Happy new year 2021

 The antonym of "Happy New Year" would be "Unhappy Old Year". 2020 was exactly that - an old year now which made us all unhappy. Now the first post teen year of 2020 paves way for the year 2021 - a new year we wish it will make 2020 a forgettable one. While wishing so we step into it, we don't know what lies ahead, what's in store for us. As the old man 2020 bends his spine and extends his hand to open the door to welcome the New Year, it is now time for some introspection. 

The passing year 2020 will be forever be remembered for two several reasons - Coronavirus pandemic which killed millions, caused economic recession and impacted the US Presidential elections. For the first time since 1944, a Olympics wasn't held on the schedule year. And for the first time since 1992 an incumbent President lost his reelection.

A la getting rid off old cloths for the new ones, the soul moving from one body to another as famously extolled by Lord Sri Krishna in the BHAGWAT GITA and other Hindu Scriptues, 2020 will be reborn yet again at midnight tonight as 2021. The year dawns with the cherubic smile of a newborn, as another number is added to its age in the form of a New Year.

But hardly anything else ever changes for me with the arrival of a new year. For me life trudges ahead as the same shit, different day - with different color and texture. Hardly anything cataclysmically different happens, rather more or less the status quo is maintained. I don't make any New year promises to myself, as I don't and can't keep them anyway. I just roll over to the year ahead of me.

We may forget history but we don't forget to repeat it year after year. Similar to this starting stanza of the Kishore Kumar's song :

EK RUT AAE, EK RUT JAAE PHIR,
MOUSAM BADLENA, BADLE NASEEB.

"One season comes and another goes,
Seasons change, not the fateful woes". 

This year came and went with a mixed bag of good, bad and ugly for me, with additional baggage of memories rolling into next year. Made new friends, revived old ones and lost a few near and dear ones, once and for all. Yet the year comes with this stark reminder - life goes downhill from here, tasks become uphill and years are numbered before I go over the hill. 

To me, almost all the New Year wishes expressed over the years have been pleasant enough to makes them forgettable. Homo Sapien's inherent instinct is to remember the unpleasant ones. I being no exception - remember this one from 1st January, 1982. On the first New Year after his marriage to Diana, Prince Charles wished the nosey British Paparazzi, "Have a Nasty New Year".

But I don't have to be nasty. So let me repeat the forgettable wish, as I do not forget to do at the end of every year - HAVE A WONDERFUL NEW YEAR ahead and stay blessed.

India All out for 36

 In the year 1974, India toured England in the first half of English summer. I lived in Liverpool, England for some time and very familiar with its freaky weather. It is not unusual to have cold spells during the summer in England, especially in its early part. But that year it was quite unusual - it was more like a cold spring than summer when the Indian team landed on the English soil on a 3 test series.

The tour was ill fated from the beginning. India lost the series 3-0, whitewashed. Ordinary bowlers like Chris Old and John Snow created havoc in India's batting line up. Gavaskar was probably the only batsman who stood up showing some grit filled resistance. 

Sunil Gavaskar has rated his 101 on a cold, blistery day in Old Trafford, Manchester on that tour as his best knock, well above his several double centuries. Our bowling attack those days, completely dependent on spinners who couldn't get their grip on the ball due to the cold conditions. English batsmen made our world class spinners look like ordinary club cricketers making a mincemeat out of them.

To add salt to the wound, India was bowled out for a paltry 42 runs at Lord's. I had an old copy of the magazine "Illustrated Weekly of India" (now defunct) at home where its cricket columnist Raju Bharatan published all the 10 black and white photos of our batsmen's dismissal.

Fast forward to 46 years later. All these years Cricket has gone through metamorphic changes. India is no more the cricketing world's minnows of 1970s. It is now a cricket powerhouse having all the money, power, influence over the game centered around it. West Indies, the unbeatable team of 1970s is now just another ordinary team on the cricket map.

Yet India couldn't defy history. History repeats itself and strikes at inopportune moments. Those who forget history are condemned to repeat it. Yesterday we created history, breaking that record set at Mecca of cricket in 1974 by getting dismissed for 36 runs, 6 runs less than the humiliating innings total under the Captainship of Ajit Wadekar. Emotional fans in Indian greeted Wadekar and the team mates with a shower of rotten eggs and sandals (a mode of humiliation in Indian subcontinent) upon their arrival at Bombay (it wasn't Mumbai yet) Airport. Glad there was no social media then - otherwise, they would have been trolled.

And trolled are now our players on media, social or otherwise after scoring 36 runs off pink ball in Adelaide losing all their 10 wickets, especially the director of the team Ravi Sastri who is toasted and roasted a la a burnt bread. Sastri is not new to this kind of treatment. During his playing days he was known to be a selfish player hell bent upon scoring runs at snail's pace at the cost of the country. His slow innings was blamed for several Indian defeats. At least one comes to my mind. When India lost to Australia in a crucial group game in 1992 World Cup held Down Under by just 1 run, Sastri's slow innings came under scanner. 

