When you Break Up why do you Break Down?

A friend of mine just went through a break-up and it got me thinking: would a blue tie suit me more than a yellow one. Ok, no seriously it got me thinking: When you Break Up why do you Break Down? It was a deep philosophical question to which I had no answer.

After spending a lot of time counselling my friend I decided that I have enough expertise on the matter, to write an article on how to deal with a break up:

So you’ve just had a break up. The world seems all dreary. You’re wondering if God suddenly changed the settings from colour to black and white. The chirping of the birds has stopped but thats because they don’t usually chirp at one in the morning.

How is it always the wrong couple that ends up parting ways? Its always the couples who are best suited for each other or the ones that really seem made for one other who end up not getting their act right, whereas that irritating girl who another friend of mine met at a nightclub, just for fun, doesn’t look like she’ll ever go.

That, however, is beside the point. What is of importance is the fact that now you’re single. So you do what every guy does when he first becomes single: grow a beard. And then after a while you start to come to terms with the fact that you might not see her again. For some this phase comes early for others it happens when they’re given 10 years imprisonment for undue harassment.

The worst part of a break up is wondering what to do with all that new found time. While you were going out, time was as abundant as food in Ethopia. You used to spend hours on the phone, meeting and fighting over issues that make Roadies seem intellectual. And now suddenly you don’t know what to do with the 17 extra hours you’ve gotten. This is the time that you should use to better yourself. To do things you’ve never done before like working out, learning to play an instrument and cleaning your underarms.

The trick is to keep yourself busy at all times because you’ll invariably get thoughts of her in your head and you’ll feel the pangs of sadness. In a lot of ways it will be just like a cricket telecast. You’ll have a short enjoyable over of cricket before those woeful ads come up again. Start doing tasks that will require your fullest concentration so that she can’t wriggle into your mind at all. For example: bull-fighting, sky-diving and snake-wrangling are all highly recommended activities.

Of course no break-up is complete without the break-up playlist. It doesn’t matter what kind of music you usually listen to, when you’ve had a break-up you will invariably be reduced to Avril Lavigne, Bryan Adams and Sonu Nigam. It’s a miracle how music becomes so necessary to a broken heart. All of a sudden ‘Every night in my dreams’ explains the entire crux of your existence and you wonder why Enrique Iglesias hasn’t got the Nobel Prize in Literature for the lyrics of 'Do you know?(The Ping Pong Song)'.

Break ups are always unpleasant but the thing to remember is that it will pass. Always look on the bright side. They say that every person has 7 people who look identical to them in the world. All you have to do is find the other 7 people who look like your ex! 

  

The Great Indian Ant Problem

For the last few days I have had to share my living quarters with some uninvited houseguests. And though they are not as unsavoury as some of my relatives – who, when they are done staying at the place leave it in the same condition as a hurricane leaves a small village in Orissa – they are not entirely welcome either. Off late I have had the pleasure of playing host to a whole colony of ants.

It was quite a shock to me when I first saw them trooping around in my house, moving in their single file, toward a stray crumb of biscuit, looking like a string of the red rope lights that you see at shaadi’s. That was just the beginning. Very soon they were swarming all over the place. There was not one location in the entire house where you wouldn’t find the little critters. I’d open the cupboard and I’d find them scuttling about inside, I’d open the fridge only to find myself disturbing an ant conference around my chocolates, in fact am pretty sure I once opened the newspaper to find an ant reading the sports section.

I think the matter came to boil when they began infiltrating my clothes. As anyone who has ever had an ant in their pants will tell you, it is not the most pleasant experience. You suddenly begin squirming uncontrollably as the little bugger wriggles around in parts of your body which you never even knew existed. BONUS TIP FOR NON-DANCERS: The next time you’re called on the Dance Floor, slip in an ant or two into the clothing and wait for the moves to flow. This technique works well for doing the Disco, the Rumba and occasionally Ballet. Conditions apply.

Coming back to my predicament, the ants that had infested my house, I found were pretty big ones. In fact some of them were so big that they could have passed off as pet dogs to people who didn’t know better. Ok, maybe I exaggerated the last part, but they were pretty darn massive which made it all the more surprising when they would disappear for the short stretches of time when I took care not to leave food lying around. It was as if they materialized from thin air the moment a half eaten pastry was left unattended. I think our secret service officials have a lot to learn from the undercover tactics of ants.

