this feeling would stay...
As I know I must walk away...
Wish I could leave all the hurt, pain and tears...
Behind me along, with all my fears...

Wouldn't it be nice, if I could leave on that shore...
Feelings that I keep in my heart, ever more...
If I wrote them in the sand, would they be swept away ?
By the waves crashing in, Gone on their way...

Leaving me free, of doubts and despair...
Will the ocean handle them, then I won't care...
The ocean can be such a beautiful place...
As my mind wonders in and out of space...

I think that I already know....
We reap whatever we did sow...
I will keep looking, forever more...
But not what I wrote, on that OCEANS SHORE.....