I'm No Jogger

At 3:25 p.m. the final bell would ring and I’d be among the first lads to run out of class, while most people remained focused on packing their bags. I’d sprint all the way to the autorickshaw which would be my ride home. It paid to get there early as we always beat the rush. Getting home at 3:45 always felt good, and I’d take a shower, have a snack and immediately sit on my homework. Usually, everything would get done by five and I’d run out of the house with my new cricket bat and Cosco ball. Aashrai would follow me out usually, albeit unexcited by the games humans play.

Tennis (or rubber) ball cricket is probably the most widely played sport in India and I was its most ardent fan for the best part of four years; I fancy myself a pretty good spinner even today. Years later, when the days of cricket really did end, it was in favour of a more spirited and I suppose ‘manly’ sport: Beach football. While I can’t defend for my life, I’m pretty good when I’m supplying that final flighted ball for my strikers to finish. Then again, being quite selfish and short-tempered on field, I’d probably go for the shot myself.

The days of regular football did end too, mostly because most of the other kids I’d grown up with no longer thought playing in the sand was what ‘men’ did. Too grown up, that they’d become, they moved further away from the water, closer to the road, closer to the girls… Soon, I was no longer addicted to physical exertion and the sportsman in me died. Roorkee probably burned his remains completely, seeing me play four or five times a semester!

At the end of it all, the mind wants to rekindle the excitement of sport and the thrill of winning but the body fails to come through. Stamina is dead and Strength is left wandering in the desert. While people consider gymming a way out of their misery, it remains to me a poor excuse for your inability to play. However, it is better than nothing at all.

And hence I championed gymming for all of six months, until they decided to throw me into the middle of nowhere. Well, Schlumberger does provide five-star facilities considering the location we are in, but even they are unable to provide us a Gym, it seems. And hence, I decided I will run anyway.

And thus, when fellow Field Engineer and Delhi’s track-champion geared up for his evening jog, I made it clear that I’d be tagging along. “I run in the open desert,” he told me. “Near the road, it’s mainly rocky… Little bits of sand.”

The desert is a funny place. You can see far away objects but you’ll never figure out how far they really hour. They could be a kilometer away or they could be ten, you’ll never know. So, when he pointed at an oil-storage location, “Hah, how far will that be,” I thought. And I ran.

I kept running until I was out of breath and then I ran some more. We reached the oil-station an eternity later when track-champion says, “Hey, we’ve been running six-minutes. Why don’t you wait here? I’ll finish my run…” I looked back an saw the caravan I had started out from at a distance. As I told you, you can’t figure out distance in the desert: it could be a kilometer away or it could be five. Let’s say two. I was damn proud of myself.

It was while running back to the camp that I took note of the most wonderful thing. You never need music while running in infinite space. You’re never fiddling with your iPod searching for ‘Brothers In Arms’ while trying to maintain your pace. You don’t have to change the song to fit your mood. All you have is the wind. And it’s always singing the most perfect notes.

Portrait of a Young Man as a Football Manager

Only after Football Manager 2011 have I even begun to comprehend the immense difficulties of managing a team. I'm quite sure the case is the same for any sort of management, but this job epitomizes leadership and genius. If the whole of our life was stuffed into 90 minutes of power-packed highlights, I'm sure it'd result in a game of football. Football after all is a reflection of life in the closest possible way.

Most of us have played various versions of PES and FIFA over the years and many of us consider ourselves tactical geniuses. Set a staggered 4-2-3-1, push your players up and play a short passing game and lo, you win the Champions League. Well, it would be that easy if everyone shared the exact same thinking-space like on your computer. Sadly, a game of football involves 11 different minds playing for your team. The probability that  any two of them independently have the same idea at any point of time is close to zilch. Well, that's where the manager comes in.

To impose your ideas on an entire squad is possibly the toughest task you can ask a man to do. Not only does he do that on the pitch, like begging the hot-headed Defender on a yellow-card not to throw himself into tackles, he needs to do it off the field as well. And that's something for which I've begun respecting AVB so much for. You would think it is impossible for a man of 33 who has never been a pro-footballer himself to handle legends of a club which has only recently tasted success. People like John Terry and Frank Lampard are probably as big as the club, and therein lies the problem.

