Long live the king. Saying goodbye to Henry

Every time over the past decade, whenever someone asked me why I supported Arsenal, I always mumbled about good sportsmanship, Arsene Wenger and beautiful game-play. Eventually if you prodded a bit more, I would admit that yes, I started out as a Thierry Henry fan.

Thierry Henry isn't just a player for most Arsenal fans. Everyone else knows him as the demi-god who scored 228 goals during his time at Arsenal. But he is more than just his stats for us. He was our hope. He gave us our greatest highs and he broke our hearts (and he would later admit his own as well) when he left.

But he never left us. He just played for other clubs. But he always only belonged to us. We weren't just Arsenal. We are Arsenal that Thierry Henry once called his home. We are the Arsenal where Thierry Henry scored his unbelievable volley against Man Utd in 2000 cinching us the victory. We are the Arsenal, when in 2004, he ensured we never lost.

And even after he left the club, he stayed on as our mascot. As our good luck charm. Fans of other clubs could call us "Boring old Arsenal". They joke that our manager equates finishing top 4 in Premier League is same as winning as the trophy. They can poke fun of the fact, our trophy cabinet has been a bit empty in the past decade (it hasn't. We won the FA Cup and it matters!). But they can never ever take Thierry Henry away from us. They can never tell us that he only played for us because he was under contract and there was never really any love. They can never tell us that for him it was just a job the way it was for so many of our other players who left the club and joined our rivals.

Thierry Henry loved us. Loves us. He left his heart behind at Arsenal and kept coming back because he could never close his chapter on us. He came back in 2012 and scored an amazing comeback goal against Leeds and left us all in a puddle of tears. He stood next to his statue at Emirates and choked up as he heard the crowd chanting his name.

Passion. Dedication. Loyalty. Love. People don't equate football with these words anymore. But it exists. It matters. Thierry Henry is living proof of that.

Now we shall wait patiently until he comes back to the club he loves. Because this club is his home. And we will always be waiting for him. 

The marathon is about the city...not just the runners

Marathons matter. They aren't just about world records and Kenyan runners running faster than supercars (although let's face it, it's inspiring to watch elites scorch the roads). For the most part, they are expressions of how ordinary people  push towards something that they would have never thought possible. Folk who have battled severe illness, or taken up running to stay healthy or even because they wanted to do something with their lives to somehow matter. Folk like me. We never win the big races but we work hard to do the best that we can. We don't get the glory but we are part of the bigger community that's willing to push itself beyond the possible. We love torturing ourselves for the sake of elusive PBs. Our toenails fall off...our feet blister. We sweat. We bleed. And it's all worth it on race day.

I cried while running the Standard Chartered Mumbai Marathon. Am embarrassed to admit it but I couldn't help myself. I reached the 8k mark and looked at the masses that had gathered to cheer me along. I choked up. I was overwhelmed. And this little kid who could not have been more than 7 years old screamed - keep running didi! And for a few moments, my sweat was mingled with tears. This kid was cheering me along. Little me who kills herself to be just an average runner. Who might never win any big races. To whom glory means an extra slice of pizza. Mumbaikars really wanted us runners to feel special. They made me feel special.They were proud of their city. They were proud of the thousands who showed up to run. They wanted to make sure every one of us had the best experience of our lives. And honestly, most of us did.

Yesterday I ran a race that I had been looking forward to months - the Bengaluru Marathon. It's my race. I started running in this city. It's my home. And it was a great privilege for me to run here. I wanted to be part of the city's history. However one thing I didn't count on was people who were stuck in traffic actually trying to harm the runners.

The traffic police was at every turn trying to ensure the roads were safe and free for marathoners but motorists became hooligans and were yelling at the cops. We could hear them yelling. We could hear them shouting. We heard the abuses. And we also saw them blatantly break the rules, push past the cops and start riding the streets where runners were running. They were honking their horns and pushing us out of our own roads as the cops helplessly tried to do their best. Runners then had to take it upon themselves to ensure their own safety and the safety of others who were running as well.

Am sure there are lessons to be learnt for the organisers, the cops and the runners too. But there are bigger lessons to be learnt for the city itself. We are part of this city. This is our run. This is our pride. We should want runners to go back to their cities and feel jealous of us. We should want every runner to have done their best.  Our goal shouldn't be to run them over but to carry them to the finish line. Ordinary people coming together to become part of something extraordinary.

Of course I want to thank all those who did come out to the streets to cheer us along the way. The kid who was gleefully giving high-fives to hundreds of runners who went past him. The uncle who doubled back during his own race to give me oranges because I looked like I was going to pass out. My friend who wouldn't leave my side as I struggled through illness during the race. The army men who applauded us. The volunteers who ensured the aid stations were perfectly packed. And of course the thousands of runners who joined me to run their bests.