Angry, frustrated and burned out by all the ant-induced dancing, I decided to call in   the pest control. The house was sprayed liberally by Santosh, the pest controller who quipped and I quote, “Consider you lucky. Your situation is so much better than the people who have cockroaches, bedbugs and locusts in their house.” I guess years of duty on the frontlines of the war against insects develop in a man such a morbid sense of humour.

Finally, at the end of the sordid affair I was left with only one question: Considering the amount of sweet they eat, why don’t ants get diabetes? Even Santosh the Pest Controller, couldn’t answer me that one.    

Putting the Idiot in 'Idiot Box'.

Last month something very strange happened to me. Something that I wasn’t expecting and least of all prepared for. No, I am not talking about puberty. Last month, I got a chance to be on TV.

I managed to scramble myself onto the little box of beaming images by doing a show for MTV. The show for the assured majority who haven’t seen it was called, “MyCam”. It was a show where I spoke about my life and the things that I do. To put it another way it was an excuse for me to be my normal self-centered self except this time I had a larger audience who couldn’t punch me in the face to make me shut up.

This sudden appearance of mine on national television had a profound impact on my life. For starters, I found that a lot of people who had up until then considered me fractionally more fascinating than a sea anemone, now wanted to speak to me. People I hadn’t spoken to in years were now eager to ‘reconnect’. Old friends seemed to come crawling out from under their rocks and stones and were enquiring guiltily about what I was doing. Relatives, who I didn’t know existed called and asked irritating questions like, “Can you recognise who’s calling? You’ve met me when you were very young. Don’t you remember your chacha’s mother’s third cousin? Anyway, you really have grown...” The fact that I was on television made them see me in new light and it made for some tremendously awkward conversations.

One of the classic phrases that you get exposed to a lot when your bloated face and high pitched voice find their way on television is, “Hey! I saw you on TV!”  It’s a phrase for which there is no appropriate answer. They’re not praising you, so you can’t thank them. It’s not an enquiry to which you could answer something simple like, “Am fine.” And it’s definitely not a shared sentiment so you can’t reply with the standard comeback you keep for things like festive greetings.

Person: Hey! I saw you on TV!

You: Same to you!

Person: uh...

I’ve realised that the only way to respond to such a statement is by smiling stupidly and saying, “I can’t believe you survived the horror.”

We seem to have a haloed fascination for people who make an appearance on TV. Even if the person is doing something ridiculous while ‘on air’, like, counting the number of grains there are in a sack of rice, we still consider it a feat worthy of respect. I don’t see why such intrigue is not hoisted onto people who do other, more exciting things in life. For example you’ll never see people saying, “Hey! I saw you save a puppy’s life while simultaneously balancing three china vases on your nose AND riding a horse.”, just because it isn’t on TV.

But overall being on TV was a fun experience. It was my 15 minutes of fame. The minor taste of celebrity was intoxicating for as long as it lasted and I was eternally grateful that my television debut didn’t happen, as I had long feared it would, on India TV. Or worse still, as a contestant on Bigg Boss.

Visarjan: God's Own Farewell Party

A few days back the city was brought to a stand still by the seaward movement of a large rotund figure, all decked in gold. No I am talking about Bappi Lahiri going out for a stroll. What I refer to is the grand visarjan of Lord Ganesha.

Let me recapitulate for those of you who may not be fully aware of what a visarjan is probably because you’re a bit ignorant when it comes to religious rituals or you were born and raised on a different planet. Ganesh Chaturthi, which is the celebration of Lord Ganesha, is a 10 day festival that ends with idols of the deity being submerged in water causing irreparable damage to the marine ecosystem.

Though the festival lasts for 10 days, worshippers are allowed to immerse their respective idols at regular intervals depending on how many visitors they can stand coming to their house. One can immerse an idol after one and half days, 5 days, 7 days and if you can withstand the onslaught of relatives, friends and bhajans for a while longer, 10 days. 

The actual virsarjan is just as grand an event as the worship. Transportation is arranged to carry the idol to the local water body. This is can be anything, from a cart or a tempo to being just one really strong family member. Then a shaadi band is arranged for because what God really wants for his send-off is not prayers or a tearful goodbye but a really loud, instrumental rendition of, ‘Sheela Ki Jawani.’

