In which I offer my uninformed opinion on why I support the Right to Education Act, and one of its more controversial provisions, the 25% reservation for disadvantaged students (or some version thereof). My own interest in this is born out of a hazily remembered past of going to a number of schools where homogeneity was the norm rather than an exception, and some thoughts that I have often had about this issue since.

Some particularly insightful person has probably already said this, but it certainly bears repetition - the safest position on any burning issue, particularly a social one, is the fence. Registering an opinion, a scarce-informed one at that, is but opening oneself up to criticism, venom and distasteful partisan behavior from all sides. That said, sometimes even the lucrative neutral seems an untenable position. Having got that off my chest, let me launch headlong into a haphazardly constructed defense of the Right to Education Act (RTE) and its 25% reservation provision, without too many claims to either informedness or objectivity.

Most of the grief being poured on the RTE has come in the form of opposition to this provision that would mandate the allocation of 25% of all admissions in schools -- public and private -- to disadvantaged students. There have been various arguments - ranging from the pragmatic "how will such a provision be enforced, and enforced uniformly", to the downright bizarre and distasteful stratification of schools - against it. Many other meditations question the government's motive in introducing this provision, and the Supreme Court's judgement (or lack thereof, dictated by the side of the fence that you inhabit) that includes unaided private schools in this mandate, yet excludes minority and boarding schools that fall within that category.

Here is my opinion with regard to the main stakeholders in this melee - I think students will learn, come what may. All schools come with their challenges, and every student faces her or his own set of trials even as academic progress is made over the years. The nature of these issues is varied -- some are academic, some others social -- yet kids from every generation have grappled with and overcome them. I don't think our children, forward thinking products of the "noughties" though they are, are particularly different from the students of any previous generation; and I do not believe for an instant the arguments that put forward gloomy scenarios of segregation in classrooms and a "stratification" of schools based on divisions of class (whether those be economic, social, communal). Furthermore, India and Indian society is certainly endowed with enough parents who are receptive (even radically so) to the transformative power of education, their other prejudices and standing in life notwithstanding. So no, unless parents and elders in the know set out to wilfully subvert this system, I don't see much going wrong in this particular aspect.

The big point that the shrill arguments miss is this: RTE is as much about access as it is about quality. Without quality education, and (unfortunately so) a piece of paper or a school seal to prove that quality, making education universally availably is near meaningless. I do not argue this without evidence -- in the state of Tamil Nadu, studies have shown that 99.5% of children have passed through school, yet the same studies go on to lament the poor state of preparedness with respect to standardized notions of achievement normalized for academic standing (the standard or grade in which the child is currently enrolled). Getting the kids to school is only the beginning of the solution, and a very small part at that, as Tamil Nadu has shown. So the hotly debated 25% is as much about ensuring that our kids stay in school, and learn something in that time, as it is about making space for them.

Many will argue that the better way to do this is to improve those schools that suffer in terms of quality, and to which the "disadvantaged" (defined by whatever metric the government chooses) have ready access. I do not disagree with them. That too will happen, but that is a utopian ideal too far removed from the reality of today and now. I think it is far better to push for some kind of implementation that mandates a set of rules which ensure some nuts and bolts realization of that ideal, even if it isn't exactly perfect out of the box. I see nothing wrong in using established resources and teaching aids that high quality schools have at their disposal and bringing such tools to those that would not (in the normal course of events)  have access to them. I think it is plain enough -- to anyone who is willing to think about it -- that if a PSBB or a Bombay Scottish or a DPS RK Puram has to turn away a few "advantaged" students because of this new rule, many more such high-quality institutions will necessarily open up and even flourish, following as these things do the forces of the free market.

No, I think we're shouting ourselves hoarse about a pseudo problem here. If you have some time and constructive suggestions to offer, here's a real quandary: what do we do about the rural disadvantaged? What does the RTE offer to those students -- a sizeable portion of this country still -- who do not live within reach of centers that will instantly offer them a better quality education? That, I think, is a much more worthwhile use of our collective energies.

This post appears originally in Rahmania, over here.

Anne says, rather succinctly, that “any music you grew up on is automatically the shiz”. Anne is right, and Anne is the reason I am up an hour past midnight this Monday hammering away at a keyboard.