Marathons matter. Not just for the elites who run so fast and hard that they are no more than a blur whizzing past us mere mortals. But for the runners who beat odds to just show up for race day. And they should matter to the city too. 

30 questions for the world

I am going to embark on a new project. A quest or a journey if you will. Anyone who has been remotely following this blog and who knows me in real life knows that I don't have the answers. I don't pretend to have the answers. In fact I probably would not know the answer if it danced naked in front of me wearing Dobby's tea cozy (Harry Potter fans will get that reference).

So, I am going to ask everyone else questions to life's biggest mysteries (why is Kim Kardashian famous?). So, basically, over the next few weeks or months, I plan on hounding the people in my life...the people I barely know and the people I have just met, a set of 30 questions. Consider them rapidfire questions filled with irreverent moments. I shall blog about it right after with their answers. The whole concept behind this conceit is that you can learn a lot about life and purpose to living if you were willing to listen to what someone else has to say (even if it is their take on Kim Kardashian's fame and her wedding to husband number 3). My only goal is to learn from the other human being and hopefully someone else learns from them as well. One day I hope to collate them all and see if there is any structure to living life...if there is a specific goal to it. And really what does 42 really mean? (This time I am going for Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy). The questions will range from something as simple as someone's favourite colour and could get as personal as their favourite memory.

Anyway, I am very excited about this moment in my life and the possibilities I am opening myself to just by being willing to listen.

P.S: If anyone of you is willing to let me pose 30 quick questions, do drop me a line on Twitter or Facebook. The farther I reach, the better it is for me. (Really I would love it if someone came forth willingly to give me their take on life).

P.P.S: I might fall flat on my face while attempting to do this...but I hope I don't. I am quite excited at this prospect.

That child in Gaza...

You can see smoke rising from the world around you. From buildings. From roads. From schools. Your playground. From the bodies of your best friends. Best friends who held your hand two weeks ago. Best friends who sang along with you, who laughed along with you.

Your dolls have been left behind in your house as your parents bundled your whole life into a few blankets and forced you to leave your home behind. You don't understand why your strong father seems to look so small and broken these days. Your mother hasn't stopped crying in 10 days. You haven't seen your sister in a while. She is nowhere to be found. Is she playing hide and seek with you? Every time you ask your mother where you sister is, your mother starts weeping all over again.

Nothing seems to make sense anymore. Who are those funny men in funny hats who walk around with plastic guns? They point and shoot at someone and they die. What do they want? Why do they point at people and kill them? What are these noises? These bangs and explosions that follow you through the night? The noises that make your parents huddle together in fear?

You saw the TV the other day. A pretty woman with golden hair was talking to an old man. You didn't understand what they were saying but you pick up one word - war. You turn to your father.

"What is war papa?"

"This is not war. This is murder. They are driving us out of our homes. They are killing us. They are destroying us and they call it war. This is not war."

"But who started it? Did I? Did I do something wrong?"

"You didn't start any war. Long before any of us even lived, old men decided they would fight over land and dust. They decided that people's lives was worth nothing to them. They decided to make weapons to extinguish humanity. Long before you were even born, these men decided that they would kill you."

Your father starts to cry. You hug him. You don't understand what he's trying to tell you.

He suddenly sits up pushing you accidentally to the floor. He tells you to grab your mother. It's time to go, he says. They're coming.

He scoops you up and runs over to your mother. It's time to go, he says. They're here.

The explosions begin again. You see the funny men in funny hats. They are pointing at people.

It's time to go, your father says. They're here.

I won't blame the government...we rape women

A six year old child gets raped by her teacher in Bangalore. It shouldn't surprise me anymore and it doesn't. I am just heartbroken trying to make sense of humanity. In the meantime, social media gets set on fire. Everyone is calling for justice. Everyone wants the culprits imprisoned. Everyone is blaming the government for letting such crimes go rampant in the country.

I don't. I want to blame the cold, inhuman entity called the government. The entity that doesn't have a human face. It's the government's fault that so many girls are attacked and raped. So simple. I wish I could do that. But I know the government is no more than a bad handler of an animal that has already gone rabid. I can't blame the government for what keeps happening because I genuinely think the government can't do much at this point, except have their representatives spout some nonsense about justice and bringing safety and slink away once the controversy dies (of course it does not help that our political parties are filled with men who believe eating chicken and fish leads to rape).