The Visarjan procession is an age old tradition that involves large groups of people dancing to music and holding up as much traffic as possible. No other time would you see people this happy when going to immerse an object in water. Slogans are shouted out(“Ganpati Bappa Morya”, “Ek, Do, Teen, Chaar, Ganpaticha Jay Jay Kaar.” And, “Chalo Chalo Aage Bado.”), songs are sung and the whole family, including the 78 year old grandmothers, dance tirelessly in what is, a makeshift disco on the road.

Eventually, they manage to reach a water body and after beating off all the other Visarjan candidates for a nice spot, the Ganpati Idol is immersed. The Ganpati Idols which are made of paint and other harmful chemicals then get dissolved in water and are more damaging to the environment than Jayalalitha is after dinner.

To get around this problem, artificial lakes are created. These are basically pits that are dug and filled with water specifically so that idols can be immersed in them without it being a holocaust for fish. This is one of the most bizarre ways to solve a problem. Its like, instead of getting people to stop smoking you look to grow them another lung.

Overall the Visarjan is just one grand farewell party, fit for a God. I could never ever imagine any of my friends or colleagues ever giving me such a smashing farewell party, complete with music, dancing and such boisterousness! What I can imagine them doing, however, is immersing me in an artificial lake.

F1 : More Than Just A Key On Your Computer.

So F1 finally made its way to India. I must admit up front that I’m not really a big F1 fan. I am what they call an amused follower, who basically knows the sport and most of its protagonists but would definitely not part with a kidney to meet Lewis Hamilton.

On the whole I think F1 coming to India is a good thing although I still have reservations about how popular it will become, not because of any flaws in the sport itself but simply by the virtue of it not being  cricket. I really find it hard for most of us Indians to stand in the hot sun watching a sport without the incentive of shouting, “SACHIN, SACHIN!”

Also I find it hard for us Indians, for whom cribbing about petrol prices is the second most fun thing we can do with our time after, of course, cribbing about nearly everything else, to actually take to a sport that guzzles gallons of petrol without the cars really going anywhere; like to the mall or to a relative’s house in Dombivli.

This however is good news for Narain Karthikeyan and Karan Chandok because finally people will know what exactly they do for a living, up until now people not being impressed by the fact that they were “drivers”. It is also going to be a good thing for youngsters who want to pursue a career in the sport, to see up close and in person what F1 is all about, that is if they manage to look away from the pit babes.

I hope Force India gets its act together. It would be pretty embarrassing to trundle in last when you’re racing at home. Force India’s boss and reigning King of Good Times, Vijay Mallya, will no doubt be present and will be hoping that his racing team can at least manage to preserve his dignity like his IPL team has been doing for the last 3 years. Incidentally by owning an F1 team Vijay Mallya has found the only successful way to mix drinking and driving.

F1 coming to India is also going to be a challenge to the Government and administrative bodies because the sport involves them having to keep a stretch of road pothole-free, something which they find very hard to do! It really would be a sad spectacle to see Michael Schumacher and Sebastian Vettel bouncing along on a track that is as smooth and even as a graph showing a man’s heart rate right after he’s seen Katrina Kaif’s Aamsutra ad.

In a country that was at best known for its fast carts, the entry of fast cars is indeed revelatory. This does raise the question of whether Indian companies will see any potential in the sport and begin pumping money into it. I wonder if we’ll ever get to see ‘Manickchand’ emblazoned across Fernando Alonso’s chest or ‘Reliance’ streaking across on the side of a race car or ‘Vicco Vajradanti’ slapped on to the top of a Helmet.

How F1 fares in India is up to time to tell but it sure will be a welcome change that will hopefully remind  people that the word ‘Fast’ doesn’t just mean to give up food.

The Road To Hell Is Paved With Potholes.

Mumbai is one of the rare cities in the world that doesn’t have roads because what it really has are potholes connected by asphalt. Yes, potholes are one of the gravest problems plaguing this great city of ours, the others being when will Sachin score his hundredth hundred and Tushar Kapoor.

Come the Monsoon, the roads of Mumbai seem to evaporate in large chunks leaving behind what looks like the lunar landscape. So big and deep are these potholes that it’s rumoured that the Titantic was actually found at the bottom of a pothole near S. V. Road. All of a sudden what was once a road becomes an obstacle course for vehicles. 

The root cause of this problem is the way the BMC goes about planning the construction of roads. The planning process is a long drawn one that involves many complex decisions, made to find out who the most inefficient contractor is, so that they can be hired and given the entire road development budget. The contractors then buy substandard raw materials such as salt and attempt to make roads with them. These roads eventually crumble and disappear because they weren’t made as well as the toll booths which seem to last forever and force people to pay up large sums of money for roads which are worse than a small mud track in a swamp.