While Sir Alex could threaten Ryan Giggs and Wayne Rooney with a good spanking now and then, and command awe and veneration from one and all with the simple question "Who's your daddy?", hardly any manager can claim to be the true daddy at Stamford Bridge. Thank you, Mr. Abrahamovich.

Surely, it couldn't have been easy at all for the manager of Manchester United in 1986, but he was given time... And time is the most precious commodity available to a manager of any sort. To cajole the Torreses into firing goals, to create legends like Leo Messi and to fill the CR7s with enough pride and vanity to etch them into footballing lore forever... all these require time. There is only one Mourinho - 2 Minute Success-Recipe - in this world and even he is to be tested over a long period of time. One could probably say that since The Special One was the closest anyone was to being daddy of a new Chelsea team in 2004 and a new Galacticos team in 2010 - hence, his jobs aren't the most difficult ones available.

I'm not taking anything away from TSO: it takes tremendous vision to see that Terry+Lampard+Drogba = GOOALLS; something Mancini is achieving through trial-and-error, buying everybody available in the market and taking United-want-aways. All I'm saying is that such success cannot live beyond the aforesaid manager's tenure. And the next guy in will almost certainly face the firing-squad. You can never change daddies overnight.

I'm writing this in the immediate aftermath of a 3-1 defeat at Old Trafford, one which has filled me with a new belief that AVB might be the man to change Stamford Bridge's destiny forever. Not often would I be in such high spirits after a loss but I feel this young man is a genius. The result could have been a lot different, and while we deserved no points from the game, the scoreline definitely doesn't say the whole story. 

One thing is apparent to me: this fellow AVB has, to use a euphemism, guts. But he'll need a lot more of that (those) to ensure that the legendary numbers eight and twenty-six come off the bench more often. The big man Drogba isn't going to be around forever either and he should be made to understand that. There's no point being a sentimental fool and having these fellows occupy space in a football pitch, hoping that one day they'll produce a glimpse of their glory days. I believe AVB is doing a great job by remaining in the good-books of men almost as old as himself - men who are more decorated than he is - while politely reminding them that they aren't as young as they used to be.

I just hope this fellow sticks around... For truly, the times, they are a-changin'!

The Problem with Football Fans...

I am not an expert on football and these few paragraphs can be forgiven as being written by a mature n00b who is just getting to know his way around the beautiful game. And since it is a fact that I have followed Joga Bonito closely for but the last year and half, I shall not profess to know much more than you, which in all probability I do not. But I shall also take this as a chance to be vocal about my abhorrence for all other people who have grown into football pundits overnight!

I had never given much thought to the lines I first came across on Murty's blog - "Opinions are like feet. Everyone has a couple and usually they stink." During this time of the year, the odour is particularly putrid and rotten. This is the time of the year you hear the - "How can you watch this World Cup dude? There is no Brazil or Argentina..." And then the chums chiming in - "There's no Messi! How is this a football World Cup?" And then, it get's worse. If the football were made of ferromagnetic material, then Messi's feet are two magnets; this doesn't necessarily mean these magnets did anything great in RSA! So it makes me want to puke when someone shrieks - "OoooOOoh! Messi... Whatta player... What a shot!!" - when the little master has barely touched the ball.

These are men and women who snigger at you when you shout at the top of your voice, exulting when a goal is scored... Or when you curse the ref harshly and desperately throw up your right arm as though the referee, on seeing you from inside the TV, will dish out a few Yellow cards! On the other hand, I find people trying desperately to learn Mesut Oezil's spelling in German (with the umlaute) by rote only so that they can make a witty comment about him at a lunch conversation the next day! I don't mind it that much really; if only they managed to keep it at this much wit. But then they soon start correcting you. Wrongly. Fernando Torres invites more and more insult as days pass, while it is quite clear that even the great David Villa cannot play in that central striker's position profitably for Spain; he needs to drift in from that left-side. I shall refrain from saying more as it will be an act of egoistic hypocrisy.

