Flashing Lights and Ladies - The Story of Vegas

It isn't every day that you get to live in a pyramid. And not all pyramids fire photon canons into the black sky. A month ago, I stayed on the twenty-seventh floor of the Luxor - with a view of both the magnificent phenomenon that is Vegas and the serene Nevada mountains in the distance, which seemed to be embroiled in a "I'm greater than you" debate with one another.

The World's Best
Everything in Las Vegas is the world's best - the cigars, the women, the music, the spirits, the shameless neon brilliance, the towering replicas of everything Americans consider grand. In fact, in Las Vegas, they will make you believe that their New York is better than the one on the East Coast, and that there is more love in 'Paris' than in the French capital. There is Venice and Rome and Burma and China... Everything is the World's best. The world's best music shows, the world's best strip clubs, the world's best limos - God knows what else.

Vegas is bright
In the night, planes get confused. As soon as they cross the dull Rockies and the canyons nearby, they are mesmerized by a city that dances in front of their eyes, in colours and in song. And to make matters worse, there is a hotel (my own) smashing light into the sky.

During the first night, our wanderings took us to the end of the strip, and therefore we were subjected to the immense Fremont Street Experience. The sky isn't real any more. It is fabricated by men, and it does what it is commanded to do. It can burst into flames and calm into the gentlest piano music at the clap of a hand. And all around us, women and alcohol and casinos and movie-star lookalikes.

Our fine Chevy looked hopelessly out of place in a city where people firmly believe that 'bigger is better'. Newer is also better, except when it comes to casinos: because there's not much that can compare with the Caesar's Palace (where a friend lost $300 in half an hour), the Bellagio or the MGM Grand.

The most unchanging city in the world
Vegas is a religion and it is a God. There are conjurers here, unlike anything history has ever produced. I still wonder about certain things I saw during my 'Cirque du Soleil' experience. They cannot be explained except by magic. But I won't question them, because such things happen in Vegas.

There are limousines longer than roads in this city, and planes which fly in at 8pm and out at 4am to entertain their masters. Vegas, which can easily be considered the work of the devil, leaving Dubai far behind, stands unashamed in all its glory as the world looks on. So often, in its dazzling brilliance, it shows the world its shame and asks people to embrace it. Las Vegas might be the future.

In Vegas, they will sink ships, recreate Hawaii, build Rome and make water sing just to entertain you. It's a magical place, soulless as it is. It is full of emptiness, and it proudly stands as a symbol of what might come.

Vegas is so far ahead of everything else that it doesn't change.

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'!

Assimilation

I looked towards my wall proudly, having meticulously redecorated it. Apart from the mahogany shelf riveted to the wall, upon which rest a few relics of our inglorious past, and the luxurious bean bag which rests majestically in one corner of the room directly in front of my 50 inch television screen, the hall is fashionably empty. The French rug which I imported for a fortune covers the marble flooring which has become so passé. I love my small, comfortable dwelling.

It is strange that one should feel at home only after ostracizing oneself from one's own past, but that is how I feel today. I feel better after getting rid of those garish colours - those curtains and teak-wood sofas, and those Ravi Verma oil paintings! I used Berger's new 'Black' theme for interior decoration, and all things now blend into this elegant hue. I've even purchased a grey designer suit and satin black overcoat from the downtown Walmart to go with my silver Aston Martin.

I think I'll take the Metro now, to the Mall road to fetch some Budweiser for the party I'll be throwing later tonight. I know the party's going to be swell. We even have a dress code - Men in dark suits and women in evening gowns. This party will be the talk of the town - with all the Barbeque and the Italian spread. I have even unlocked the back door so that the men can smoke their cigars in the balcony outside, while enjoying the mighty steel and concrete horizon which modern India proudly boasts of.

It is the year 2130. I am proud of the fact that there are no longer divides and rifts between the people of the nation - we have all become global-citizens. There are no longer problems of language - we all speak English. There are no differences in food - no Rotis and no Dosas - we all enjoy a double-cheese Margherita and a big Mac washed down with some Sprite. We've renounced religion which has been the cause of so many conflicts in the past! No temple, no churches and no mosques - so no problem. All places of worship in this secular land have become museums - some of the finest in the world! And modern dermatologists have succeeded in making us all fair, so we can accentuate our new skins with the profoundest of black. No American is able to tell us apart from his countrymen now - to hell with racial discrimination!

