June 22, 2009
The Twenty20 World Cup: a constant hunt for streams
First, something about the IPL this year, that concluded just before the Twenty20 World Cup. I had decided to boycott the damn thing as it was not featuring any Pakistani player. I found that to be insulting and pointless, and thus made it a point to not watch a single match and, essentially, ignore the competition's existence. I swear, I did not watch any game. I did once give in to temptation and decided to see what was going on, but seeing Yuvraj Singh bat pissed me off even more, and after two balls I shut it off. And look how things have turned out - the kids that were ostracized from cricket's big, glamorous clusterfuck now fucking own the world cup. While everyone else in the world was busy ogling at sexy Katrina Kaif (even though I boycotted the tournament, I know from my regular following of Bollywood websites that she did, indeed, perform), our boys were probably staring at TV screens in their homes wondering what could have been. Fuck that shit, boys, you did it without the IPL, hence proving the absolute worthlessness of the competition. In sum, screw you, IPL, you over-glorified domestic competition! You have been rendered irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. To add insult to injury, Pakistan's star performer in the final, the-usually-innocuous Abdul Razzaq, came from ICL, the equally-irrelevant-but-thankfully-less-pretentious-rival to IPL. Oh, how things turn out!
Now, coming to the World Cup itself. One of the drawbacks of being a cricket fan and currently living in a country where, at best, people don't know about the sport, and at worst, mock it, is that it is difficult to access the sport. TV channels hardly show matches, making us Paki expats reach out to the internet and hope and pray some blessed soul somewhere has put up a live video stream that we can follow online. And so, in this tournament, the hunt for the streams began.
More than anything else, for me the tournament has been defined by a constant game of cat and mouse between me on one end, and some pissed-off network administrators or web managers on the other who kept booting me off their streams to make space for others. Things were usually so bad that I hardly ever got more than 5 minutes of uninterrupted video before the feed would go off air while the bowler was in his run up, or the ball was in the air having just been hit. It was quite frustrating.
And so, with this wretched experience, I went to my friend's house to watch the final and indulge in this most ridiculous cat-and-mouse for one final time. We had hooked up his laptop to his giant TV, so that we could see the live action as it could be seen back home. (Those who have seen the pathetic video and audio quality on these streams should now imagine that shit expanded ten times, and with the audio commentary now sounding like someone making announcements at Lucky Irani Circus.)
Anyway, while overall the experience was fun and stuff, and we ended up successfully watching a majority of the match, it was still a constant hit-and-miss. The maximum uninterrupted stream we got was 10 minutes (an improvement from before, so yay!). During one particular period we were getting booted off every 30 seconds, essentially meaning we would watch one ball, and then get kicked off line, try to find an alternative stream, and reconnect back in time for the other ball.
The worst bit was that this constant nonsense made us miss some absolutely crucial moments. You can get an idea of what I mean when I tell you that I did NOT witness the most important wicket of the match (Dilshan being ass-raped by a seventeen year old) and I also did NOT witness our final run that led to victory. Yes, both at the start and at the end, I was a victim of poor-stream-fuck and thus missed out on the two most important moments of the match.
For the first one, the explanation is quite simple. We couldn't connect for the first five minutes. By the time we found a stream that worked, it was already 1.1 overs and Razzaq was charging in. I had to watch the highlights reel to figure out how the fuck we managed to get Dilshan so early. As for the mishap at the end, we were a victim of another stream going off air at the most ridiculous of times, when Malinga was charging in to bowl. When we reconnected, Umar Gul was on the ground with a stump in his hand and the Pakistani players were hugging each other. That's how I fucking saw how we won it - damn you, internet.
Oh well, all's well that ends well. In the end, the victory was embarrasingly easy, and reminded me of how we were thrashed by Australia in the 1999 world cup on the same damn ground. This was almost a reversal of that.
And even though Afridi will be showered with praise by all and sundry and has for ever, and finally, made his name synonymous with a big tournament victory, the real star of the match was no one but Abdul Razzaq. His three wickets at the top of the order really turned everything on its head, and gave Pakistan the confidence that they can kick this massively talented batting order's butt and restrict them to a low score. It is all the more important because Razzaq is a most useless bowler who on a day that is to come soon enough will be thrashed around all over the ground. But this day, I guess, belonged to him. The most important bowling performance of his career. Well done, boy. Now please, go fucking retire and let younger allrounders replace you. People like Fawad Alam. Who are probably fucking sick of running around the field all day without actually "playing".
