Young Hunters

This is a photograph taken by Erika Larsen exhibited at the International Press Photography Exhibition.

A number of states in the US have introduced legislation allowing 12 and 13 year olds to hunt game under the supervision of an adult 'mentor'.

The children are allowed to use adult hunting rifles and the animals they are allowed to hunt include a variety of birds, boars, deer and small mammal.

The laws were passed after lobbying from hunting groups who said that children were wasting their time playing too many video games.

Of Endorphins

I rode almost 8 kilometers to office yesterday only to realize I'd forgotten my wallet at home. I rode back home and then back to office. I didn't have time for a shower and, given that I was still recovering from a boring (but strangely tiring) weekend, this meant that I was feeling hungover whole day. The fact that I was punching files didn't help.

I left office at six and considered taking the train back. Checked my wallet and found that I didn't have enough money. Settled for a relaxing ride back home. I ambled along until I reached the steepest section of my daily ride. I shifted to lowest gear and was just going through the motions, i.e. huffing and puffing, when this guy rides by me with incredible ease and speed. That was the last straw: I upped gears and gave chase. I never caught him but that mile changed my day. My head cleared and I was suddenly I was singing. Even the taxis drivers abusing me couldn't put me off. I had ridden up steep ass Luasanne Road in 3 minutes and that was that.

Endorphins I think they call it.

Of Familiarity

I consider myself well travelled, well read and comfortable with change. But all of this could do little to help me out on Monday morning when I cycled to work for the first time. Having cycled extensively on Calcutta's streets I wasn't expecting a challenge but, mother of god, was I wrong. Taxis, motorbikes and buses zip by inches away from ones rear derailluer and changing lanes is a death wish. Cyclists are seen as pests by other motorists and they are just waiting for an opportunity to say, "oops, did'n see you there mate". Rather frustratingly, I seemed to be the only one who was having these problems: old ladies on folding bikes ambled along rather unperturbed and surprisingly fast.

I guess in the end it just comes down to familiarity. Calcutta is no less crowded than London but the traffic's not so fast, there are no effective zebra crossings, no one bothers with cyclists and no one will sue you if you knock him down.

My frustrating morning rides have been complemented by my frustratingly busy days and afternoons. Riding back at night on empty streets with the wind in your face makes up for it all though.

TV Cartels

I've noted that the dinner time sitcom channels on TV have a funny cartel going. House, Friends, Big Bang Theory and Scrubs feature on four different channels at the same time. After you have made the difficult choice of which of these four programmes to spend watching while having dinner you most likely want to switch when there's an ad break. But this is not possible: The channels have coordinated their ad breaks perfectly. All four channels have their breaks at the same time and compel you to watch their crummy ads. I'm sure they're breaking some law somewhere. Must ask my antitrust colleagues about this.

In other news I went to a school today to teach kids about law. Never imagined 14 yearolds knew so much about the law. Never imagined I'd call 14 yearolds kids.

Of Aggression

Today, Sourav Ganguly is playing in his last international match. From that fateful day at Lords in 1996 to this day it has been a long and bumpy journey for the prince from Calcutta. Ganguly was not India's greatest bat. Nor was he the most talented of his generation. Good, not great is how one would describe Ganguly as a batsman. His captaincy and character though was another matter. As Peter Roebuck puts it, "if Anil Kumble was the colossus, Sachin Tendulkar the champion, Rahul Dravid the craftsman, VVS Laxman the sorcerer, then Ganguly was the inspiration. "

On a personal level, I couldn't agree more. Ganguly, and sportsmen of his genre (Steve Waugh, Andre Agassi, Diego Maradona, John McEnroe) - the bad boys of sport- played a large part in making me the type of sportsman I hope I am: Aggressive, not afraid of confrontation, flashy, heart on sleeve, giving as good you get, taking on the established order, desperate to win and willing to bend the rules in an effort to do so. It was impossible to ignore these men. You either had to love them or hate them and often your choice would say a lot about you.

It is interesting to speculate as to whether these men were naturally aggressive or were just shrewdly playing out an image for tactical and financial reasons. In Ganguly's case his tactical games were, in hindsight, transparent. He knew what he was doing when he kept Waugh waiting for the toss, he knew what he was doing when he took on Greg Chapell and he knew what he was doing when he riled up bowlers twice his size. The aristocrat from Bengal played a role and played it well. Right up to the very last. He couldn't resist from taking a dig at everyone with his "some players have changed their hairstyles" comment. You somehow knew it was coming.

As Ganguly retires India loses a lazy and classy cricketer. But, even more significantly, Indian cricket loses a character. A character which gave it character. A character which transformed it and a character who will take some forgetting.

Here's to a glittering and entertaining commetating career for the prince.

Journal Entry, 2nd November 2008

Time: 6:30 PM
Location: Livepool Youth hostel

Its been a good days ride today. A manic and fast one though. The doctor operated beautifully: like Torres through a defence he cut through the wind. I Ditched the map, followed the highway and took very few stops. Wasn't taking any chances after yesterday's debacle. Rode the 160 Km. distance in a riding time of about 6 hours. The last 60 Km. was non-stop. Was a great experience riding though the Mersey Tunnel. Wind free and a downhill start.

Early start tomorrow for the pilgrimage to the Kop, followed by a Beatles tour.

From my Journal

Location: Somewhere on the A41 to Birmingham
Time: 12:30 PM
Recent conversation with self: Okay, I think I should stop for a while. I have no idea where I am going. I wish this map were a bit simpler. I wish my Sat Nav worked better. I should eat also. Else I'll bonk. Haven't eaten since that banana at 7. I need to pee as well. Can you pee on the highway in this country? Need to check how bad the scrapes from that fall are. Shit, the Savlons in at the bottom of the bag. Aaargh. Need to have a talk with myself about this.

Location: Warwick Station
Time: 6 PM
It is cold and windy. The rain has just stopped but the platform's still wet. The snot from my nostrils is dripping onto my upper lip. My fingers are wet and numb. I am shivering; faintly feverish.

I have just bailed out 160 Km. into the ride to Birmingham. That's 30 Km. short of the day's target. It's the first time I've bailed on flat road. I feel wretched about it. Should I have bailed. Well, it was raining, I had lost my way, it was dark, it was near zero Celsius and it was the first time I was riding in England. It was also the first time I was riding in 6 months. On the other hand, I had only 30 Km. to go, a distance many cyclist walk when their cycles breakdown. I'm hungry.

The only way to get over this is to choose a wet, cold day and make this trip again.