There are an estimated 4,500 potholes in the city this year and the BMC has a different excuse for each one of them (“We are working on it.”, “That is not a pothole that is a manhole without a cover” and, “The residents of this road always wanted a swimming pool.”) 

When complaints are made to the BMC about potholes they usually do one of two things:   

A.   Send workers to repair it, who inevitably end up causing more inconvenience than the actual pothole.

B.    Do nothing.

94% of the time they go with option B.*

So harmful are they that too much driving in pothole-laden roads can lead to severe long term illnesses such as slip discs, sore buttocks and excessive abusing. And that’s just the damage you have to suffer. The damage to your car is much worse. Entire tires get chewed up, suspensions get worn down and the undercarriage of your car gets scooped out because of the incessant dragging through potholes. The only positive that has come out of this situation is that Mumbai drivers are now one of the most alert drivers in the world, they always keep their eyes peeled out and don’t drive too fast, just so that they aren’t taken unawares by a lurking pothole.

As if traffic and the lack of parking spaces weren’t big enough problems the BMC has now added potholes to the list of reason why it’s suicidal to be driving a car. Sometimes it really makes me wonder whether the BMC actually has some grand plan, such as saving the environment, behind its constant dissuasion of people driving on roads. We may never know. Excuse me now while I apply some Zandu Balm to my sore buttocks.

*100% of statistics in this article are made-up.

The 9 Types Of Co-Workers.

The office is a strange place and I’m not even talking about the uneven cooling that makes where I sit, ideal for breeding penguins. In the one month that I have spent in a corporate environment, I have realised that every individual is not unique. Or to put it another way, when you’re in office you fall into 9 easily identifiable categories. Yes, that is why the HR department made you fill out that form.

Presenting the 9 types of co-workers:

1.       The One on the phone: This person will sit at her desk with the office phone to her ear talking to all the people who live in places where it’s too expensive to call from home. Seeing her, makes you wonder how she doesn’t run out of things to say. It also makes your social life look sickly when you realise that the only call you’ve received in the last 4 days was a missed call from a wrong number.

2.       The One who Surfs the net: This person makes full use of the office’s high speed internet to look up lots of important work related videos such as, “Animals Singing Christmas Carols.” If ever you see him staring transfixed at the screen for more than 15 minutes and then quickly reach for the mouse when someone approaches be rest assured that he is not working on that presentation due at the end of the week. You will also find it strange that although he will be at his PC all day he never seems to see any of your e-mails until you bring them up.

3.       The Flirt: If you don’t find the flirt at his desk, which you never will, then immediately start checking the desks of every single person in the office. And by single, I mean not seeing anyone romantically. The Flirt can be identified with his ability to make up random excuses to go and talk to people, (“Hey do you have a pen?”, “Do you think Antelopes make for good house pets?” and “Did you know tomorrow is Saturday and Sunday comes afterward?”)

4.       Mr. Do-Not-Distrub: These are the 3 people because of which the entire company is running. They are the hardcore workaholics who sit hunched over their desk with a look that makes you think that they might just burn a hole through their work if they glared at it long enough. Their focus on the job is so extreme that they make Zen masters look like 20 year olds in a night club. Cautionary advice: If you disturb them while they’re working they will explode in your face.

5.       The Creative One: This breed of office workers is very easy to identify (Clue: They usually wear Cowboy hats to work.) You’ll see them sitting with their feet on their desk with their music on, dressing up Barbie dolls because that’s what helps them make that all important presentation to the client on whom the company’s future depends. They will also be the ones who will vehemently oppose anything logical because after all art is stifled when sense prevails.  

6.       The Busy One: If ever you’re sitting at your desk and you hear a slight whooshing sound but when you look up there’s nobody, don’t panic because the busy one just passed by you. The busy one is that one person in office who is always on her feet hopping about like a caffeinated sparrow.  You will never know what work the busy one is busy with but just looking at her doing so much rushing about will make the 15 reports that you have to write feel as easy as adding single digit numbers WITH a calculator.