I however blame myself. I blame my society. I blame the world I live in. I remember during my first semester in college in Chennai, these boys from this particularly disgusting college would board the bus I would travel in (a lot of MOP girls travelled in that bus). Every time a girl would enter, they would sing lewd songs. Every time a girl would move, they would sing lewd songs. They would catcall. They would "eve tease". I complained to the bus conductor, who shrugged and told me to get off the bus if it bothered me so much. Of course being the person that I am, I created a ruckus, fought and called the police too. But the general consensus in that bus was that I was the problem. These were "boys being boys" and I was being difficult.

Since a very young age, I realised how important it was to protect myself. In Calcutta, I was told to hold my mom's hand at all times because during Durga Pooja, men were abducting little girls (of course I was very tiny, so my parents had to hold onto me even tighter). I would see beautiful prostitutes lined outside Kalighat temple and men leering at them. In Chennai, it's considered a "fun game" for men riding bikes to shout at poor girls walking down the street. You squeal  in fear and they would get a kick off it. Sometimes they would hit you as they passed you by. You are filled with absolute humiliation at that moment even though it really isn't your fault at all. Oh and in Chennai, if you ever travelled by bus, then at some point a man would have come from behind, pressed himself against you and pinched your waist really hard. In fact, I was left with a mark that lasted me a month. Painful. And yes. Humiliating.

In Bangalore, I have faced a different sort of problem - the kind female runners face. Of course there is the usual level of catcalling and grazing your thigh when you are sitting in the bus (at this point I have stopped travelling by buses. I earn money and I no longer want to subject myself to disgusting men who get the kick out of touching a strange girl's thighs). But as a runner, I face a whole different problem - men think it's an open invitation to harass anyone who is a woman who dared enough to run in public.

A friend of mine and I ran the Nandi Hills recently. On our way up, every 5th man either blew us a kiss as he went by, or made an inappropriate comment or even tried to take our picture (I went and fought with that man because the last thing I want is my picture to land up in a strange website). We learnt to keep to ourselves, avoid eye contact and keep chugging along. But it was frustrating. I was personally relieved when I reached downhill. It didn't matter that I was strong enough to run up and down a hill, I was a woman, thus I had to be objectified. I wish the incident at Nandi Hills was the only one of its kind but it's not. I have learnt to run in groups just to feel safe again. And if I run alone, then I have a tried and tested route (that I have briefed my parents on) and even then I have faced problems.

All this brings me to the question I posed at the beginning of this rant - do I blame the government? During the now infamous Delhi rape media circus, everyone blamed the Congress. I don't know if they will blame BJP now. But I don't. I blame us. The society. Tamil films nearly glorify that idea of stalking a woman till she finally relents. A film called 7G Rainbow Colony is about how one man molests and stalks and makes a girl uncomfortable until she falls in love with him. How is that normal? Why isn't that girl calling the police? Why do these films glorify the stalker?

And then there are the item numbers. Munni Badnam Hui, darling tere liye. The woman in those movies strictly exists to please the eyes of the men who bites their lips as she sways her hips. The woman is now "commodified".

But I refuse to blame just movies and songs and the media, the blame for what's happening should be shouldered by the entire society. Girls growing up are told to keep themselves safe. They can't wear certain clothes because that "might attract attention". You should be careful, you are told. Don't get too close with boys because boys will be boys, you are told. Be modest. Don't wear makeup. Don't wear short skirts. Don't smile too much in public. Keep yourself guarded. Carry a pepper spray. Make sure you know how to use your keys for protection. Carry a rape whistle. Don't go out alone at night. Don't run at night. Just don't leave the house. Build a fortress and die there. At least you will be safe.

But what are we telling our sons? Are we raising them to believe that men and women are equal? Are we telling them to be careful? To not touch or hoot or catcall a girl when she is out? Do we teach them not to treat women as inhuman pieces of meat that need to be devoured? Do we teach them that women are human beings too?

I don't think even the most sympathetic of men can understand what it's like to be inside a woman's body. The fear that comes from looking like a woman. The fear of moving shadows at night while walking alone down the street. The fear of getting raped not just by strangers but by anyone.

Can the government teach a man that women should not be raped? That women aren't a hunt? What can the government do? No. Unfortunately try as hard as I can, I don't blame the government. I blame us.

To be truly miserable over football...

I remember 2002 very distinctly. I was clutching a purple coloured pillow that I had nicknamed Germany and staring intently at the screen. The final whistle blew and Germany had lost the finals. The remote control I clutched with my other hand flew across the room, hit the nearest window and shattered the glass. To this day I wish I had thrown my pillow in anger. Because what followed was my mother yelling at me and disconnecting our cable connection for two months. But that didn't hurt. Germany had lost in football. Here's the kicker...I have never ever been to Germany but I have rooted for this team to win for over 16 years now.