The ignominy then wasn't just limited to media. Across India Ravi Sastri's effigies were garlanded with CHAPPAL (sandals) and public made bonfire of them. It still remember a photograph from Sastri's hometown of Bombay where his name was painted on a donkey and the poor animal was garlanded with string of slippers. It doesn't take our mercurial fans to overreact. It doesn't take long for bricks to follow bouquets. It may happen yet again. An emotionally charged public may very well make an ass out of him - fanning a long stretch from the player Sastri of yesteryear to Director Sastri.

My tryst with Inoculation

 In one of his brilliant posts, my Facebook friend Bharat Mishra Sir has nicely elucidated the parallels between the COVID-19 vaccine and the cholera vaccinations given on the outskirts of the temple town of Puri days before the world famous annual Lord Jagannath Rath Yatra (Car Festival).

His post reminded me of the inoculations I received during my childhood. I have a very faint memory of small pox vaccine which was tattooed on my hand, the scar of which is still visible. But my first vivid memory is getting a shot (called injection in India) of cholera vaccination when I was in primary school. 

As the D-Day arrived I was scared to death. After getting the shot I mistakenly assumed that the ordeal would be over. I was proved wrong. By evening I had fever and could hardly lift my arm. My grandma gave me LUNA PODA SEKA - gently sponged the vicinity of the tiny orifice on my arm stuck by the needle with heated pad of salt wrapped in a piece of cloth. The pain subsided after couple of days. A piece of paper called the Inoculation Certificate is all I got after bearing all the physical and mental agony.

Little I knew that this Certificate will come handy a few months later when I was on a bus to Puri days before the famous RATH YATRA. On the outskirts of the city near Chandanpur, the bus was stopped by a battalion of health officials eagerly waiting with syringe on hand. It was time to give cholera shots. I proudly brandished my inoculation certificate and they spared me.

Those who didn't meekly disembarked and lined up for the shots. A few who tried to flee were immediately chased down by the officials. Some escaped by wading over the paddy fields, melting away behind the coconut groves. Those not so lucky were grabbed by their collars and a DAMPHANA (the Odia term for thick needles used to sew jute sacks) sized needle was stabbed to their bottom with great force. They grimaced and screamed in pain, limping back to bus in full view of passengers peeping through the window. I was watching Wild Wild West enacted on the east coast of India.

Vaccinations virtually wiped out many communicable diseases like small pox and cholera which used to wipe out families in entirety. Half of my father's siblings died early of preventable diseases. My grandfather used to tell scary stories about how life then was a matter of surviving next spring (pox season) or late summer (cholera season).

During the epidemics the entire village use to shut down after dark. As soon as twilight sets in the villagers liberally filled huge earthen pots outside with PITHA (cakes made from rice and grams), PANAA (a sweetened puree made from yogurt and fruits like Banana and Stone Apples or BEL) for the consumption of BADI THAKURANI (the Goddess of Cholera) or Maa SITHALA(The Goddess of Pox). 

Job done, they rushed back home never daring to venture outside till dawn lest they earn the wrath of the Goddesses. Not sure how far the Goddesses were appeased but the stray dogs of the village had a field day. They put on a lot of weight and seemed healthier and happier than their human counterparts.

COVID-19 is bad, but not as bad as cholera or small pox. Vaccinations in spite of side effects, had its effects. It saved lives after generations when Cholera, not condoms controlled population. Hope the upcoming COVID-19 vaccine becomes of a new era, a post Coronavirus age of normalcy.

RIP Paolo Rossi

 This Italian will forever be remembered as the star of the 1982 World Cup Soccer who dashed the dream of the Brazil's dream team who was the favorite to win the Cup. The scorer of 6 goals in that World Cup, including his hat trick in the crucial game against Brazil which sealed the fate of the South American Samba team.

The Brazil's soccer team that year managed by the legendary Tele Santana who believed attack is the best method of defense. The star studded Brazilian team with the likes of Zico, Socrates, Falcao breezed into the quarters. The legendary Pele boasted "Playing like this we are going to win the Cup". 

That year, the number of nations qualifying for the World Cup was increased from 16 to 24. Quarterfinals was held in a league format with Argentina (with a promising 21 year old Maradona in their side), Brazil and Italy clubbed together in one group, with one team to qualify for the semifinals. It was dubbed as the group of death. Italy barely qualified to the Quarterfinals, finding itself in a group of previous World Cup Champions and the tournament's favorite team Brazil.