And it isn't because of profound soccer knowledge or detailed statistical analysis that I make yet another prediction, but because I feel that I can do most of what an Octopus can. And since I'm riding on a wave of luck, I shall make as bold as to say that Spain will win this World Cup, in spite of making the task a million times harder than it ought to have been for them. And to all those out there who have never watched a game and yet shoot your mouth, "Shut up."

P.S. Yes, Holland deserves to be in the Finals.

Warning Storys

A traveller will travel. And if you place this wanderer in a city like Mumbai, he will wander. There is no dearth of places to visit - be it relics of medieval history, shopping malls, restaurants for every budget, bars, cineplexes, beaches... And the wanderer is all the more astounded by the variety the city offers if he hails partly or wholly from a semi-urban background - like 'R-men' do.

However the city poses one major obstacle in his path. His unquenchable wanderlust is brought to a screeching halt by the daunting task of having to traverse enormous distances to reach his final destination, or worse - having to travel short distances for long intervals of time. The latter experience is one every Mumbaikar will be familiar with - Travelling a couple of kilometres in an hour! Why we don't walk, I don't know... But that's probably because there is no space left to walk.

Nevertheless, these difficulties are minified by the awesome train system - which leaves the traveller astounded as to how an arrival time like 21:39 can be maintained! But travelling in trains is as difficult as it is brilliant. While you experience the real Mumbai life, you also end up with your bag strapped in front of your chest, with one hand in your pocket performing the duty of wallet-sentry and your head at an acute angle to the horizontal so that you can catch sufficient breath. But in the end, it is usually worth it.

After travelling to Jughead's in Powai to catch the Oranje win and returning by the midnight train, I decided that two consecutive days of such travel will be highly hazardous to health. And life. So, I could only sigh in relief when they said we'd be watching "I Hate Luv StorYs" at a screen nearby. After all the advertisements and being part of the naive junta, the prospect of watching the Sonam Kapoor and Imran Khan show excited me almost as much as the fact that I'd be back in time to watch Germany versus Argentina.

There were signs. First of all, the people I was supposed to go with left without us. Then, one autorickshaw guy after another refused to take us to the mall. We finally got one at the same time the movie started. It was raining and we were getting soaked too. Stubbornly ignoring all these forebodings and omens, we went. Once inside the mall, we behaved much like rats would once you drop them into a large box. We ran. We ran in all directions. Getting split up in the crowds was no longer a bother as each of us wanted our money's worth. So, when four of us found ourselves inside Hall#3, we didn't bother about the others, for a while. But when two minutes passed and then five, and when we still didn't understand any dialogue in the movie and since there was still no sign of both Sonam and Imran, we started worrying. Just about then, I asked Pulkit, "Dude, is this the movie? Are you sure?"

And then we left the Marathi film which we were trying to follow; we entered the real thing - an oxy-moronic flick which starts off with copycat HIMYM scenes and proceeds to copy the entire series. Only later, after the interval, do the HIMYM references and shameless lifts end; but there ends the movie too - turning insipid from plain empty. I took respite in the fact that I didn't spend more money on a larger popcorn-combo! I'm sure that Marathi flick was better.

This post is a warning.

P.S. I feel bad for Ms. Larissa.

One Constant in Relentless Change!

It was dusk and the sun turned bronze from radiant gold, peeking out from behind the gentle Cirrus which was splattered across the eternal canvas. A cool wet breeze carrying the occasional grain of sand blew landwards purging heat and assuaging pain. It would be evening soon.

I saw two children being led carefully through the sands, as though being introduced to the Bay, by their grandmother – although it would be very lenient of me to say that they were indeed ‘being led’, and soon enough poor old Grandma had no control of the children as they boisterously somersaulted over each other and threw fist-fulls of sand at each others’ face. After feeble initial protest, the old lady gradually grew despondent and helpless, after which she swore (imitating the great Bheeshma) to the God of the Sea – “I shall, never again, accompany these two children to the beach, alone.” This seemed to work miracles on the impetuous duo and almost magically tranquillity returned to the shores of the Bay of Bengal. I smiled as I saw two guilty looking children and one exasperated Grandma departing, to catch an Auto, together.