7.       The Messy One: The place where the messy one sits is usually classified as a grade three dumping ground by most municipal bodies. His desk is always surrounded by a mound of trash the dimensions of the Great Wall of China. The messy one hasn’t ever tidied up his desk so basically if he has to find anything on it, a specially trained archaeology team has to be called in to dig it up. The computer keyboard of the messy one invariably forms a record of all the things that he has ever eaten. It’s covered with oily imprints (parathas), brown stains (coffee) and feathers (don’t ask).

8.       The It’s-5-o-clock-let’s-go Guy: When the clock strikes 5, nothing and by nothing I mean not even a herd of wild Mayawati’s can stop this man from leaving the building. He comes in at 8 in the morning and puts in an honest day’s work but the moment the clock hands change from their 4:59 position, he is, to use Ravi Shastri’s words, off like a tracer bullet. No matter how important the work left for tomorrow is and no matter who it’s for, if the clock has reached the magic mark, then the it’s 5-o-clock-let’s-go guy considers it as significant as an actress in a Salman Khan movie.  

9.       The Prankster: In every office there’s one person who’s day is made if someone sits on a pin that’s been strategically placed on his seat. Or if someone finds a dead animal in their soup at the office party. Or if someone’s Facebook status is changed to, “I love my boss. I want to marry him NOW!” while they had left their computer unattended. The Prankster is basically that guy who forgot to grow up after 4^th standard. The prankster is the one who everyone involuntarily looks at when anything goes wrong, even though it may not be his fault for example, if the building catches fire.

Monsoons and not a moment too soon!

The monsoons are here. It’s that most wonderful time of the year again, when you are filled with unbridled love because your girlfriend’s clothes have turned translucent in the pouring rain. It’s the season that invokes the most nostalgia as you think back to the those enchanting times when you’ve had to swim back home because of all the water-logging. It’s that time of the year again when TV news channels go on extended holidays leaving last year’s footage of a gigantic puddle of water on loop with the headline, “IS KURLA THE NEXT ATLANTIS?”

This year the rains arrived pretty early which the MET department predicted correctly with the use of their new, sophisticated, weather forecasting system called, “Guesswork.” As the first lilting showers fell ever so gently on the thirsty earth below, kissing it with its wet raindrop lips, people were inspired to write lines such as this one. After the oppressive summer heat, the cool showers of monsoon felt exactly like switching over to the BBC after hours of watching AAJ TAK.

But all this rain-loving is but a matter of a week when the novelty of seeing water falling from the sky wears off. After that the rains become more of an inconvenience than a wonderful and romantic season, especially so if you have to step out of the house a lot.

The monsoons replace that uncomfortable sweating in the scorching heat with the uncomfortable sweating in the stuffy humidity. The air gets damp and sticky and your clothes take more time to dry than it takes an Ashutosh Gowariker film to reach its climax (7 years and 3 days).

The umbrellas and windcheaters start coming out after months of hibernating in the section of the cupboard which also contains your dirty magazines and it becomes terribly inconvenient for two people to walk with umbrellas on a footpath which is designed keeping in mind that no one is supposed to walk on it. Always make sure that you choose an umbrella befitting your gender. If you are a man then it is absolutely necessary that you carry the ‘gent’s’ umbrella, which is basically a simple black umbrella the size of a military helicopter. If you are a woman, your umbrella by default has to be of the foldable, compact type with colourful floral patterns on it. This distinction has been made because woman can get away with having a cute little pink umbrella without the risk of being called gay.

No piece on the rains would be complete without mentioning the brilliant flood control measures that our country has. Let me attempt to explain this complex system to you. Every time it rains, we open a drain, which causes water to start flooding the streets and that’s when our state-of-the-art-system of “evaporation” kicks in to get rid of the water in a record time of 4 days. This system works well as long as you don’t fall into any of the open drains.

Shoes are to be avoided in the monsoon. If you’re a woman that basically means putting aside 90% of your belongings for the next 3 months. And if you’re shoes are made of leather, then you better be more careful about their safety than a girl going home at 7 o clock in the evening in Delhi is about hers. Rains are to leather shoes, what the Taliban is to a woman who wants to play to football, that too in shorts.

Talking of which, the one defining cliché that everyone must do, is play football in the rains. People seem to think that a wet day somehow adds to the enjoyment of playing the sport. It’s not hard to see why they think like this, after all football is most fun when passing becomes impossible because the ground has been turned into a mud swamp, where you spend most of your time slipping and rolling around in the slush like a pig. The only person who doesn’t share your joy of playing football in the rains is your maid who has to wash what is basically a lot of mud in the shape of your T-Shirt.