The Samba team defeated Argentina 3-1, Italy defeated Argentina 2-1. Brazil just needed a draw to qualify for the Semifinals and in full form, it seemed to be an easy task for the team.

But Paolo Rossi crashed the Brazilian dream with a hat trick as Italy narrowly won the match 3-2 and later went on to win the Cup. Clearly the marauding Brazilians let their defense down while focusing too much on blitzkrieg and paid the price. Believing too much on attack, the Brazilians left loopholes in their defense for Rossi to capitalize.

Rossi didn't stop there. He netted 2 goals against Poland in Semifinal and it final against Germany netted one more to take their team to an improbable win. He was Italy's national hero overnight.

As a 13 year old I remember following the matches on BBC Radio. There was no TV in Bhubaneswar at that time. Being a fan of Brazil, I was sad too. Many died of heart attack in Brazil and a few committed suicide due to this unexpected loss. 

And today's shocking loss was Paolo Rossi at the age of 64. December turning out to be a bad year for Soccer stars, as Brazil's Socrates the maverick player and a star of 1982 World Cup too died in the month of December. RIP, Paolo Rossi. You will be remembered as synonymous to the Azzuri's (Italian Soccer team) 1982 World Cup win.

RIP Binayak Mohapatra

 I remember him from the year 1976 when I arrived in Bhubaneswar as a 7 year old as my father got transferred to BJB College. We never left Bhubaneswar ever since, nor my memories of him. He was one year senior to me in school and lived next door in BJB Flats - an array of newly constructed three storeyed government quarters next to Lewis Road.

As he was my senior in school and more familiar to the local milieu my mother put faith on him, requested him to guide me while crossing the crowded Lewis road which used to get busy with the Puri and the Secretariate bound traffic during the peak school hours. Bhubaneswar was a sleepy township of salaried government employees. The main roads were mostly empty except during the commute hours of the office goers.

We were next door neighbors. He took good care of me, always fed me the sweetest of Guavas and BARA KOLI (tiny sweet and sour berries) from their backyard. As he was a better built lad and a year senior to me, the bullying kids avoided me. It didn't take long for my schoolmates to accept me as one of their own once I scored good marks in exams and got rid of my typical accent of Bhadrak, the town where I spent five years of my early childhood, long enough to catch the local accent. My classmates in Bhubaneswar laughed at me when I pronounced KODIE CHORA (Twenty thieves) as KOODIE CHOORA, putting a "Na" after words, e.g. KHAICHU NA, JAICHU NA. He laughed too, counselled me to restrain myself and not to get reactive when someone poked fun at me. Soon I got over it and my ubiquitous BHADRAKIA accent.

He was a good organizer and had leadership qualities. We used to play cricket and a local version of basketball where you put a stack of broken bricks, throw a ball at it to dismantle it, then put them back together before someone hurls and hits you with the ball. I was at best average in sports, he was amongst the best to earn the "captain" tag and call the shots at team selection before any crucial match with our adjacent gully opponents.

We used to celebrate Saraswati Puja, Ganesh Puja, Holi and Diwali together. Once a few weeks before Diwali he came with a creative idea of his own. He brought a tin box and made a tiny slot on top of it. We were instructed to put coins inside and save them to buy firecrackers for Diwali. To keep it safe, following his advice we dug up the ground and buried our safe box. On the morning of Diwali, we purchased fireworks with the saved money. I was afraid of sound making TALA PHOTAKA (firecracker made from palm leaves) but he wasn't. He used to take pride in bursting them standing a few feet away.

He wasn't afraid of anyone, but his father, who was a thorough gentleman but a strict dad. Even if he would be batting (a cherished moment for gully cricketers), no sooner he heard the typical sound of Mausa (his father's) Bajaj Chetak, than he threw his bat away and ran towards home. It's always a desperate race against time to sneak through backdoor. 

Mausa usually took his time to take off the helmet, elongate the folded stand of the scooter using his hind leg, park and lock it before turning the handle couple of times ensure that the lock is secured. That provides his son precious little time to be at his study table, pretending to be studying.

And studied he well. After completing his Intermediate Science he studied Engineering and came to USA 🇺🇸 to do further studies. Like the overwhelming majority of us who came to America not to return back, he made a choice to settle down here and had been living in Phoenix, Arizona for no less than a decade. 

Last Wednesday (December 2) morning he passed away, apparently from a massive cardiac arrest, leaving his wife and his 9 year old behind. Only 52, he had a long road ahead. The news was stunning beyond my belief as I felt something snapping inside me. When I heard his 9 year old son saying - "Don't you worry. I am a strong boy", drops of tears fogged my vision. BINAYAK (Bapi) MOHAPATRA, stay in peace in heaven, where you rightly belong. Om Shanti.