As I continued walking along, I saw a group of kids in their later teens playing beach-football. This was not uncommon as beach football was one of the most popular sports played in these parts. Most passes were played in the air and the curl of the shot was often aided by the wind, playing diabolical tricks on the hapless shot-stopper. I looked down and I noticed no more fine patterns and designs drawn by the fine hand of the wind; as all intricacy lay mutilated - bearing testimony to the savage struggles for the football. I jogged past the kids who were bellowing as loudly as their larynxes permitted. Soon, I reached the jogging track.

I witnessed a melange of people here – the twenty year old whose life seemed all but directionless, seated with other twenty year olds who were equally lost, discussing the futilities and pleasures of life, pausing only to take in the occasional stunner; the young gentleman who ran incessantly down the track, wincing as his muscles pumped battery acid, all the while listening to music streaming into his ears through his new iPod; the middle-aged man who walked down the side-lane hand-in-hand with his new wife as they planned their new universe; and the young man or old boy who was madly in love with his hot girlfriend.

I was getting tired and thought of retiring to the nearby Barista, which offered ambrosial delights for a fortune, leaving the customer a few notes lighter… Or maybe the nearly awesome Food-Court called ‘Planet Yumm’ which was the favourite haunt of children of all ages… I paused ephemerally by the group of gossiping old men so as to tell them the time, only to almost be bundled over by an irresponsible pram.

By now, the Sun was no longer visible and the sea seemed to be the beacon of light. The surroundings began to drown me as various elements began to coalesce. The sky was blue, green and violet all at the same time. A distant ship twinkled bravely as the world around me began to succumb in a conflation of immaculate grandeur. I was so lost in the spectacle that I almost forgot who I was!

The infant in the pram, the child with its grandmother, the teenage footballer, the old boy with his new girlfriend, the young jogger, the middle-aged man with his wife, the old gentleman in a veshti asking for the time – were all one person. And I am Time.

The Talisman

Yesterday, I witnessed something remarkable. It is something which, so strangely, could eclipse the jubilation of watching two of my favorite teams win and go on to etch itself deep into the cells of grey. And even while my mind was swimming in that idyllic lake of Blue and Yellow as I drifted away into sweet oblivion, I knew that I had witnessed something truly wonderful. Once more.

There are times in life we feel hopeless and desperate. Depleted that we are, we yearn for that one magical twist, that one last burst of force, which will transform a tragic story into a fairytale. Rarely does such a thing ever happen, but Hope has a funny way. To believe is something which we all want to do in the most unreasonable situations. While all logic and even half-sound cerebration will suggest the contrary, all of us desperately want to believe in Adidas' "Impossible is Nothing".

There are, of course, those happy times and plentiful periods when we the word "impossible" quickly disappears from our dictionaries. These are times when the steadfast flourish and stability and perfection become the ultimate goals. SRT will bisect the off-side field so beautifully that the opponent team is ripped in half and MSD will smash an in-swinging yorker for a straight six. But these are the prosperous times and as they say, class is permanent. This class shows.

But then, there are dark times; there are times when the infinite is grey and 'silver-lining' is just a fanciful phrase which appears in proverbs. These are times when Class stands hopelessly, it's head bowed in dejection, in front of massively unimaginable odds. The Universe has conspired to kill and priceless blood will be spilled by the end of the ordeal. But then, protecting our icon for the savage, incessant rain of innumerable poison arrows from the sky is a single magic shield: A shield which has not the backing of consistency and reliability. A shield which hardly boasts of triumphs against powerful foes and one which would be disdainfully dismissed as ineffective and impotent had it not been for the fact that each one of us believes that this plate of silver armor can repel the almighty onslaught, parry each blow and carry our heroes to glory and beyond. The shield is a talisman; a talisman which feeds on faith. And delivers each time.