First, a routine flashback – yes, much as I hate admitting it, “growing up” is only a phrase that I can use in relation to the past now; as in “when I was growing up”. So when I was growing up and in my teens, I had the great fortune of going to a school that didn’t think that kids ought to study all the time (in fact, from what I hear of the place, very few people there think kids ought to study at all now). As part of this high ideal, we were encouraged every week to put up all manners of skits and plays and song and dance routines for an entire class period – this was considered good training for the years of cultural festivals and social ingratiation that lay ahead.

And every single term – sometimes even once a month – we would behold the white-salwar-color-dupatta dance. If you’re smiling already, skip ahead. If you’re still reading, this would translate to a peppy dance number that involved three or more girls, all wearing brilliant white chudidars with equally stark and wildly colorful dupattas tied gracefully around their waists. Lots of twirling and carefully choreographed sequences; a thorough delight to watch.

And so to the point of this piece. The song that played in the background.

It was always, always, always Revival. Track 2 from AR Rahman’s Vande Mataram album, the song that lit a thousand lamps and launched countless cultural festivals. The words themselves were from Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay’s Anandamath, and carried with them more than a hundred years of history and the collective weight of the Indian freedom movement. And what sweet words they were – the translation apart, which Aurobindo Ghose claimed was as futile an effort as any other – the sweetness of the syllables and the wonderful adjectives, themselves giving rise to many a beautiful name.

But that isn’t nearly enough to make it a dance song, no. And thus the bass guitar is called upon to provide the tempo that only it can, and the first two verses are completely transformed. The energy, the delight – there are few passages in music as uplifting as that one minute when the first two verses of the song are repeated, and fewer still as powerful in conjuring up images of rhythm, progress and passion single-minded.

From that point on, the song is solely the composer’s, his to fill out with instruments and melody as he sees fit. Guitar joins percussion and humming in one lilting tune that conveys quietly and subtly the hold that the refrain has in the common consciousness. And then it is back to the saxophone, with its lilting and sometimes melancholic sound, to close the song out – a fitting finale for the stateliness and the majesty of the song.

Of one thing I will remain certain – Vande Mataram Revival has the finest orchestration of any song that AR Rahman ever conducted. And for me, it will hark back always to those days from the past when it was less a song, and more a celebration.

And if you really want to do this poor nostalgic fool a favor, please find for me (and link to) Bharatbala Productions’ original video that featured this song, and aired all over Indian TV in the late 90s.

This was something I wrote in response to a debate on the propriety of the Olympics accepting sponsorship from Dow Chemical. The original piece is here on CriticalTwenties.

On the issue of Dow Chemical’s (part) sponsorship of the London Olympics, Arghya has sent out a call for a debate focusing on the twin issues that have surrounded the Bhopal issue for years now: (i) the legal responsibilities of that company; and (ii) the moral compunctions and appropriateness of the Olympics partnering with such a corporation.

At the outset, let me clarify that I intend to talk about the first issue only fleetingly; mostly because I lack a legal background and the requisite training to hold forth on it, but also because V. Umakanth has addressed this issue in his response, here. I will write instead about the problems that I see in an enterprise like the Olympics partnering with a corporation of the nature of Dow Chemical. In this endeavor, I also hope to use some of my own experience working with coalitions like StudentsForBhopal and ICJB (and meeting some of the survivors of that night) to illustrate that this is an issue that has very real implications for very real people even today, nearly thirty years after the event, and that legalese is not the only aspect there is to it.

First, the facts. The London Olympics have entered into an undertaking with the corporate giant Dow Chemical to the tune of GBP 7 million – a sizeable amount by any reckoning. Perhaps more significantly, the Olympics have recognized Dow as an Olympic partner, and have legitimized to some extent Dow’s recent efforts at projecting itself as a sustainable corporate that has the larger interests of humanity at heart.

Would it that the story ended there. Dow Chemical is whole owner of Union Carbide Corporation (UCC), the company whose plant was responsible for the release of toxic Methyl Isocyanate (MIC) in Bhopal in December 1984, killing thousands and affecting tens of thousands more. At the time that Dow bought over UCC, the liabilities of that company with regard to the gas leak were clearly defined and known. Dow itself has had a checkered past; specifically in its championing of the pesticide Dursban, and more controversially in its role as supplier of the toxic dioxin Agent Orange to the United States Army for use on civilian populations in Vietnam.