Football has been part of most of my life now. I watch a lot of sports. I am your typical tomboy (who loves unicorns and pink) and I love competition. Tennis. Cricket (lots and lots of cricket). Chess. And of course...football. But football is not just a sport for me. It's a way of life. And when you are a football fan, you just have to accept some indomitable facts:

1) You WILL be miserable most of the time. It does not matter if you support a consistent team like Barcelona (I will keep digressing to league football, so just go with me on this rambling session) or a team like Arsenal that shows a lot of promise only to never win for many years when it matters (but hey we finally won the FA Cup!). You will be miserable. Not just for the 90 odd minutes when the game is played. But during the week, when you will sit and worry about injuries, transfer drama and future fixtures that could make you miserable. Oh and your Fantasy League team almost never performs and you are miserable about that too.

2) Your personal life will sometimes revolve around the big games. That friend of yours who is getting married? Well, what if it's the same day as the Arsenal-Man City game? You miss the wedding coming up with a bad excuse ("I have so much work dude!"), and you spend the evening watching Arsenal get pummeled by Man City. Which of course means you are miserable again. And you don't get free food to drown out your feelings either.

3) You will actually take pride in this misery. Sure, your team has not won anything in close to a decade. But you have been miserable for the team and suffered through pretty humiliating defeats. That means you are a "real fan". The more you suffer, the more you are accepted as a football fan. Newbies just aren't accepted in our fold. We are a frustrated lot. We don't like fresh fans with too much hope in their eyes. We are jaded and pissed and until you become that yourself, you're not a "real fan".

All this brings me back to the current day. I am a 26 year old exhausted football fan. I have not slept well since the World Cup has begun. I am currently training for my first full marathon and I don't like missing my training. I love to cycle AND I have a full time job. The current world cup is my Holy Grail of suffering. I am simply not having any fun. I am just tired and exhausted and unable to quit. Oh and the games have been so unexpected so far that I don't want to miss any of it. The vicious cycle continues. I just don't want to miss anything. I am eating badly. My whole body aches. I have stress breakouts and I zone out at times. For instance, today I forgot it was a Friday. I panicked en-route to work as I was dressed in casual clothes. When I did get to work, I realised I lost the keys to my work station. I know I had stowed them away in my bag but I don't quite recollect actually doing it. For all intents and purpose, I have lost my keys because of the world cup. And oh...England lost. I stayed up to watch Rooney celebrate his first ever World Cup goal and his team's millionth flop. I am truly miserable. But I can't quit.

Am sure there are a lot of football fans like me out there. Ones that realise that as you grow older, your body starts betraying you. You can't quite pull off all-nighters like you used to and missing sleep on consecutive days will lead to your losing your ATM card (I am so afraid of losing my ATM card that I have given it to my mother for safe keeping until I know I have my wits about myself).

So, what do we do? Do we miss out on moments that have for the better part of our lives defined us, so we could sleep just a little bit? I know what I was doing when Zinedane Zidane headbutted Materazzi (I was eating pizza and I spit most of it out the second it happened). I know what I was doing when Wayne Rooney got sent off after Ronaldo the cheat baited him (I was eating pizza and nearly spit it out in frustration). I know what I was doing when a team mate forced the then Arsenal captain Fabregas into wearing a Barcelona t-shirt after Spain won the world cup in 2010 (I was eating pizza and nearly spit it out in frustration).

But I don't know what I did yesterday. I think I ran. I know I ate a lot and I watched England lose to Uruguay. This world cup has been harsh and wonderful but I don't quite know what my future lies as a football fan. As the years roll by, I find myself oddly disassociating myself from that identity. I feel gutted when Arsenal loses, but I no longer sit and obsess over it for weeks torturing myself. And yeah, it sucks when Robin van Persie scores yet another wonder goal but I am not actively plotting his murder (ok I like to day dream about it every now and then but then who wouldn't want to murder RvP?). My failures and successes have nothing to do with the clubs and team I support. And yes, I am contemplating sleeping through some crucial games in the near future, so I can get some shut eye and be able to function a bit like a human being.

A friend of mine asked me recently why people followed football if it made them so miserable. It's because football stuns you with some amazingly euphoric moments. Also, people are willing to be miserable for football because they love it. I don't quite know any other sport where millions actively root to be miserable. But only true love can make you truly miserable. So, as I mull over whether or not I will continue to be a miserable grouchy football fan (it might be years and decades before I decide), I want to thank this beautiful game for turning me into a miserable grouchy football fan. It's been such a pleasure stressing over things I can't control.. And I want to especially thank Arsenal. I have spent more time being miserable and unhappy thanks this club than I have due to actual problems in my real life. It's obvious. I love you guys.