All in all the monsoons are a wonderful season, not just because of the joy you get when your car splashes water on a person wearing a white shirt, not just because of the cold breeze that precedes a downpour and makes you want to rub Vicks Vaporub all over yourself and surely not just because of the sadistic joy you get out of seeing little children cry every time there’s a loud clap of thunder. No, the monsoon draws its beauty from the refreshment and the metaphorical cleansing that it offers to all those who’ve somehow managed to avoid falling into an open drain.

Rain Rain Come Again...

French Open 2011: Well Clayed, Rafael Nadal.

The French Open was played between two of the greatest rivals in recent times: L.K. Advani and Sonia Gandhi. No, that’s not it. The second slam of the year was actually played between Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal on a brilliant Sunday afternoon in France and whose live telecast was watched in India on a soggy Sunday evening.

The match started with Fedrerer quickly asserting himself and showing everyone why he was once upon a time, the number one player in the world by taking a 3-0 lead in the first set. Federer had a lot to prove coming into this final having won his last grand slam in the Australian Open in 2010, or in tennis years, 65 million years ago.

Nadal on the other hand was looking to equal Bjorn Borg’s record of most French Open titles won by long haired men (6). On the day, Federer was wearing a red t-shirt in his classic one-size too small look. Nadal too wore his trademark really-tight-and-always-has-to-be-pulled-out-before-service underwear.

Coming back to the point (pun intended), the first set looked to be going Federer’s way, until Rafa Nadal who’s name is Spanish for, “One who never gives up.”, began doing what he does best, grunting really loudly. Am kidding of course, Nadal actually began playing some of the tennis that earned him the nickname, “King Of Clay.”, which by the way is English for, “Rafa Nadal.”

Suddenly, he began winning all the long rallies and amassed a lot of points by using his powerful forehand. Showing the determination of an Indian Government in making sure that there’s a scam every 15 days, Nadal scraped his way up and ended up winning the first set. In doing so, he broke Federer’s serve more times, than India TV could break headlines in the same amount of time. A minor record in its own right.

Nadal started the second set brightly. Federer’s body language looked deflated. Hope was ebbing out of him. His backhands that had once been firm strokes of assuredness, like the kind made by a master painter suddenly looked like the hasty, brutal hacks made by a deranged serial killer. Just when it looked like Federer’s serve was going to broken again with him 4-5 behind, the most unexpected thing happened: Nadal was struck by lightning. No, sorry that was what Federer’s wife was wishing for, what actually happened was, it rained.

The match was stalled and the players headed to the changing rooms, giving Nadal the much needed opportunity to take off his shirt on camera. When the play resumed, Federer looked a different player (some even said he looked like Zaheer Khan) and he forced the second set into a tie-breaker which he eventually went on to lose comprehensively. However you could tell he was heading toward something and that something was winning the third set, 7-5.

Suddenly everyone hoped there would be a heroic fight back from the former world number one but he quickly put those hopes to rest early on in the fourth set. In fact the most activity from Federer in the fourth set was done by his hair, which bounced and swayed in the French breeze. If only the same could be said about his returns.

This being the French Open the crowd was so well dressed that it looked like Nadal and Federer were playing the final in the middle of the spring collection catalogue of Donatella Versace. An example of their extreme fashion sense: Nearly everyone had hats on not because it was too sunny but because they were French.

Also a special mention must be made of the commentary which thankfully did not change after every five games and didn’t include Ravi Shastri. In a welcome change from the stuff we’re used to in cricket (“That’s a BIGGIE”, “The ball went like a tracer bullet to the fence” and the mother of all statements, “Whatever happens now, in the end cricket is the winner.”), the commentary was informed, intelligent and best of all, they kept quiet while the game was on and spoke only when Nadal was adjusting his underwear.

Coming back to the match, the final score, for those of you who keep track of such things was, Nadal winning: 7-5, 7-6, 5-7, 6-1. In winning the French Open, Nadal showed an all-around dominance, determination and a hunger to beat his opponent. In short all the things that mark a champion and/or a Delhite.

 

Our generation is indeed privileged to see two such great rivals, constantly battling it out with each other. Their contests provide us with such high level of entertainment, every single time they compete. One is all ready a legend and the other stands on the threshold of becoming a legend. We truly are blessed to have L. K. Advani and Sonia Gandhi.