Legal propriety is an issue, of course, and an important one at that. But if I can be forgiven for making sweeping statements, the entire legal profession exists in order to interpret (and sometimes obfuscate) the clear lines that the rule of law draws up in arbitrarily general circumstances; and to apply these interpretations to specific instances. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind, then, that Dow can find some of the finest legal minds to put forth their case in a manner that makes it both appealing and rational to those legal minds that hold with them the power of arbitration. On this count, it may be said that Dow and its infinite resources – given the fullness of time – stand a very good chance of coming out on the right side of things.

The concept of corporate responsibility, however, encompasses a field beyond the confines of mere legal implications. If it is Dow’s desire to project itself as a sustainable, humane and responsible organization, then there is an inherent requisite that it first confront the ethical correctness of its actions (or lack thereof). And that is an integrity that cannot be bought or manufactured in the short-term, but one that must be built on responsibility and demonstrated action. Dow’s conduct – now and in the past – has reeked of an ethical turpitude: be it bribing bureaucrats or getting rid of those that it cannot buy [2]; using double standards for different markets [1]; conducting toxin-based experiments on human subjects [3]; or just plain false advertising [4]. These are but some documented instances of falsehood and manipulation arising out of this one corporation, and they scarce evoke confidence that this sudden transfusion of money into the Olympics is anything more than a gimmick towards profiteering means.

There is of course a more important issue that lies beneath. Sheer admission of ethical, moral or legal guilt is not – and should not – be enough to absolve any entity of its responsibilities. It is easy enough to ask of victims and adjudicators that the past be forgotten; much harder is making a difference in the lives of those victims, and mitigating their suffering. As of most recent estimates, nearly 25,000 lives have been lost due to conditions related to direct exposure to the event, and five or six times that number of people are chronically ill. Many children born in the aftermath of the gas leak suffer from various growth problems, and the incidence of killer afflictions like cancer is only on the rise. The Sambhavna Trust, a charitable organization that has been involved in rehabilitation efforts since the gas leak, runs a clinic [6] that attends to the needs of the affected and runs on grants and donations. The clinic tries to step into the void left by the abrupt departure of the Government of India, as well as the unilateral abdication of responsibility by UCC and Dow Chemical. However, like most efforts that do not enjoy a dedicated corpus of funds towards a specific cause, the clinic is unable to cope with the sheer numbers of the affected and the nature of help that they need.

There is also the issue of human dignity – most of the survivors know where the blame lay for that fateful night, and they have felt its debilitating effect on their lives ever since. They have also seen the brazen ways in which first the government, and then the corporation that bought over the guilty party, have systematically gone about ignoring and sometimes actively impeding their voices of protest. Denied justice at various turns, they have had no answers to offer their children – some of them not yet in their teens – who grapple daily with deformities and disease and ask for simple explanations. They have an answer, the same one they have had for near on thirty years now – but is the world listening? The real tragedy of Bhopal is that the event lasted a single night, but the disaster continues to unfold, wreaking a crippling physical and emotional toll on the affected.

It is here that two things are of utmost importance. The first is to ensure that events like the Olympics – recognized as validators of excellence, humanity and fraternity the world over – offer absolutely no legitimacy to wrongdoers like Dow Chemical. The Olympics are a stage where thousands of athletes and hundreds of nations compete proud and hard for glory, all while understanding their responsibilities and the consequences of indulging in unethical or flat-out wrong actions. There is no bigger stage to espouse the values and ideals of humanity, and so also, there is no institution better suited to show up irresponsible corporations for the obligations that they shirk. And that brings us to a new question – should India take stronger action than just protesting the acceptance of Dow’s sponsorship? Should this include a possible boycott of the London Olympics if Dow remains on the list of sponsors? There has been a long history of the Olympics being used as a stage for protest, both political and otherwise; indeed, many of these “protests” have been thinly veiled projections of powerblocs’ aspirations on the international stage. There is surely no better stage to bring recognition to this issue. Naturally, there are more complex issues that surround this simplistic solution – including the fairness of such a boycott to athletes who structure their lives around these big ticket events – but those are for another article to cover.

