The Day on which Nothing Happened

The screeching ring of the intercom woke us up from our deep slumber. It was reception lady calling to remind us that 9-30 AM was the official check out time. “What time is it now?” queried Chinmay who had been the quickest to reach the receiver (well, it was not a great feat to beat two lazy bums who were more than happy to continue to snuggle in their respective beds). The receptionist had been overly optimistic and had given the reminder call just 5 minutes prior to the scheduled check-out time. We somehow managed to pack-up everything, got ourselves in reasonably presentable attire and proudly handed over the keys just about 35 min late. The train which was going to take us onwards to Gokarna was to arrive at Kudal station at around midnight and so we had entire day to kill in the hamlet of Tarkarli, without a roof on our head. Dumping our luggage at the reception (the reception lady was kind enough to allow us to do so. May be the hallowed CB-effect played a part), we proceeded to the open-air restaurant to grab a rather late breakfast.

As we were chomping on Omlettes and Upamas, I began with my favourite pass-time – IIMA bashing. Chinmay responded eagerly with a ‘bring it on’ expression; like the one you would find on the face of a heavy-weight boxer matched up against a feather-weight opponent. To my surprise, the placecommer chipped-in with his fair share of cribs as well. After about half an hour of finding faults with our esteemed college, one which we were supposed to be extremely fortunate to be a part of, we mutually decided to digress onto more productive topics. We shared our knowledge on everything from music, to list of ‘home-runners’, to origin and progression of religions. The placecommer, who was fidgeting around all the time, intermittently kept narrating to us the enormous virtues of the great land of Sikkim; with which he so obviously was awe-struck. This inspired both, Chinmay and I, to go ahead with some of our own travelogues. All throughout we were treated to the melodious symphony of the sound of waves, which were gently bringing in the morning tide. The enriching and enlightening discussions temporarily caused me to change my idol from Warren Buffett to Socrates. We sat and talked for so long that, by lunch time the only occasion on which any of us had left our breakfast table, was when I walked away to answer nature’s call. Chinmay never once got up from his chair and would have made a felicitous specimen for a Fevicol advert.

Post lunch, we decided to embark on the long, arduous walk towards the beach, which was not more than a hundred feet away. By this time, the tide had begun receding, exposing the magnificent, light grey beach sand. Once on the beach, we gave our over-stressed jaws a break and spent most of the next 2-3 hours in complete silence. As Chinmay deserted us and ventured along on a lonely, romantic walk; the placecommer and I discovered a delightful and fun-filled hobby. We decided to walk-in with the tide, taking small steps forward; all the time ensuring that we just averted our feet being wetted by the incoming waves. In a matter of half an hour or so, we had managed to traverse a distance of a whole ten yards; reaching the conclusion that the speed of receding tide was about 20 yards/hour. As the afternoon sun shimmered through the predominantly overcast sky, the placecommer resorted to his narcissistic habit of clicking his own photographs. So I trudged along the pristine beach, occasionally crouching to pick up a couple of colourful seashells.

Soon it was time for me to leave for my native place of Walaval, a small village about 35kms from Tarkarli. As I waited at the entrance of the MTDC beach resort for some mode of transport to take me to Malwan, a fisherman’s van whizzed past and I wondered if I should have summoned it for a lift. As luck would have it, just minutes later I found a good Samaritan in the form of a jeep driver who offered to drop me to the Malwan bus stand, from where I boarded a state transport bus for Walaval. As I was feasting on some sumptuous fried fish in our traditional, family villa; Chinmay and the placecommer (this they later told me) were sipping on their caramel-flavoured army drink, looking into moonlight sky. Later that night, as this uneventful day drew to a close, we converged at Kudal station, wondering whether the next 2 days in Gokarna were going to turn out to be as wonderful as our stay in Tarkarli. And as I end this note, I am left wondering as to how I needed more than eight hundred words to jot down the litany of events that took place on the day on which nothing really happened.

We get knocked down, but we get up again

Back in August 2006, I made an audacious retort to a Liverpool fan friend of mine who kept mocking me with the 18-5 to 15-2 argument. As much as I didn’t believe in it myself, I dared to counter him by claiming that it would be 18-5 a piece in 3 years time. Guess what? What might have then seemed like a fool-hardy jibe from an over-zealous, arrogant United fan was a draw and 2 wins away from becoming a reality by May 2009.

The summer that followed was anything but depressing. We lost our best player to the sunshine of the Iberian Peninsula and were left licking our wounds in the bitter battle for an Argentinean with our formerly poor, recently turned wealthy, neighbours. The signings of a 24 year old Ecuadorian and a crocked Scouser did little to restore the damaged confidence and more importantly pride. However, no matter what happens over the next two months, the season has transpired into a truly memorable one already, for more reasons than one.

After losing players who combined to score almost a century of goals over the last 2 seasons, United as a team have still managed to hit the back of the net more number of times than at the same stages in each of those seasons. In a year, in which any hope of winning silverware rested on our hallowed defence, we have had to play large portions of it without the 3 sturdy pillars of that back five. Yet as we enter April, United are very much in the hunt for the two biggest prizes in English football. In spite of these remarkable achievements, what has been most heartening is the unprecedented support received by the campaign to win back the club from the American owners and free it from the gigantic debt thrust upon it by them.

Well, rising from the ashes of the Phoenix has always been the ethos of the club. It’s hardly ever been personified as much, as by our reactions to two of the most humbling defeats of this past decade – both 3-0 reverses away from home; against Chelsea in April 2006 and against Milan in April 2007. Sir Alex has always emphasized on bouncing back from losses rather than trying hard to avoid each one of them. I mean no offence to the 2004 Arsenal invincibles, but I am sure any football fan would prefer winning a hat-trick of league titles to going a season with a big nought in the losses column followed by 5 with bigger noughts in the trophies column. Rooney, Ronaldo and co were taught a harsh lesson by the ruthlessly efficient Chelsea juggernaut heading towards its 2nd title on that spring evening in London. I grudgingly accept that it was like watching boys against men. But the kids did grow up very fast to win the next three on the bounce. Same was the case in Milan on the most painful of the rainy European nights. The team responded by going 25 games unbeaten in continental competition, adding one more giant trophy and reaching another final. And as much as the defeat in Rome still hurts, there is one thing that following United over the past decade has taught me, that is “To B.E.L.I.E.V.E”

Manchester United never make it easy to support them. I am sure there are more cases of hyper-tension and chewed off nails in the borough of Trafford than anywhere in England. We don’t end seasons unbeaten nor do we win titles by garnering 95 points and conceding just 15 goals. Supporting United has always been a roller-coaster ride, full of brave, miraculous comebacks interspersed with heart-wrenching defeats but that adds to the fun of it all. And luckily for me and other fellow Mancs, unlike the ones in amusement parks, this roller-coaster more often than not finishes at the very top!