the Fake IPL Player

Man..am I glad that this Fake IPL Player is here! I have never been a big cricket fan except in my adolescent days (when I could be for given for not having known any better). Now after being with a cricket fanatic for 8 years (and being a cricket-widow for the past three years), it takes humongous amounts of patience on my part not to scream when I see Youvraj Singh and Co..and then as if the over-dose was not enough, there comes IPL. That's why I have welcomed the Fake IPL Player's blog with open arms. In a country given to worshipping false gods, especially those of the cricketing varieties, the blog comes as a breath of fresh air. At least here's no sycophancy, journalists out to prove how the cricketing lions are actually genteel souls wrapped in the clothing of megabucks. Even if 10% of what gets written there is true (am assuming that the fake IPL player is actually a fake IPL player, and the 90% comes from that kind of imagination on which Stardust runs), it will do well to weaken, if not entirely demolish the mythical proportions to which a bunch of over-hyped men in blue are raised.

Apparently according to one estimate, there are 33 million bloggers in the world. I wonder how many of them have more than one reader, beyond the blog-writer.

One of the greatest rewards of being a compulsive reader like me is the chance discovery of an author whose writing has me in his grip, and the sensation is akin to an actual physical sensastion of a heady rush of hormones. And in April, I have been twice lucky.

I have just discovered "Sophie's Choice" and I am already in love with Wlliam Styron's evocative prose, his equal command over depicting humor and heartbreak, his ability to make his characters come alive for me. I am surprised as to why it took me so many years to get down to reading this classic and deny myself the pleasure of discovering Styron much earlier. Probably the biggest testimony to the author lies on the fact that I am holding on to the book at the cost of incurring a fine, but I want to leisure through the whole book and not skip through pages as I have been guilty of doing that at times.

The second one has been Roberto Bolano and his 'Savage Detectives'. Imagine an author being called the inheritor to Marquez and it is only in 2009 that I hear about his existence. I am ready to gobble up anything by Bolano now, but he died in 2003, and only a few of his books have got translated in English. But I like waiting. The thought that my wait will be suitably rewarded by another Bolano gem is something that makes me smack my lips in anticipation, and my tongue hang out.

(the above imagery is pretty gross but that's how I picture myself..like a dog waiting for his bones!!)

I just don't get Twitter. Or status updates on Facebook. Does the whole world need to know or is interested in knowing what is the status of my tummy, or if I am feeling upto completing my obscure thesis (which anyways will be read only by me), or do I love the awesome heat of Delhi? Why do people need to share such minute details of their lives, food habits, political beliefs, mental states, status of children/nephews/nieces every day, every hour? Do they think that I would be seriously interested in knowing if someone skipped gym today and instead bought a pink pan? This information over-load 24 hours a day is not only irritating the hell out of me but also making me feel like the only loser in the world whose life is a complete Twitter free/ Facebook update free zone coz nothing ever happens there that is worth twittering about.