The other, longer term issue to consider is the establishment of mores and rules to guide future action for business interests, not just in trade or legal terms, but also with respect to ethical and humanitarian concerns. Consumers can be great watchdogs to this effect, by demanding that the corporations that they put their money in take responsible action. In the case of Dow, though, such constraints are significantly harder to enforce; most of its consumers are corporate entities in their own right, rather than individual end users. As we agglomerate into an increasingly smaller world where resources are scarce and competition cut-throat, the establishment of these codes is essential (as Umakanth points out) to bridge the gap between legal liabilities, and the lesser addressed ethical questions that surround such issues – issues that affect the very lives of thousands.

References

[1] http://exacteditions.theecologist.org/exact/browse/307/308/5361/3/19/0/

[2] http://www.chicagotribune.com/health/chi-epa-official_02may02,0,6326158,full.story

[3] http://www.counterpunch.org/1999/06/15/germ-war-the-us-record/

[4] http://dursban-in-your-water.com/images/NY%20Attorneys%20PR%20dec15a_03.pdf

[5] http://www.bhopal.org/2012/03/letter-from-bhopal-survivors-organisations-to-the-ioc/

[6] http://www.bhopal.org/the-clinics/

On men and the idols we make out of them, I have a theory. Every fan's worship is destined to die, replaced by a reel of raw emotion that eventually exhausts itself, leaving an empty space behind -- a space forever marked and unyielding to re-use. The belief of most dies in one of two very different but equally painful ways; the slow inevitability of disbelief replaced by disillusion and then disgust, or the shock of sudden and epiphanous realization.

There is, however, a certitude that ends differently -- the faith of the few. These are the few that choose to put their affection, admiration, love and loyalty, in an idol that they know will never let them down. A man so true to himself first and foremost and to the cause that built him and brought him into our hearts, he feels able to choose his own terms even when walking away from it all.

And so it is with Rahul Dravid. Ever since that first test innings that ended before becoming a landmark, the story we have been told time and again has been that of spotlight denied. To the heroes of the classics as unrequited love, so fame and adulation to this man it seemed; one wholly deserving of it all, yet somehow always having to bask in reflected glories.

To that was added the story of the team man -- always one to put its higher interests before his own, and how it showed. Keeping wicket when the team was an all-rounder short; coming back to shore up a batting line-up that scarce needed him during a successful World Cup campaign on familiar turf; and even the captaincy, standing in the way of it being about the cult of the individual. Always the team, always the cause.

The fans were never the loudest, and never the majority. For people who claimed to be the faithful, we offered up woefully meagre blindness of reason and thumping of chests. And in this one case, the one that makes the rule rather than break it, it worked. More than any other thing, Rahul Dravid showed us that there is nothing wrong with being a model for generations. In a world that increasingly asserts itself through carefully cultivated attitudes and tantrums, he showed us that there is no shame to subscribing to the idea of decency and hard work. Flashy and precocious are good adjectives, but we do workmanlike and meticulous a disservice by using them as we do in this age. And his single greatest contribution was to convince some -- at least us believers -- that majority or minority, we were in the fraction that was right. A balanced fan may be an oxymoron; a thinking one is not.

I am thankful that for me, the personal memories will far outweigh all of these issues of thought that people far more experienced and much more talented will eventually discuss, write about and debate. The shy smile, the powerfut cut through the off side, the pull with the rolling wrists so the ball never stood a chance of any aerial movement; the stubble greying prematurely with the worries of yet another session to be played out in the mind as well as on the pitch; and most of all, that flick off the pads, the frame pivoted on tiptoe and the ball never leaving the carpet as it rushed towards the boundary.

They say no hero or idol is recognized in his time; but there is no mortality for the faith that rests in an idol who recognizes his own time.

Goodbye, Rahul Dravid.

It was the early 1970s. They’d just landed in Hyderabad, a sleepy city known for the Charminar and little else. Every year they’d had to move, like the calendar itself was encouraging them to “learn more languages, make more friends”. Even now they sat bored in a relative’s place. The school year had already started, taking with it the few kids that were always around to befriend, while dad was away finalizing arrangements for the move into the new place he’d found.

Dad came back with bad news. In the time that the move was being finalized and implemented, the house-owner had decided to rent it out to someone else for a much higher price. And so the limbo continued – here they were, stuck without friends and a school to go to, and no place to call their own, at least for the time being. A father who worked in the Department of Civil Aviation was quite the tale to tell at school, but there were drawbacks.

