The Tinshemeths

(This piece is about the Annual Theater Fest 2007 of our college and hostel)

One has heard of Mossad-yeah Mossad and not Mozart. It is the Israeli secret service that trains even CIA. Smallest in terms of numbers, its members are virtuosos in the craft of stealth and espionage. There is virtually no lock they cannot break, no code they cannot crack and no ruffian they cannot tackle. In pertinence here, there is no role they cannot don. Their agents are known to have donned a gamut of garbs ranging from a New York executive to a Bedouin nomad. Thus it comes as no surprise that one of the pre-requisites to qualify as a star mossad agent requires –Histrionics (the skill of dramatics). The Israeli have a term for it – TINSHEMETHS (Hebrew for Chameleon). General knowledge suggests that the chameleon can assume any hue to match its environs. History suggests that the mossad tinshemeths have acted varied roles with panache. So when the actors of the institute faced a gauntlet as Inter-House Drama competition they switched to the ‘tinshemeth’ mode just as fishes take to water.

‘The Rising’ and ‘The Last Hour of a Prisoner awaiting execution’ were the themes that the UG and PG houses were confronted with. UG house D commenced the proceedings with a plot in alignment with the theme. The Rising here was symbolic of a ‘good-evil’ tug of war where the resident piety scores over depravity. A village under a perpetual gloom receives the benediction of light. Siddhanth, Swagath and TUS hogged the lime light. UG House C’s act seemed to be propelled by the wisdom of veterans as well as a Girish Karnad play. A prisoner’s life hangs in the balance with a lifeline of an overnight tale. If the tale wins the sympathy of the king’s sympathy, the prisoner secures his release. Else, the morrow could usher sepulchral sorrow. The Rising here connotes the morrow’s sunrise coupled with a beautiful hidden meaning about the true Rising within man by means of sacrifice in perfect harmony and in sync with Vedas. Natesh, Anmol, Chandan along with the supporting cast (especially, the playwright !!!!!) put up a stellar show.

PG house A began with a ‘bang’ (literally & figuratively). Fear trudged in fearlessly triggering ‘phobophobia’ in the school kids among the audience. Mr. Malhotra’s metamorphosis from a super cop to a living corpse under fear’s grip was ‘point-blank’ thrilling and had a strong flavour of the flick ‘Phone Booth’. Ignorance in the cop, fear employs to execute the prisoner. Divij was a class act with Saptarishi enlivening and Giri at his menacing best. Hitting a chrono-reverse gear can be highly tricky issue to portray. PG House B strove to drive us back to early 1950’s to a ghetto housing two prisoners awaiting execution via electric chair. The electric chair, connoisseurs will recall, was used to telling effect in the all time classic play ‘The Other Side’. Time en-familie with death, fear and attachment pull strings at will to trouble Dimitrov who is already tormented beyond measure by the gloom of his impending death. Add to that two merciless cops and poor Dimitrov’s hell gets defined. Using death as an escapade to mortal suffering was a downright winner. Jaideep’s protean performance, Chetan’s antics, Dinesh’s finality, Hemanth’s ice and Shyam’s svelte at once enthralled and entertained. Last heard, Mossad is said to have amended their recruiting policy with the insertion of a special clause- get these tinshemeths before Hollywood gets them. The price – Oops! The Oscars!!!

MUNDU MASTI

Ahoy!!! G.A.M.E welcomes one and all to the opening of yet another eventful and exciting academic year, though what we would try to assay is to bring out the extracurricular frolic and fun that would waft around in the air all the time. For the record, G.A.M.E is a “wall magazine” or rather in more elegant terms the “PRESS” of the hostel which dishes out reports, reviews, analysis, score updates, interviews and much more, garnished with the expertise of many a connoisseur (read veterans) blended with the valuable viewpoints of the keen observer. So get ready and embrace yourself for the excitement that would sweep you away. IN THE WORDS OF THE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY ZEUS TO THE OLYMPIANS “MAY THE GAMES BEGIN…”

Humanity invariably embraces Utopia when the sporting demigods get to the face each other in their respective arenas. A Paki fan, forgetting racialism and holding to his bosom the Tricolour and the Indian holding the Green and Crecent flag with shrieks of fanaticism thankfully absent - that’s Utopia, courtesy sports. But when a game concludes, both the parties may end up with a little cascade having ocular origins tracing “cheeky” paths – one cascade tasting nectarine, the sweetness of triumph, the other tasting saline- the bitterness of defeat. Only one hopes that this Utopian concept will chisel itself to perfection and the world can be more “sportious” than “spurious” not just on and off the field but at every geographical node.

