Muslim Introspection

In the context of the horrific bombing in Sri Lanka last month, it is vital Muslims across the world unite against violence which is perpetuated in the name of Islam. There are episodes in recent history which give a clear indication of the malice and hostility. Amjad Sabri -- the famous qawal was killed in June 2016 by Pakistan Taliban. The Sabri family have sung devotional songs using Sufi music -- essentially aiming at bridging the gap between different faiths. Few months later 75 devotees were killed in a shrine in Sindh Pakistan in January 2017, where a specific part of the shrine was bombed where women were praying. More than 25 shrines have been targeted since 2005 in Pakistan.

There is a growing mislaid trend in Muslim world, to brush everything before the birth of Islam in 7th century, under an era of ignorance ‘jahaliya’ as it is referred to commonly. The term ‘jahaliya’ has many overtones, however, it doesn’t infer what some Muslims take as gospel truth- that the people of the era were uncivilized and philistine.

The modern charter of democracy and civil liberties is directly copied from the Roman’s, who ruled 1000 years before Islamic civilization was found in Arabia. The Roman Republic didn’t have a King by lineage. The Romans rather elected senate who in turn elected a Consul- the ruler of the time. Julius Caesar for example was a consul. Roman assemblies would meet in the Forum arena, which is somewhere close to where the current Colosseum exists. The point being that knowledge, learning and progress is never an inheritance of one civilization. Rather it is an ever flowing river from which every civilization over the course of mankind’s history has drawn ways of improving living and set forth progress.

Islamic civilization in its apogee for about 600 years was a sparkle of social justice, knowledge and equality. The Bayt-ul-Hiqma at Baghdad, House of Wisdom, attracted philosophers, scientists and theologists from many places, notably Greece. Prophet Muhammad in Arabia had set precedence. The prisoners of wars of ‘Badr’ who could teach ten Muslims to read and write were set free by him. The Muslim caliphs of the later Islamic times, like the great Harun-al-Rashid, carried the tradition and invited Greek scientists to Baghdad for teaching Muslim scholars in their universities. This led to an era of enlightenment in Muslim world. Debates, discussions and lectures on a wide range of religious, scientific and philosophical issues of the day were common at the houses of worship, which also served as centres of judicial proceedings. The role and concept of a mosque wasn’t just to pray and deliver sermons from pulpits, encouraging youngsters to throw their lives and critique an economic system which is the backbone of current world, as is the norm these days.  

Subsequently, Europe and west in the renaissance period, read the works of Muslim scholars, teachers and scientists. The works of Avicenna, Ibn Arbi, al-Idrisi, Beruni, al-Khwarizmi over a course of time were translated into French, English, and Portuguese. The ideals of European Renaissance were directly derived from Muslim theologians and scholars. It is fair to say that Arab science altered medieval Christendom beyond recognition. For the first time in centuries, Europe opened its eyes to the world around it.

With the decline of Muslim civilization beginning from the 16th century, West advanced in areas of science and philosophy. The clash was obvious. However it’s very important for us to read the nuances in between. The Islamic revivalism that began in late 19th century and carried across the next century stressed on the tales of west’s sinister ideas, and its larger plan of indoctrinating Muslims; driving them away from puranitical Islam- the one in the times of Prophet Muhammad.

One just needs to step back a bit and read about the enlightenment and differential views exhibited by Muslims in 18 and 19th centuries before these revivalist movements even began. Since transport had greatly advanced, the mobility of political movement with many number of Muslims taking the pilgrimage to Mecca and technologies of printing and telegraph carried ideas in all directions. The Muslim world wasn’t imperious to the developments around. The civil liberties post French Revolution and American civil war resonated ideals amongst Muslims. The Muslims in the Middle East reconstituted thanks to anti-slavery, emancipation of women and decline of polygamy. New ideas were not rejected, but embraced. Books were translated into Arabic, Turkish as soon as they were published in west. Darwin’s much controversial work Origin of Species in particular piqued a keen interest in Lebanon. Clerical boasting was punctured readily and the picture of a greedy ignorant mullah was visible in many journals and pamphlets.

One of the ways forward is to read about Prophet Muhammad in a theological sense rather than just spiritual or religious. His life is a living practical example of social justice and equality, abhorring violence. To relegate Prophet’s life as an epiphany and a divine programme revealed by God, and Islamic society being the only properly oriented society is a grave error we make. The aftermath to this is evident and so is our knee jerk reaction. Merely closing our eyes on the monster and committing it so as Zionist conspiracy shall not do. This notion of natural birth right on knowledge and moral up holdings is misplaced. World is shrinking. Societies and civilizations are drawing new borders. Muslims must rise up to it with introspection and correct factual reading of history.  

Faheem is an IT Engineer based in Dubai UAE, with interest in travel, history and culture.
This blog was carried by Quint. 