***

The paint industry was doing great, thanks in no x-small measure to a number of government backed ventures that were pumping money into the biggest center in Telangana. Yet even in these times of plenty, the family business was going steadily downhill. The increase in creditors was only dwarfed by the steady rise in the number of people that the household was supporting, now numbering well into the seventies.

A good portion of that sizeable group lived in the compound in Chikoti Gardens, a large wide open neighborhood in the leafy suburb of Begumpet. Within walking distance of both the rail track to Bombay and the little civilian airport, it was growing fast from its sleepy little origins.

Real estate prices were going up, of course – and in this Seethamma saw the opportunity that all the male folk, with their worrying and squandering and pride had failed to recognize. “We’re going to cut down the tree near the outhouse, make it a portion, and rent it out”, she said with that air of finality that decision-makers in big families are blessed with.

***

The summer vacation was his favorite time of the year. His cousins could finally make the long journey up to visit, and the neighborhood would be teeming with kids ready to play a game of cricket or even cycle up to the airport or Paradise just for fun. Even the dozens of kids that turned up to visit the owners’ family would sometimes join in for an impromptu game of hide and seek.

This summer, Srini had come to visit them from Sholinghur. Srini was a particular naughty kid, and there was never a dull moment with him around at home. So it was today as well – “Fast fast, come fast!” he heard from the room at the back. Probably another lizard, he thought to himself as he made his way there.

And there, across the big tree-lined courtyard, was a sight that he wouldn’t forget for the rest of his life. Lined up and all sitting shoulder-to-shoulder were kids that stretched the whole width of the compound, from front gate to the plantation at the back, waiting for lunch to be served serially to them. Forty two of them – they counted thrice – and all of them kids, not one a year older than eighteen. And even amongst those forty two, he could spot her at a distance. A remarkable summer indeed.

***

The bank job had come at a good time, especially given Radha’s marriage and father’s passing soon after that.  It had brought some stability to their family, suddenly halved in number, and allowed mother something else to worry about – something that she could actually do something about.

The move to Amritsar had been the only downside. He’d never really stayed that far north, though they’d moved around the entire country as kids. Having mother by the side made a big difference though – she was older now and less sure of herself, but she still knew how to run a household on a shoestring budget. In a couple of weeks, the neighbors were to be seen more often in their modest two-room portion than in their own houses, and he had met them not once.

***

He was mentally prepared to be turned away before they entered Delhi. Rumors about riots had been spreading like wildfire during the length of the train’s journey from Amritsar, and he kept his ears open for the worst, fully wanting to disbelieve all that he heard.

In retrospect, he should’ve seen this coming. The previous year – particularly in Amritsar – had pointed at these events as clearly as the holy waters surrounding the shrine the day the Army was ordered in. Even then they’d gone ahead, citing the lack of auspicious dates past November. And so it was that they rolled into an empty, almost deserted New Delhi railway station.

Whatever the rumors on the train had prepared him for, this was not it. He could see tires burning right outside the station compound, and smoke blackened the sky as far as the eye could see. All of Delhi seemed ablaze, and this railway station had somehow retained an artificial calm about it. None of the trains that left during the time they were there were crowded, no one trying to flee the conflagration that the capital had become.

And onward they went on board the train named for that famed road, on to the relative safety of Madras.

***

She’d had very little sleep over the past week. A thousand ceremonies seemed to each demand their own time, all leading up to that one moment where it all culminated. And each of the ceremonies seemed to require waking up at some ungodly hour, the sun yet to peep out from beyond the horizon.

The makeshift kitchen was operating in full swing, supervised by five very competent elders whose regular mundane lives underwent a transformation every time there was a big event in the family. They were expected to cook only for a few more people, but the associated excitement and responsibility made these times special.

Ramesh had come back early from school, just as affected by the air of excitement pervading the house as the elders. Everyone in class had been talking about the cyclone and how it was going to make landfall near Nellore, and cut off road and rail links between Andhra and Tamil Nadu.

Now he came across father and a couple of his uncles discussing, in muted tones, something to do with “depression” and “cancelled”. Out of the corner of his eye, he also spied the kitchen-folk peeling the potatoes for the upcoming feast. Years later, he’d blame both his age and the hunger at that moment.