Life is a game, play it. Well, that’s a downright winner. How about this—“a game embracing the stature greater than life!!.” A game that has aroused zealotry into zenithous heights, a game that has spurred a religion in its own right. No prizes for the right guess!!! CRICKET !!!

Once an astute graduate of the game wrote, “By virtue of our nationality, all of us- you and me included- belong to this glorious religion called cricket. An anonymous traveler described cricket thus: A game played by 11 fools and watched by 11,000 fools!!! Not only is this far from truth but it is also statistically hopeless. For, other that 11 members of the fielding side, there are two batsmen in the middle. Add a by runner and the number is already 14 and with the likes of Bucknor and De Silva officiating on the ground, you can rest assured that the number on the ground is a time varying factor. 11, 000 is also an inaccurate description. Well, there are a lot more than just 11,000 who watch the game. To dilute the game of such magnitude with fallacious thinking to such meaningless apocryphal figures is to proclaims one’s ignorance.”

Well, that’s one true devotee of the game.

The tennis ball cricket tourney also connoted “MUNDU MASTI” is played as the season starter where all the eager enthusiasts of the game give their loyalties to their respective classes. It is an event which is much awaited and one of the primary contenders to the throne of exhilaration.

So, get ready and let us wait for the greatness to unfold and watch as the “cricketers” parade into the ground and eye the crown. For after the tournament which is designed on a knockout basis, it is only one team that can claim sovereignty over the The Throne and lay their hands on the invisible “Chalice Of Cricketing Excellence” and go down the annals of Prasanthi History as the “Mundu Champions” of 2006.

So gear up, we are ready for lift off !!!

Jogo bonito

Chefs masked in mortality

Are concocting a recipe for immortality

This much I know

It goes by the name-JOGO BONITO.”

Men are mortal. That’s a tautology, right. Immortality is limited to the keeps of the Gods up there, whose residences are lavish; what with, stars serving as LED’S, the moon for a night lamp, the sun for a floodlight, comets to supply the strobe effects and the occasional rainbow – a colorful garland hinting at heavenly festivities. If that’s a view you have subscribed to, think again. Bid sayonara to logic and join the reception committee of serendipity. The recipe to immortality stands revealed, plain as black and white:

Throw in an innocuous little ball,

A pair of able feet

And a teaspoon of imagination

And bingo you have sporting nirvana. Have a sip, experience epiphany, enjoy apotheosis and feel immortal. I bet, you will explain-“Wah, Jogo Bonito (the beautiful game), wah soccer!!!”

Say hello to soccer. It’s the mantra that mortal ‘feet’ recite to perform immortal ‘feats’. It’s the master key that a pair of harmless ‘soles’ employ to unlock the emotions of a billion expectant ‘souls’. It’s the compass that mankind uses to navigate through the mists of malice, storms of strife, icebergs of indifference, the potholes of poverty and the fog of fractured existence. It’s the emblem humans emboss on their 24x7 lives to switch from the sedentary to the stupendous, from the momentary to the momentous. Simply put, it’s the lingua franca of humanity.

Central to the recipe of soccer are the ‘spices’ of precision, imagination, elegance, passion and lady luck. You see, it adds to the taste, aroma and the aesthetics. Expert chefs (read: soccer sorcerers) unfailingly conjure up the ‘right’ dish. They go by the names Ronaldinho, Zidane, Messi, Ballack, Beckham, et al. you are advised to watch these chefs go about their ‘spicy’ jobs:

The precision of their passes might force an atomic clock to opt for VRS, the imagination in their moves could ensure the extinction of a Mr. Harry Potter or a Mr. Frodo Baggins, the elegance of their play would make even Mona Lisa seek the solace of a purdah, the passion they exude could test the loyalty of a fidayeen, the lady luck who stalks them may just about put the casinos in Las Vegas out of business.

Watching these chefs go about their jobs is like window-shopping in the mall of eternity. When they are at work, time and space are as dead as the dodo. Never has the process of brewing a potion held greater promise. Passersby would get to taste such exclusive delicacies as the Brazilian samba, Argentinean tango, Mexican wave, the German blitz, the azzuri antics, English ambushes and African assaults. But the soup-de-grace would of course be soccer.

As for the location of the ‘kitchen’, I would be more than willing to sound you off with a spatial clue:

Not some years ago, this ‘kitchen’ had a wall that partitioned it into the east and the west halves. Luckily sanity prevailed and the wall was broken.”

I have to hurry for in the ‘kitchen’, I hear the strains of samba to the mellifluous tune:

“East or west,

Achtung, Jogo Bonito is the best.”