Yesterday, Keiron Pollard (a question I'm still proud of answering, at Dela's last) was that talisman. The effect he had on the crowds was stuff of legend. He arrived at a comically hopeless situation and six balls was all he took to make people believe. And tremble in fright. Each time I look at a talisman, I'm left in awe. It's not what they do as much as what happens when they appear. Everyone starts working, the cogs start clicking away flawlessly and suddenly, the painting is a whole new one! I'd put ManUnited's Macheda (who I dislike and admire) in this category... And Luke Skywalker. Napoleon is said to have had immense faith in his Imperial Guard even as he stared into the abyss of death. These are our shields. These are amulets which we trust in our hour of need. For me, I guess it's Mom.

In the end, it's never true that this magical trinket will take you to safety every single time. There are times it will fall. But that's not the point of life, is it? Most importantly, it makes us believe.

Dispor(i)ted

Arun's status message on FB (paraphrased): "Our life is like a fraction; The numerator being what we are... And the denominator being what we want to be." Do your arithmetic.

My wing emptied itself out today, leaving Yours Truly as the sole company for dear ole Pink-punk. The cold wind blows through the hollow corridors as I find emptiness within...

While my neighbour pines for company, I must tell you I'm enjoying it. Simple astrology would tell you that it is but an expected trait of a Virgin, not because they are loners but because it gives time to reflect. To ponder. And it was during one of these bouts, in the afternoon, when I began to wonder about that 'Denominator', in my life. A rather disheartening picture crept up, with life tending to null and void. Feeling rather dispirited already, I walked out of S-7's safety into the open second-floor corridor... That was when it hit me. The reason why I was, all of a sudden, thinking about life as a fraction hit me hard. It was the same reason why my corridor is all but empty.

I am, generally, rather content with my routine, my achievements (whatever measly total they amount to) and my goals. But come December, I start feeling that vacuum again. Last year's Chennai and this year's Kanpur leave me estranged. The answer's cold hand slaps me across the face. This happens to be just the tip of a massive iceberg.

When I was in the fifth grade, I was introduced to the world of Classical music. I barely understood it then; I love it now, but without understanding. Then, in Standard Seven, I began to learn the keyboard and the 'Casio' entered my life. For three years it stayed; years when it would sing in harmony with my vocal chords. Incidentally, it was also Class VII when I began 'Tennis'. The coach liked me; 'vice-versa' not being applicable. Soon, I began Volleyball lessons in school. I wasn't nearly the best, but fast improving. I still boast of the one certificate I managed out of it in my résumé! I loved Cricket as a playing sport and I wouldn't be boasting if I said I was the best Batsman and Spinner within a few blocks' vicinity. Then.

It was when I began Volleyball, that I gave up on the tennis coaching. And then weirdly enough, I dropped Volleyball as it bored me! The Casio stopped singing to my fingers' dance almost in sync with my larynx's reluctance to produce melody. It was Standard X. Cricket lived on in my blood. Football grew on me. Then, I reached IITR. They both hit 'Pause'.

You realize the pain of failure when your denominator is so large. When you dream of doing great things, each setback is like a spear through the heart. Worse, however, is the pain of not being able to fail! Just because you gave up too early. I still can sketch brilliantly (can't say the same about painting) but I don't. I can sing. I don't. I could relearn the keyboard. I won't. Tennis exited my life early, though I'd have loved to go on. I almost made NSO with 'Volleyball'. I simply never visited the courts again! Life seems to have sapped me of Cricket. It all seems late now. I have a long way to go in order to become finite once more. All I do is crib. And write.

But It Rained

The chapo was over. Suppressing a mighty burp at its very nascence, after having devoured two Paneer-Pyaaz Paranthas, a Pav-Bhaaji, one and two-seventh portions of fried-Maggi and an aloo poha (the last of which, I detected was spoilt after having shovelled in a few spoonfuls), I struggled to rise from my seat which I am quite sure would have buckled under my weight had I eaten another morsel. The human brain recommends that you eat until you are full and then exist in equilibrium with atmospheric pressure - but this process is apparently deleted from the register when some one else is paying for your meals! Nevertheless, with great effort, not only did I manage to stand up, I negotiated a few steps towards the Ganga Canteen exit. To Cautley and beyond... Or so I had so naively thought.