“What if they don’t make it? Can we make bondas of the potatoes?!” And so the storm contained within broke fully on him. His uncles shouted him out of the room, the ladies gave him looks that vacillated between shock and reproach, and just for a single moment, she hated her youngest sibling with all her might.

***

I suppose I’m glad that they did meet and that things worked out, but I don’t like the fact that a new twist is mentioned to me every time I hear this story. Whatever else they are, they certainly aren’t bad storytellers, my parents.

Obviously, I’ve changed all the names here.

Earlier in 2011, I wrote about loss - why my loss was mine and no one else's. But all it takes is loss most personal to forget the big picture, forget logical arguments and all semblance of reason - and get down into an infinite loop composed only of memories.

Last week, I got news that my grandfather's elder brother had passed away.

I never got to see my own grandfather - he died relatively young, before his son (my father) got married and started a family. All I knew of him was taken from a framed picture at home, a few black and white photographs and the various stories that the older members of our extended family would indulge us in. Given that void, his brother was the closest I ever got to experiencing, for myself, the aura of strict, short-tempered authority that every story about my grandfather had.

Eldest in the family and patriarch to more than a half-dozen sons, daughters, nieces and nephews, everyone had a story to tell about him -- none uncharitable, and most tinged with that air of fear turned to amused reverence that time tends to bring. If his nephew's favorite story was the one about visiting for the holidays as a kid and being chastised for deviating from the set plan for the day, his daughter-in-law's would be the one where the family had only ever seen his eyes get moist on two occasions (a tale that was handed down, of course, by his wife before a post-lunch siesta).

My earliest memory of him is the association with Madras, and the house with all its strict rules -- shower before coffee, no coffee for the kids anyway, lunch before eleven in the morning, no TV for the kids, no gulping water during meals, and finally, bedtime by nine. Parents, aunts, uncles - when all these people followed the regimen with a mute acceptance, what chance did we kids stand? I even remember a New Years' Eve where the whole house was asleep by ten, and I lay awake till twelve, with just my new "light" watch for company.

But some of the second-hand memories - the ones handed down by older members of the family - stuck just as much as my own. And more than sticking with me, they struck a chord, a desire to have been a kid in my dad's time; the stories of hanging around with the steam beasts of the past at Arakkonam railway station, where he was Station Master, or the many summer trips and excursions that the cousins undertook. These were the things that I, the blessed kid of the golden 90s, was denied and given to vicariously living.

But some memories were mine alone to cherish. I remember his encouragement when I showed an interest in our family tree, and a desire to trace it back beyond the three generations that I was familiar with. It was something he had clearly spent considerable time on, but quite long back in the past. Thus came out yellowed papers full of family trees drawn in green ink, with names written neatly in a haphazard mix of Tamil, Telugu and English. A missing branch here, a late addition there ... And while examining all these documents, a momentous discovery - that the handwriting they'd all attributed to my dad and to my aunt came not just from there, but from this man; and that here was a tenable bond to the past that lay in my own hands too.

I remember that handwriting also as the harbinger of bad news; every death in the family was announced - albeit a bit late - by the arrival of a brown-yellow postcard, corners marked in black. As trunk calls and (much later) e-mail caught on, the postcards seemed more and more delayed; yet they would always arrive, whether to the next locality or to a continent halfway around the world. And with it would come that familiar handwriting, like the hand itself had been sent as support for those reading the card.

Except this time, there will be no card.

As I wrote this, I was reminded of a lovely little line from Choti Si Baat; Dharmendra, lamenting the various shortcomings of the English language, latches on to the one that gives India and Indians a basketload of grief each and every time - the lack of specific terms to address various members of one's extended family. Yet slaves that we are to this common medium, we duly soldier on.

The bowl games that signal the end of the college football season are almost here. The end is nigh, and all I am left with are some memories, a few thoughts, and many hopes for the next year. A frustrating position because of its similarity to last year, and the year before that, and every other year I can care to remember.

But this year rankles particularly. This was supposed to be the year, the one which the Sun Devils - eternal also-rans and perpetual contenders - were going to make their own. A new championship was created, a favorable schedule beckoned, and it was all ours for the taking. The entire university bought into the athletic program's grand vision; new colors were unveiled and worn with much gusto.