Also, praise be to Mohammad Aamir. People are raving about how well he did. Even I, yes, grudgingly admit, he might be a good fast bowling find for the future. But before everyone starts dry humping Aamir, let it be said that our great fast bowling finds in the past that have made a stunning impression at the start of their careers but have then seen those very same careers go down the drain soon enough make a fucking long list:
- Mohammad Zahid
- Shoaib Akhtar
- Mohammad Sami
- Rana Naveed ul Hasan
- Mohammad Asif
- Sohail Tanvir
(Please remind me if I am missing someone.) Let us hope that Aamir does not go that route.
Finally, I cannot help but feel that while this is a stunning victory that has undoubtedly brought a lot of much-needed joy to the country (and, from what I hear, caused massive poondi outbreaks on the streets of Lahore and Islamabad during the post-match celebrations, much to the delight of all but the most picky of oglers), it is not the same as a 50-over World Cup win. After all, that is the cup where we were humiliated in Bangalore in 1996; that is the cup where we were pummelled into submission at Lord's in 1999; that is the cup where we could not go past round 1 despite a star-studded team in 2003; and, finally, that is the cup where we sufferred our most ignominious defeat in history (and also had to deal with a coach who conveniently plopped dead) in 2007. So that is the cup that needs to be won. Let's do it in our backyard in 2011.
PS - apparently the next Twenty20 World Cup is in the Caribbean next year. Next fucking year. 2010. What nonsense is this? We will be champions for only, uhh, 10 months? That's not even enough time to build a memorial in some chowk in Lahore. Fuck you, ICC. I hate you so much. God, why did Lashkar-e-Jhangvi not attack your offices instead of the poor Sri Lankans' bus? Sigh.
Oh, and this Afridi picture is destined to become the defining image of cricketing glory for a generation of Pakistanis.
Finally, I cannot help but feel that while this is a stunning victory that has undoubtedly brought a lot of much-needed joy to the country (and, from what I hear, caused massive poondi outbreaks on the streets of Lahore and Islamabad during the post-match celebrations, much to the delight of all but the most picky of oglers), it is not the same as a 50-over World Cup win. After all, that is the cup where we were humiliated in Bangalore in 1996; that is the cup where we were pummelled into submission at Lord's in 1999; that is the cup where we could not go past round 1 despite a star-studded team in 2003; and, finally, that is the cup where we sufferred our most ignominious defeat in history (and also had to deal with a coach who conveniently plopped dead) in 2007. So that is the cup that needs to be won. Let's do it in our backyard in 2011.
PS - apparently the next Twenty20 World Cup is in the Caribbean next year. Next fucking year. 2010. What nonsense is this? We will be champions for only, uhh, 10 months? That's not even enough time to build a memorial in some chowk in Lahore. Fuck you, ICC. I hate you so much. God, why did Lashkar-e-Jhangvi not attack your offices instead of the poor Sri Lankans' bus? Sigh.
Oh, and this Afridi picture is destined to become the defining image of cricketing glory for a generation of Pakistanis.
June 14, 2009
The mysterious smoking uncle who turned out to be a legend
For the best part of the last one year I have been living in an apartment complex owned by my university that usually houses families, older students and scholars in various departments and disciplines.
Almost every day while walking to class or to run the usual errands, I see a man sitting on the stairs of his townhouse talking on the phone and smoking a cigarette. He is quite old, has a mane of bushy, unruly grey hair, and always appears lost. When I return home in the evening, I see him there again. Then, late at night, when I head out to have my final cigarette of the day (my house is sadly non-smoking, a regulation I have begun to flout recently), I see him again - he's sitting on the same stairs, looking into the distance, and enjoying his drags.
I never spoke to him or even acknowledged him while passing by, always intrigued and fascinating but a bit afraid. Until today, that is.
I ventured out at night to have a cigarette (even though I now sneakily smoke inside sometimes, the weather was rather nice so it was worth enjoying the deathstick in fresh air), and walked up to my usual bench in the corner where I sit in solitude and think big thoughts while slowly reducing my life. This time, however, the mysterious smoking uncle was sitting in the same area, rather than on his stairs as usual.
I quietly sat down on my bench of choice, exchanged a smile with him (our first acknowledgement of each other's existence in the entire year), and lit my stick. Suddenly, he spoke, and that too in heavily accented English: "Tonight is a great night for smoking, isn't it?"
I smiled hesitantly, and said, "Yes, it definitely is," and would have ended the conversation then had I not noticed his heavy accent. Now I was mildly intrigued. So I straight up asked him, "Uhh, where are you from?" (In retrospect, I realize that's a pretty rude start to a conversation.)
"Iran" he replied very slow.
"OH" I went, a bit too loud. I had spent the whole day catching up on the mayhem and protests and election rigging and everything going on in that country, and so naturally was quite excited to meet an Iranian in flesh. "I am from Pakistan," I finally added.