I'm so glad we have taken a broader view of things since 2100, shedding our bourgeois demeanour for good! Our schools have begun teaching us about George Washington and Napoleon Bonaparte as much as they do about C.V. Raman and Rani Lakshmi Bai. Our kids are taught ballet in school, just like some western institutions have started teaching Indian Classical. I'm just glad there are no divides in this world. Everyone has become the same person.

Ei8ht

The coat of arms catches your sight in all its magnificent gold and glittering red. A few moments later, you catch yourself gazing achingly at sun-dried brown and mildly striped white. Despite the dazzle and the intoxicating essence, you realize that the experience may not be as wonderful as someone once told you. But Novelty is a cruel friend, and Novelty won't let you go that easily.

You try to do it like them, but you fail miserably... There is not suavity or elegance like what you saw on television, as the powerful substance enters you. You cough and you wheeze. Your vision blurs and you stumble. But do you give up?

As you soon discover, Time is a panacea and your feet rediscover the firm earth below. So you try again, and this time harder. The fumes rise mightily and overpower your feeble body. You are part of it now, as it is part of you. But you don't like it... Not just yet. No.

Somehow you manage the third, to the amusement of some of your friends. This time you feel so much more in control and you realize that it has always been about the mind, from the very beginning: you wanted to conquer that searing stem. And now that you have, you could let go but it has endeared itself to you.

The fourth drag is followed by the fifth and then fresh air floods your lungs. Your hands are numb as they hang loosely by your side, like those of a puppet. A cold breeze, an inky sky, rustling leaves, burning stem, and you are alone... The Universe comes to an end: No longer do the dogs bark; the full moon appears painted on a motionless black screen; the air is stagnant; the waves hang in suspended animation; you freeze. The rhythmic ticking of the clock breaks the silence.

You put your lips to the filter for a sixth time and the world jerks into sudden motion. The dogs hasten after one another; the moon is partially covered by the racing cirrus; a blast of icy cold wind blows away the ash; the waves crash against the rocky shore; and cold noxious fumes enter your lungs. People stare at you in awe, like the way they would stare at their favourite movie hero. But you are unaware of all this, of course.

Lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy and pride: Seven is your ticket to the almighty heavens. Dreams become real in this world, everyone is happy and you are their king. Sorrows in this world ebb away into the infinite and anger is a forgotten pleasure. It is the hardest world to leave, but everything good must have an end. And this does too.

The ring of burning red is very close to your fingers now and you feel it feeding on your flesh. But you don't want to stop now. You want to push the high: thus comes the eighth drag, and your lap of honour. The hot fumes cloud your mouth and you gasp once again. You know that it has ended but you will never want to leave. You will want to stay here forever. But you can't do that. You cannot have more. You must let go. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven and eight... You must let go now!

And so the last puffs of smoke leave you. Forever.

What's Your Dream?

There is this little kid next door, only three years old and clever as hell. He's an overly exuberant kid whose restlessness knows no bounds. It is as though he finds it imperative to do more than whatever he is doing at that moment. Albeit exceedingly fast, and sometimes reckless, I realized that he can hardly keep up with the speed at which his processing centre functions!

And hence, he performs like most machines we have studied about - lagging the stimulus by quite a bit. Strangely though, today I discovered that he wasn't much unlike me! It was an alarming discovery.

Some days back, I had asked the kid what he wanted to do when he grew up; a question I take immense pleasure in asking because of the fact that I used to respond 'An Engine Driver'. He promptly answered, "A Neurosurgeon!"

I was impressed. I was amazed at the nonchalance of it all. He had his life planned out at such a tender age, and I swore to myself that day that if ever I'd meet him as a neurosurgeon some decades from now, I'd eat my hat.

Yesterday, I found myself smiling once more as I stood there observing the way he lay underneath his tricycle studying the moving parts therein. What happened next was unexpected as my flatmate found it prudent to walk up to the kid and ask him the same question - "Child, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

The answer came out just as fast as it had the last time - "An Astrophysicist!" I smiled to myself, as my flatmate appreciated the vocabulary of the three-year old.

Today, I approached that kid once more, this time quite deliberately. I only wanted to know if he'd fall back on any of his previous choices. He was playing with a fancy spinning-top. I asked him the question - "Kid, what will you be when you grow up?"

The answer was unleashed - "The president." He continued fiddling with his toy. He never once looked up at me. I was so happy that I'd have bought the kid a lollypop! But then, he asked me a question next; one I was quite unprepared for. It came out of the blue:

"Bhaiyya, what do you want to be?"

I stood there silently. I looked around as the walls seemed to close in. I whispered to him, "I don't know." And I took the elevator for the ground floor. I'm afraid of seeing the child again.