The beginning of the season merely served as a catalyst that set all the hopes and aspirations from previous years into the solid cast of expectation. Then came the event of the season - beating Southern California on a packed night at home, in front of seventy thousand roaring faithful. Coming as it did eleven years after the last victory over that particular school, it was as sweet as any post-season would've been.

Which, in retrospect, is where the season should have ended. After a couple of easy wins (that were marked nonetheless by the jittery starts that became a hallmark of this season's offense), a tough trip to Autzen resulted in a heartbreaking loss to the Ducks. Still no season-breaker, and homecoming was salvaged with a home win over Colorado.

But the following week came the heartbreaking single point loss to a struggling UCLA at the Rose Bowl. And cliche though it may be, there was no looking back - or, in this case, up. The season and the program imploded, losing four straight to finish the season at a disappointing 6-6. "Four straight" - how much those words strategically hide. If the loss to UCLA was heartbreaking, then the one against Washington State was a shame. Even worse lay in store, though; a home loss to rivals that had barely got their own house in order followed, and the last game of the season was surrendered meekly to Cal. The defense's star player - Burfict, a man who had single-handedly taken on the mighty Trojans - was so completely broken that he refused to go back on the field after being benched for repeated on-field infractions.

So - a bad season. Another head coach fired, a record in tatters, and fans left wondering about which depths this team could possibly not plumb. It seemed like something had been salvaged of the post-season, with an invite to play the near-perfect Boise State Broncos in Las Vegas.

And that brings me to the lone point of this semi-diatribe: Boise State deserve better. More than that, Kellen Moore deserves better.

The Broncos first captured my imagination (and likely many others' too) with their distinct all-blue outfield, a brilliant sight against the electric blue of their kits and the dashing orange streaks. And the Broncos' football was dashing too. Starting 2006, they gave up just six games in all (three in 2007 alone), won two BCS bowls, and had the perfect season in 2009, going 14-0 en route to a Fiesta Bowl title. Somewhere in the mad rush of the 2011 season, Kellen Moore became the winningest quarterback - in the history of Division I NCAA football.

And Kellen Moore's last game will be played against a 6-6 team, one whose season crashed and burned worse than any asteroid or space shuttle ever has. Why? I've tried, and I don't know.

1. It is Boise State's fault that they were part of the WAC and the Mountain West, not traditionally among the elite conferences.

2. It is BSU's fault that they lost that one game on that one field goal.

3. It is Kellen Moore's fault that he stacked up all those numbers against teams that no one would vote for.

4. The universe hates Kellen Moore.

Be that as it may, this season isn't over yet. And I have one final rant to spit back out at the universe, college football, and most of all, the BCS.

You can go stuff it.

On December 22nd, I will be wearing maroon and gold, but I will be cheering for Kellen Moore. The result is immaterial to me, but the game must be remembered for him and him alone.

It should be said that supporting the underdog comes naturally to even the most competitive of us - almost a no-brainer, as it were. The challenge lies somewhere else entirely; in identifying that underdog.

And who better for that role than the guy who has a record so good, the world holds it up against him.

It was the highlight of the season.

The city was still under the watchful eye of a ubiquitous yet greatly diminished sun, with the monsoon clouds threatening each dusk and even making some evenings their own. The winter season had taken a firm root in the city's daily life, and each evening the crowd would set out, dignified in their silk sarees and crisp white veshtis. It was always the "crowd" - throng seemed an affront to its infinite dignity, yet congregation was too refined even for this crowd. The various sabhas had recorded a season that was remarkable in being most unremarkable, and contentment was the general order of things. It seemed that this season was destined to end on the ultimate high note, the grandest height - a mention in the secretary's annual report comparing it favorably to the one before it.

Yet there was something even better in the offing. The crowd that evening was impatient, restless,  and utterly unwilling to elevate itself to that elite pedestal of all-knowing indifference. Young men had woken up without their daily kapi fix, bleary-eyed and fingers hovering over the mouse, to book tatkal tickets for entire families that wanted to be a part of the special evening. Executives who had hobnobbed with the elite of Silicon Valley and Wall Street just a couple of days earlier had made the dash down via class upgrades and business lounges. The priestesses of high society were making their presence felt - staunchly supported by sons with hair-gel and daughters with salon appointments - but most notably aided by Kanchipuram and Usman Road.