"Oh, that's nice," he said, smiling, almost happy to hear that.
"So, what do you do here," was my next obvious question.
"Oh, I write."
"I'm sorry?" I blurted out. My bad. See, I was expecting something like "I am a professor of history/political science/international relations/insert-important-sounding-subject-of-choice."
"I am a writer," he replied, still very polite and gentle.
"So, what do you write? Novels? Scripts?"
"Yes, novels mostly. Or stories. I am writing a novel about censorship right now. My agent is trying to find publishers around the world."
Me, now obviously intrigued: "So, have you written before this, or is this your first novel?"
"Oh, yes, a lot. I have about eleven books or so."
Holy fuck! That's a lot of books.
"So, this book is about censorship. Are all your past books about political stuff?"
"Well, in Iran, if you're a dissident and you're not writing for the government, all the books are about political stuff."
"Oh" was all I could say. "So how long have you been here?"
"I have been here three years. Sadly because of my books, I can't go back."
"Wow. I'm sorry," was again all I could say. "Umm, so your family lives here too?"
"No, my wife and daughter are back in Iran. The Americans don't give my daughter a visa, she has tried five times. Has taken a lot of expensive trips to Istanbul and Ankara. By the way, what does Musharraf do now?"
"Oh, Musharraf? Hehe. Well, umm, nothing really. He pretty much tours the world giving lectures and making money, and lives on a farmhouse outside the capital, stealing electricity. Nothing exciting. So, umm, things are bad in your country right now."
"Yes, very bad," he says, suddenly turning very gloomy. "I was quite hopeful, but it's all very fake. Very fake. And our president, he's such a shame."
"Is he popular in Iran?"
"Yes, a little bit. People believe him. They make a mistake."
"Well, I hope things work out. There was a protest today in Harvard Square, I believe," I said, trying to sound consolatory.
"Yes, yes, I know. I went to that. It's all very sad." He then paused for a bit. "And how come your English is so good?" he suddenly asked.
"Pardon me?"
"Your English. It's very good. How is that?"
"Oh, hehe, well, umm, British legacy, I guess. We were ruled by them for 200 years, so some of our education system is in English. It helps us now. Everyone in the world speaks English," I tried to explain.
"Heh, yes, that is true. In Iran they don't teach English well. I wish I could speak it well, write in it. I have a translator, I have to write in Farsi and get everything translated. It is very difficult."
"Oh. Umm, if you don't mind me asking, what is your name sir?"
"Hmm? Oh, heh, Shahriyar."
"In case I want to read your books, I should know what to search for."
"Yes, of course, Shahriyar Mandanipour." He then went ahead and spelled out his last name, letter by letter, so that I would remember.
"Right. I'll definitely go to the book store this week and try to find some of your books."
"Yes, they are on the Amazon website."
"Okay, I will check that out. Right, I need to head back now. My laundry must have dried," I said getting up. "I hope things get better in your country soon."
"And in yours too," he said.
And I proceeded to pick up my dried laundry, came back home, sorted and folded and put away my clothes, and plopped in front of my computer to do a quick Google search on the dude. I forgot how he spelt his last name. All I could remember was a Shahriyar M-something-pour. Hehe. After a few tries, I was finally able to locate a Shahriyar Mandanipour. Sounded like him. So, I clicked.
And, oh my Deobandi God, was I in for a shock. Turns out, the quiet, almost-scary looking, mysterious smoking uncle I was seeing every day and never acknowledging is one of Iran's most famous writers. Mr Mandanipour is a true artistic legend. And the book that he was talking about is actually out now. It's called "Censoring an Iranian Love Story." I couldn't believe it.
Now I will definitely be reading it, and all of his other work. And hopefully I'll run into him again, and bum a cigarette off him, and finally have a mildly interesting story to share with my kids. :)
Almost every day while walking to class or to run the usual errands, I see a man sitting on the stairs of his townhouse talking on the phone and smoking a cigarette. He is quite old, has a mane of bushy, unruly grey hair, and always appears lost. When I return home in the evening, I see him there again. Then, late at night, when I head out to have my final cigarette of the day (my house is sadly non-smoking, a regulation I have begun to flout recently), I see him again - he's sitting on the same stairs, looking into the distance, and enjoying his drags.
I never spoke to him or even acknowledged him while passing by, always intrigued and fascinating but a bit afraid. Until today, that is.
I ventured out at night to have a cigarette (even though I now sneakily smoke inside sometimes, the weather was rather nice so it was worth enjoying the deathstick in fresh air), and walked up to my usual bench in the corner where I sit in solitude and think big thoughts while slowly reducing my life. This time, however, the mysterious smoking uncle was sitting in the same area, rather than on his stairs as usual.