The Met Department predicted, in today's newspaper, (which, thankfully, I have been allowed to read again by the newspaperwala) that the SE-monsoon trough has moved further up north. As an average human being, evincing as much faith in Met as I would express in the IITR Admin, I only thought it convention that a long dry spell should follow. And there. Met tricks you again! This one time they get it right and the everlasting dilemma of 'Can we always consider Met wrong?' continues...

It was 1 a.m. With my tangible presence getting soaked in moon-sized droplets and my mind still pondering about how I must run the Ganga-Cautley gauntlet, my temporal lobe picked up a nutter's quip, "How about football?" Bizarre sounding at first, it gained universal acceptance soon and then against my better sense of judgement, I jumped on the bandwagon too! And into some puddles, in jeans, slippers and all. What followed was an 'awesome' session of dragging the ball through pools, slush tackling (which apparently has it advantages) and observation of wet-ball aerodynamics. An irate Resident Warden and a feckless watchman looked on in awe. And veneration.

The game ended at one all (possibly), with no one keen about keeping scores, when most people had each completed the mandatory ten somersaults in the muck. Chemical's obsession with photo-shoots followed (which might even be uploaded by now) when the cloud-cover relented. I began my arduous, risky trip back home dodging tadpoles here and searching for bricks there. I also realized the importance of being on the look-out for live wires during rainy days such as these. My clothes are ruined, but it was fun all the same. It would have been just another day with a chapo and some footy. But it rained.

P.S. Frogs are cuter and nicer creatures than one imagines them to be. They actually oblige by leaping out of your way before every one of your steps.

Food, Fun, Frolic... It's Frikkin' far!

A very long time after my last post, I chose to write again... But even as I start typing, I notice my fingers have become stubbier and my shoulders have broadened a bit. The highly overdue change in diet came on the 13th of May and ever since, my body has been greedily accepting everything that was being fed to it! Albeit putting on a couple of kilogrammes, I wouldn't call myself flabby; forget 'fat'! Just 'healthy', maybe... And then I wonder how I looked before I got here.

Multitudes of chocolate, regular doses of caffeine, some marmalade sandwiches, truffles, souffles, croissants, doughnuts, Bagels and very authentic and delicious local cuisines later, I wonder why I would ever go back to R-land! Even that dreadful drink at Costa in Terminal 1C at Delhi had tasted heavenly then! Why, I think the 'fodder' (so say the labourers who eat there) they provide us with at my intern is way better than Friday special at the mess!

My intern is going pretty well and coming to think of it, I'm actually learning stuff. But more interesting than visiting the Vacuum Distillation Columns, I've met some pretty decent people (not as interesting as the people Jetty has made 'friends' with though) out there who really make it worth travelling 90kms everyday! The travel is hell on Earth, I assure you. Now that I have trudged through the first 10 days, I'm looking forward to the next 15 to fly by.

Actually, it's been keeping me busy off late. Initially boredom filled my heart and I wished I hadn't left R-Land and all... But then, my Other Life kicked in. School friends, the intern, T20, movies, family, holiday trips and more friends have made it much more interesting. Even the weather has gotten a lot more pleasant now - not that humid. And yet, a spur-of-the-moment decision made me tell the barber, "Yeah... Shave of the hair." The rest, as they say, is history. Ksp and Dela have company. 

I've found a lot of time to myself too, these holidays. All Virgos enjoy time to themselves. Time for retrospection. Time for planning. Time to think... I've done all that. Retrospecting the past few years of my life has made me happy in general and the 'few' drawbacks will be addressed by my future plans! I've also had time to get back to writing (though, not posting) poetry, stories and random texts...

I appreciate Real's urge to reconstitute the Galacticos though I think it's sheer madness. Once bitten - twice shy, I'd say. They don't think so. Last time so many stars got together, they flopped after one season. Only time will tell.

Hope everyone is having as much fun. Cheers!

LATE EDIT: The world is NOT a wanna-be! At least not here, not now... For the record: I adore Dosais, Vadais (note the spellings) and Rasam rice among others!

The Unwavering Faith

It's a time for firsts. The first time, I've inked a post. The first contribution to my blog from amidst an MT class. For the first time since 1947, Chelsea has had FA success against Arsenal... It is also the first time this season, United have lost a critical draw.

