Sita sings the blues

Ravana, was laughing over tea and glucose biscuits with Rama, while the wanar-sena were exchanging songs over Bluetooth with the rakshasas. Kaykeyi, was arranging Sita's lehenga as she cribbed about jewellery and Laxmana slept under the ceiling fan with a bear's head, as his pillow. This sight could only be beheld in the green room, at the Ramlila Maidan.

Costumes and other odds and ends

48-year-old Pradeep Kumar Sharma, a money-lender by trade, has been playing the part of Ravana for the last 4 years. An actor by choice, he chose to play the role of Ravana in the Ramlila. “Everyone knows that Ravana was a learned man and a bhakt of Shiva. It is an honour to portray him,” says the father of two who was getting an enormous moustache glued to his face.

"Rama" waiting for his wig and crown, he was participating in a swayamwar, after all!

A scrawny 24-year-old accountant, however transforms, visibly when dusted with a sheer blue coat on his almost 6 feet frame. Complete with a crown on his head and a traditional bow-and-arrow, his face assumes a tranquil expression that the chewing-gum eating, headphone wearing Prateek Malhotra could never have. “Rama was the perfect man, or Purushottam . I feel like a part of him when I put on this crown,” says Malhotra bowing down with folded hands as the costume in-charge fixes a crown on his wig adorned head.

Meanwhile, Sangam Mishra, a 21 year old, aspiring model, who plays Sita, is fretting over her costume. “This lehenga weighs like 10 kilos! I'm going to develop a back-ache,” she complains, as she she fixes one of her co-actor's hair.

All the characters, however seem overjoyed by the set decoration this year. “Last year's set was nothing in comparison,” says Sharma. “After all, this ramlila has a 40 year old legacy to it,” he concludes.

The fancy new stage this year

A policeman keeps a watch as the mela gears up for the action, at Ramlila Maidaan.

The curious setting; a skyscrapers and traditional mela shops against it.

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Sleepless in the Capital

It’s just so annoying, isn’t it? Life, I mean.

As a rule, I try and avoid using words like “life” or “destiny” in everyday conversations, but sometimes I slip. And then, this happens:

Thoughts can be bitches sometimes. And sleep can be a whore. So when they come together, you’re screwed. There is an phrase, I believe that goes, “sleeping the sleep of the innocent”. Well, if that is true, than I must be an axe murderer.

Sleeplessness drives me crazy. Then I become this insane person, who does stuff like clean her toilets at 3 in the morning or blog at 5. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I used to be this girl who slept at 10 and woke up at 7. But journalism or Delhi or whatever, has completely screwed me over.

I sit right now, cross-legged, with my tiny laptop on a plastic stool in front of me. Dirty dishes and spoons are lying around the mattress on the floor that I sleep on, with soiled clothes scattered as far as the eye can go. I’ve left my french windows open, so the curtains are moving with the cool breeze, creating an illusion that someone is in this dark room with me. But not in a creepy way, but just as a gentle presence, just someone who is nodding along as I rant and rant. And thoughts chase each other in the brain, with the voices in my head keeping them company.

Oh, if only, like Steinback, I could say”

I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights sleep, worked too long and too hard in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I’ve lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment.

But alas, I live my life as if I’m stepping on someone’s toes, eat, drink and sleep with guilt, work as an obligation and love like a miser.

Whereto from here? Don’t know, don’t care.

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The Last Article of a Rookie Sports Journalist

The only thing that a rookie understands from a game of Cricket, is that there are two men in helmets - standing with carved pieces of wood (called the Bat), more men standing around in caps and painted faces (like ancient tribal creatures), and one man with a tiny red ball. The baller and the bouncy person standing behind the main “batsman” keep on screaming things like “oow-waah-zaat” and sometimes “ma-ki” which mean nothing to the rookie, but are interpreted as appeals and insults respectively, by the seasoned viewer.


The rookie does not know why Cricket is called a “gentleman's game”. She does not understand who the referred “gentleman” is. Is it the player, who, amidst thousands of spectators – including ladies, does not hesitate to *cough* touch himself in questionable places? Or is it the viewer, who yells, shouts insults and throws plastic bottles at the players in the middle of the game?

The rookie was recently invited to watch a “net-session” of a local team. The net-session, is a practice session, where in the balling and the batting is done inside a net (so as not to hurt the unsuspecting public, the rookie believes). There were two things going on simultaneously at the ground; one test match (a 5-day infliction) and the aforementioned net-session. Friends of the rookie, immediately set themselves in motion and started pointing out to each other, “that's the yesteryear wicket-keeper!” or “there's the newest member of the IPL team Mumbai!” and “that's the son of a famous cricketer!” The rookie tried to look intelligent and nod as if the names meant something to her, but was thinking all the while, “God! Not a single one of them is remotely good-looking!”

An age old rule that all the journalists (and detectives) follow is - “try to look for something beyond the obvious.” It’s all good in theory, but when sixteen people start to look for “something beyond obvious” at the exact same spot, at the exact same time, it is a pretty good idea to stick with the obvious, as no one is looking at it. But this wisdom, the rookie was yet to learn.

Following the same rule, the rookie decided to interview the security guard, as all the other “non-obvious” mortals were already taken. Right from the caterer, to injured player to the lawn-mower, hell, even the dhobi who worked just outside the grounds, was taken.

The security guard, like the rookie, was also new to his job. The fact that he was being interviewed by a journalist made him immensely happy. He looked at the rookie reverently and answered all her questions very obligingly.

“My name is Pradeep Kumar Choudhry. I have been working here since the last one-and-half year only. Celebrities? Yes, I have seen Dhoni-ji, Yuvraj-ji, Ishant Sharma-ji and Mohammed Kaif-ji too. Only Sachin Tendulkar-ji is remaining,” he told the rookie proudly. “I have watched a lot of Ranji matches here. Yes, they are very exciting” he said, stifling a yawn.

Momentarily lost for words, the rookie confessed that she herself was new to this job. That is when Mr. C took it on himself to supply the story ideas to the rookie. “Come madam-ji, I’ll show you one fruit-vendor, who has been selling fruits here for the last 10 years, but has never seen a match!” Amused, the rookie followed. The fruit-vendor was just setting up his shop. After introductions, the fruit-vendor started telling a long story (whether it was a product of his over-active imagination or it was real, could not be determined) about how he sold three dozen bananas to Bhajji and how Bhajji bargained.

After a long walk and introductions with “a young cricketer who had Yuvi’s autograph” and “the paan-waala who sold gutkha to a yester-year batsman” the rookie was finally able to steer the security guard towards the net-session again. No sooner they reached, than a car pulled up inside the gate. “This is Sir-ji’s car! He’s the owner of the place, and the coach for the KKR” hissed Mr. C vociferously, opening the car door.

Out came small man, dressed in white shirt, dark pink sweater, torn blue jeans and brown shoes. He was chewing something (probably tobacco) and had his (Gucci) goggles on his head. He heard the guard’s remarks to the rookie, glared at them and stalked off towards the dressing room. Mr. C grinned and said, “He’s a very kind man”.

After three hours in the sun, thirsty, hungry and sun-burnt, the rookie had decided that sports journalism was not her cup of tea. If not a story, the rookie that day had definitely left with a healthy respect for all the sports journalists had decided that this was going to be her last ever sports-related assignment.

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