I quietly sat down on my bench of choice, exchanged a smile with him (our first acknowledgement of each other's existence in the entire year), and lit my stick. Suddenly, he spoke, and that too in heavily accented English: "Tonight is a great night for smoking, isn't it?"
I smiled hesitantly, and said, "Yes, it definitely is," and would have ended the conversation then had I not noticed his heavy accent. Now I was mildly intrigued. So I straight up asked him, "Uhh, where are you from?" (In retrospect, I realize that's a pretty rude start to a conversation.)
"Iran" he replied very slow.
"OH" I went, a bit too loud. I had spent the whole day catching up on the mayhem and protests and election rigging and everything going on in that country, and so naturally was quite excited to meet an Iranian in flesh. "I am from Pakistan," I finally added.
"Oh, that's nice," he said, smiling, almost happy to hear that.
"So, what do you do here," was my next obvious question.
"Oh, I write."
"I'm sorry?" I blurted out. My bad. See, I was expecting something like "I am a professor of history/political science/international relations/insert-important-sounding-subject-of-choice."
"I am a writer," he replied, still very polite and gentle.
"So, what do you write? Novels? Scripts?"
"Yes, novels mostly. Or stories. I am writing a novel about censorship right now. My agent is trying to find publishers around the world."
Me, now obviously intrigued: "So, have you written before this, or is this your first novel?"
"Oh, yes, a lot. I have about eleven books or so."
Holy fuck! That's a lot of books.
"So, this book is about censorship. Are all your past books about political stuff?"
"Well, in Iran, if you're a dissident and you're not writing for the government, all the books are about political stuff."
"Oh" was all I could say. "So how long have you been here?"
"I have been here three years. Sadly because of my books, I can't go back."
"Wow. I'm sorry," was again all I could say. "Umm, so your family lives here too?"
"No, my wife and daughter are back in Iran. The Americans don't give my daughter a visa, she has tried five times. Has taken a lot of expensive trips to Istanbul and Ankara. By the way, what does Musharraf do now?"
"Oh, Musharraf? Hehe. Well, umm, nothing really. He pretty much tours the world giving lectures and making money, and lives on a farmhouse outside the capital, stealing electricity. Nothing exciting. So, umm, things are bad in your country right now."
"Yes, very bad," he says, suddenly turning very gloomy. "I was quite hopeful, but it's all very fake. Very fake. And our president, he's such a shame."
"Is he popular in Iran?"
"Yes, a little bit. People believe him. They make a mistake."
"Well, I hope things work out. There was a protest today in Harvard Square, I believe," I said, trying to sound consolatory.
"Yes, yes, I know. I went to that. It's all very sad." He then paused for a bit. "And how come your English is so good?" he suddenly asked.
"Pardon me?"
"Your English. It's very good. How is that?"
"Oh, hehe, well, umm, British legacy, I guess. We were ruled by them for 200 years, so some of our education system is in English. It helps us now. Everyone in the world speaks English," I tried to explain.
"Heh, yes, that is true. In Iran they don't teach English well. I wish I could speak it well, write in it. I have a translator, I have to write in Farsi and get everything translated. It is very difficult."
"Oh. Umm, if you don't mind me asking, what is your name sir?"
"Hmm? Oh, heh, Shahriyar."
"In case I want to read your books, I should know what to search for."
"Yes, of course, Shahriyar Mandanipour." He then went ahead and spelled out his last name, letter by letter, so that I would remember.
"Right. I'll definitely go to the book store this week and try to find some of your books."
"Yes, they are on the Amazon website."
"Okay, I will check that out. Right, I need to head back now. My laundry must have dried," I said getting up. "I hope things get better in your country soon."
"And in yours too," he said.
And I proceeded to pick up my dried laundry, came back home, sorted and folded and put away my clothes, and plopped in front of my computer to do a quick Google search on the dude. I forgot how he spelt his last name. All I could remember was a Shahriyar M-something-pour. Hehe. After a few tries, I was finally able to locate a Shahriyar Mandanipour. Sounded like him. So, I clicked.
And, oh my Deobandi God, was I in for a shock. Turns out, the quiet, almost-scary looking, mysterious smoking uncle I was seeing every day and never acknowledging is one of Iran's most famous writers. Mr Mandanipour is a true artistic legend. And the book that he was talking about is actually out now. It's called "Censoring an Iranian Love Story." I couldn't believe it.
Now I will definitely be reading it, and all of his other work. And hopefully I'll run into him again, and bum a cigarette off him, and finally have a mildly interesting story to share with my kids. :)