And in the midst of all this, the artiste made his presence known. The man of the hour, the messenger of music himself - he had chosen this venue to unveil the object of all his efforts for the past two years. It had been rather a coup, the organizing committee chairman was heard telling all and sundry as a secret. Two of the other sabhas had fought tooth and nail for the great man's favors, and no one knew (for the chairman kept some secrets) why he had acquiesced this particular organization's request. But that was in the past, and since that fateful day they had left nary the proverbial stone unturned in order to publicise the upcoming event. Indeed, old-timers could be heard mumbling to other old-timers, kapi tumblers and an empty beach (in no specific order) the lament that 'the event' had taken on greater significance than the season itself.

But none of these weighed on the mind of the one with the voice. Or if they did, he gave them about as much notice as a school administration would to the scheduling of exams in a World Cup year. He had the audience, he had the stage - and now all that was left was to unleash the piece that he had so carefully nurtured. He was particularly proud of its intricacies, almost puzzle-like; how each note would lull the listener into a sense of false security, increasing their belief in its familiarity. And how a variation, subtle enough to be picked up only by an experienced handful, and considered a mistake even by that elite, would provide the perfect segue into an entirely unrelated realm. This web he wove, and so masterfully that he lost his own bearings in that sea of music. And then he opened his eyes, sure he would find not a single open eye in the mass before him to make contact with.

He was right. Every eye in the hall had turned itself to a little, unattended object. And even as he went through the motions, the years of training kicking in to back him up, he felt the rage build up as his creation, his masterpiece, lay ignored for a menial battery operated device. He should probably have shown more restraint, but as he wrote on his blog later, the mike was completely unsecured and the phone too close and he had a direct line of sight. At any rate, he missed by a good distance and hit one of the hair-gel kids instead.

And the phone, it continued its unabashed ringing. Why this kolaveri kolaveri kolaveri di.

If some of you felt something familiar tug at you while you read this, blame yourself not. This is my contemporary (albeit wholly unsatisfactory) nod to Saki's lovely short, The Chaplet.

Or why my loss is mine alone and no one else's.

In recent times, a most peculiar problem has presented itself. People are dying. Famous people. Now this is not to belittle in any manner the common man's nature of departing this world, nor to hold forth that famous people ought not to reach their expiry dates with the unseemly haste of some of us ordinary folk. The internet age has brought at least one reality uncomfortably closer to our daily lives - the passing of the personal celebrities; those with fame or following just enough to be idols, but without the resultant hype that follows a select few leaders, sportsmen and filmstars. No, I hold an altogether different concern - I address now the moral guardians of mourning.

We've all seen the type. You get the news of someone's passing, you're just about recovering from the shock, you gather your thoughts, you post your little tribute. And bam! There they are -

"Everyone's getting caught up in the hype of his death."

"No one remembered her when she was alive ... Sigh."

"Some people express grief so easily, I don't know what to say."

These people have trouble understanding sadness. My sadness. Which is mine alone. Let me tell you why.

When someone you admire departs this world, they take a part of your memories, a part of you with them. Loss does not have to be personal for it to be profound. The loss of a fragment of the past, however imagined or glorified post-facto that past may be, is still something to be mourned - for it is still something that belongs to you, is of you. The passing of most personal celebrities is this way. We remember them for the unrequited connection that we made with their work, their art, their talent, their personalities. And it is the purest form of mourning, for it is clouded neither by the baser everyday emotions nor with the painful memories of a life shared. And thus is born the romanticized tribute.

Of course, fate is not uniform in the distribution of her favors. Some, she takes early. And with those we feel not the connection to a glorious past, but the regret of the promising future that wasn't to be. It is a most terrible thing, the abrupt snatching away of youth, promise, life; all at once. With the death of that one entity also die a thousand dreams and the candle of optimism burns a tiny fraction dimmer still.

And then there are the retroactive losses. The ones that you didn't know about, the ones that the cruel world passed over. Those are the most silent, the hardest to deal with, for they are yours alone and no one's to share. One person's sadness and melancholy is no match for a world that has moved on. And as I write this, I know of no way to deal with it yet.

So the next time you try to judge someone's mourning, or mine, try to think of what they have lost. And realize that we all carry with us the baggage of those little things that are not ours to control, but inevitably ours to lose and mourn.