Am I glad? - You may ask. The answer to that is simple, 'Yes'. But what doesn't occur to the Red Devils' fans is that I rejoice - not because I take joy in Fergie's men crashing out, not because I detest the World Club Team Champions - but plainly because I would rather have Chelsea play Cahill, Pienaar and Yakubu than Scholes, Rooney and the dreaded number 7; because I would rather have Lampard running into Neville than Ballack into Nemanja Vidic... and because I fear, more than the twice lucky Tim Howard, the all time great Van der Sar.

Clearly Dela and ManU fans (the very people who say 'Chelshit' and are not, by any standards, Chelsea haters) have clearly misunderstood my (I speak for myself as I do not clearly comprehend the happenings in Azad) intentions. Repeatedly, have I been accused by people of being a supporter of a club which 'bought' its Silverware. To them, I ask, "Would you stop liking ManU if, after Fergie's departure (yes, even he will have to leave some day), ManUnited goes through a phase of buying good players?" I have been a Blue since the days of Gianfranco Zola and Eidur Gudjonsen and not just since Drogba and Essien... and I shall remain one, no matter what they do. For they still play amazing football. For the team was always great, now - only greater. For Chelsea, Chelsea is our name.

I agree the anti - ManU sentiment is at an all-time high and is still growing but nothing can be more unfair than to shove all the blame on Chelsea fans. Two days ago - I did not wince when I saw the video in Lefty's room, for the first time, of ManU's redemption - of Ole Gunnar Solskjær and Teddy Sheringham scoring in 90 and 93 - when he said, "Football, bloody hell!" In fact it was quite to the contrary - I actually felt that they should have won more, since 1999, than just 2 Champion's League finals!

14th April, 2009: Chelsea vs Liverpool - 

Kick Off - A friend (fellow 'fan') and I enter the TV room. Match starts and he gives me some stat about how Chelsea has never lost in ....

Half Time - Liverpool have scored twice and 'fan' leaves the TV room without uttering a word. I face the onslaught of a room full of Reds who tell me Chelsea was never destined to reach the Quarters.

48 minutes - 'Fan' reappears. Only now, he dons the #8 Gerrard jersey, and giving me but an over-the-shoulder glance, he joins the Red bandwagon.

A few mins hence - Drogba and Alex have scored - 'Fan' leaves.

Full time - 4 Chelsea - Liverpool 4 and Chelsea advance.

That is no fan, clearly. Neither do these people have a right to support any team, nor do their views on 'Joga Bonito' count. Such are the people who form the hater-base of a team. Not fans, please.

I am a fan. I have more important things to do than to hate teams. Chelsea plays brilliant football - some people just can't accept it. The only reason, I may not be watching every match in a TV Room is because of the lack of following here... I definitely do not like the idea of being the lone supporter against a sea of Reds, even though it gives me immense pleasure winning the draw after bearing their insults throughout the 90 minutes. Manchester United simply has a much larger fan base.

Apart from the true fans, every wannabe becomes a Man United fan because it is always the easiest team to support! But, there is always a flipside. All this also makes it the easiest team to hate. And hence, the hater-base!

Yesterday was a dismal performance from both sides, one in which ManU didn't play - it was just a bunch of reserves. Looked like Ferguson didn't want the FA Trophy anyway. The quintuple is definitely out... (and not 'out in the dumps' as some people misquote) Its still commendable that they are in with a shot for a quadruple, for which they'll hopefully play Chelsea in the finals of the Champions League.

So its probably not the best of ideas to divert one's frustration and anger after losing ONE match at some innocent bystander who said nothing controvertial, someone who definitely doesn't hate ManU! Having said that, I'm glad that our chances of winning FA have gone up several notches since yesterday night.

P.S. Maybe I must apologize on behalf of some Chelsea 'fan' who hates ManU. People support a team for different reasons - A Liverpool fan may be that just because he hates ManU... But there is a distinct possibility that he just loves Liverpool. Give him a chance, will you?

P.P.S. IPL is definitely not half as interesting this year!