P.S I really hope Germany wins this year...and I promise not to break any more windows :) 

The secret life of winners

There is a difference champions and winners. Champions weather all odds to make it through to the day, winners on the other hand do everything in their power to win. There is a difference and I never felt it more than when I was reading The Secret Race: Inside the Hidden World of the Tour de France: Doping, Cover-ups, and Winning at All Costs by Tyler Hamilton and Daniel Coyle.

For months now the people around me have nudged me to read this book and I resisted. I had already made up my mind about Lance Armstrong and his "posse of dopers" and I couldn't care less about what one ex doper cyclist had to say in his defense. I have always hated it when those who have been disgraced from their fields sign six figure publication deals to tell their sides of the story. Cheats, I would mutter under my breath, square my shoulders with a sense of superiority and stalk off. There are good books to read, I would tell myself. But this book refused to let me go.

In a rather ironic twist, at a the time when I found myself incapacitated and bedridden due to a rather serious cycling accident, I was lost in a book that deliciously details the sketchy world of professional cycling where the real race happens in shady makeshift hospital rooms with immoral doctors and the stakes have nothing to do with a cycle.

The Secret Race is a no-holds barred look in a world where cyclists like Tyler Hamilton did everything they could to win...to sustain. So, if it meant taking drugs like EPO, testosterone, Cortisone and everything else under the sun, then that's what they did. Hell, even if it meant removing and adding blood to your system, then they would do it. They were all by-products of a corrupt system with each one trying to beat the other in the game before the race had even begun.

The book rarely falters into melodrama. Hamilton pauses in the beginning to talk about his childhood, his roots bur then immediately thrusts you into the world of professional cycling. He talks about pushing himself hard enough to taste blood every time he rode. Because cycling is one of the hardest and most competitive sports on the planet, you have no option but to push beyond your own capacity to even be mediocre.

But what happens when your best is not enough because everyone else is going faster than you are, pushing harder than you are but with far less effort? Cycling is among the sports where not doping is exception to the rule. Cyclists like Scott Merrier who refused drugs simply faded away because everyone around them was riding on supernatural strength and boosters. Men like Hamilton merely saw taking drugs (or Edgar as they affectionately called EPO) as a way to level the playing field. If everyone was amped up on drugs, wouldn't it mean that the person who wins among them all is the true winner?

I have thought long and hard about this argument. And I believe there is a tragic flaw in the logic. Drugs are tricky to say the least. Performance enhancers can have varied effects on the human physiology. So, the reaction my body might have to EPO might be different to what it did for Hamilton. I am not saying these men didn't have raw talent (how could they not, having made it to the top?) but many deserving winners might have been sidelined because EPO or any other drug didn't work for them. But here is the biggest problem I had. They were all liars. Drug users or not, they made money from making fools of the public that flocked to support them. Hamilton never talks at length about lying but when he does, he mumbles that the truth set him free. What he does not realise that both his lies and truth hurt a sport, its fans...everyone.

As I read the book, I was torn between being impressed with the competitive spirit these men displayed, their histrionics (Hamilton breaks his collarbone and kept at it) and being angry at the flippant way they seemed to treat the sport they professed to love. I could never shake a sense of dread prevalent throughout the book. While not explicit, the tone of the entire book is ominous. Mad cyclists, mad scientists, and mad doctors...ingredients to a horrific tale. Hamilton may not apologise but at least he does not defend his actions. He knows all of this is wrong. Period.

Enter Lance Armstrong. Tyler Hamilton has spent the majority of his life under the shadow of his enigmatic teammate and competitor. Unfortunately for him, he gets overshadowed by Armstrong even in his own book. Armstrong is a strange Machiavellian character. He battles cancer. He battles other cyclists. He battles death. His only motive is to win. It's not just to be better but be better than everyone else. His dogged determination is admirable. His 'never say die' attitude is laudable. His need to destroy everything and everyone is his path is despicable. Armstrong is not a hero, he may not be a villain either. He's just flawed. His personality and strength do not let him quit. He can't process losing and he is most definitely a meglomaniac. Even right now, he may be disgraced and dethroned and the world may have turned its back on his. But he still refuses to go away. He still has not apologised...

There is a difference between champions and winners. Winners win but mostly they are scared of failure. They are cowards. A champion does not always win. A champion takes on every challenge and a champion knows that the easy road might be tempting but the honest road is what makes life worth living. Lance Armstrong is a winner. He is not a champion.