Of Kashmir Summers and Tennis

The sun hung over the breast shaped clouds of purple hued Zabarwan Mountains, shining brightly into our young eyes. Summers in Kashmir were always a reason for joy when we were kids, stretching out beyond the edges of our lives, the bright sun taunting us with endings, marked by long shadows thrown in the backyard by the end of it.  Long days and sunny weather meant lots of outdoor activities; the usual play games kids in 80s and 90s would indulge in— an age much before the advent of smart phones and internet.  The cousin sleepovers, was something no less than a celebration of good times. We would visit them and they would visit us in turns. Life was good, a long joyous vacation. We were the merry souls, playing accordion, a Joan Baez song on our supple lips- ‘I never dreamed this summer would end.’ 

In addition to all the wonted stuff, summers brought with it the tennis infatuation. From late May to early July, two of the four Grand Slams played in the far off European cities of Paris and London: The French Open and The Wimbledon would catch us in the turf of its magic. Over cold lemon ‘Squash’ -- stored in Kelvinator refrigerator: the Manmohan Singh economic liberty being still a few years away and the consumerist products that we take for granted these days, were a luxury back then - the summer evenings brought our entire family together in the old part of the Srinagar city- a crumbling collection of brown and grey houses, whose tattered rusty shingles of the rooftops rose behind each other glittering in the summer evening sun. The only channel, Doordarshan, telecasting the semi-finals and finals.

My earliest memory goes back to the 1988 Wimbledon final. The German prodigy Steffi Graf playing a legend in her own right- Martina Navratilova. It was a cracking final; the sighs and grunts of the players across thousands of miles reverberated in our living room. The love for the game and summers grew over years and was carried into the 90s. I notably remember the ’91 summer. Gabriela Sabatini- the Argentinian sensation of the times was a craze amongst us all. To put things in perspective, she was a Eugenie Bouchard on Columbian cartel coke. She played a great final match and probably had a championship point as well. However, the resilient German again got better of her opposition. I was crestfallen. To make matters worse, my favorite in men’s- Boris Becker lost the final to an unknown Michael Stich.

The women folk in my family- my sisters, cousins and aunts would be engaged with men, in these stiff battles fought over clay and grass. We all picked our favorites and supported them to tee. The gamesmanship was evident from both genders. Contrary to the general belief, downtown Srinagar was a very liberal alcove to grow up in, where men were not necessarily misogynists. It had perhaps something to do with how the city had shaped over years, its urban silhouette evident on the blurred freckles of its dwellers—an exiguous social circle of people who clinged together because they couldn’t stand to be alone. To imagine it now is unthinkable. It’s sad when a city loses its intrinsic spirit and culture to the bauble of times, and while its corners no longer smell of urban olfactory.

The slipshod poor telecast by doordarshan had little dampening effect on our spirits. I and any cousin, who was almost my age, were hooked to the game, picking our favorites for every tournament over 90s. Our year was divided on lines of the four Grand Slams. We looked forward to the coverage on Sportstar Magazine every week. Decking up our walls with posters and cuttings. I took part in one of the contests in the magazine. I won and was mailed a life size poster of Gabriela Sabatini, written in bold italics ‘from Madras.’ The joy was unbridled.

Sadly we never got to play the real thing. The hostilities of war had gripped Srinagar under its hideous veil. There were people on both sides of Jhelum busy loading their guns. The city had lost its only tennis court to war and uncertainty. In childhood you remain isolated from the political developments. It matters little. While the city fell in perpetual grief of conflict, we did our little improvisation. I and my cousin played our version of tennis on a concrete yard that faced my ancestral home in downtown Srinagar. In a way we had stepped into our make believe magical realm. A copper wire acted as a net and our hands as racquets. We would leap in the air, serve with our palms. Drop shots, volleys, angle lobs, we had it all. We would re-enact entire tournaments, where he’d think himself as Edberg and me as Becker. Our rivalries were as tense if not more, as on real courts.

On one of the evenings these days, while watching French Open, it threw me down a gale of nostalgia and the meaning it holds to my generation, my city and my own awning memory. My city is an antique paper, but my memories are those that time couldn’t erase. Sometimes it is all you have from a city you so love. You roll back the clock and you extol all grief away which life brings with it. But I have a feeling that if I did, the joy would be gone too. A fulfilled life like a great tennis match never finishes on a Deuce! 

Mecca- The citadel of faith

Pilgrims en route Mecca would attend smaller fairs and festivals before arriving at the Sanctuary for the main ceremony. A poetry competition would be held in nearby oasis town of Taif, where poets across Hejaz and other parts of Arabia would assemble and demonstrate their oratory skills. Desert fables, homages to Gods and odes to mistresses were narrated in huge gatherings. The best poem would be mounted on the Kaaba. After the contest the poets would join other pilgrims— a swarm of shaman dancers dancing in trance, some sorcerers juggling their skills, enchanters rolling their bodies along the dusty paths leading to Kaaba; the festive liturgy running till late in the night —the fire lighting up the horizons of Mecca and its surroundings. The markets would be buzz with Arabian dyes, perfumes and rugs from far off Nabatean lands. Musicians with their tambourines loose hair flying in wreath would fill the tiny alleys of Mecca. Heretics perched on nooks and corners of Meccan markets mumbling within. The city abuzz with life and trade.

Mecca has a long history. Gibbon in his seminal work ‘Decline and Fall of Roman Empire’ mentions how Greeks knew about Kaaba. Greek historians have claimed to write about a temple in Arabia which is sacred to Aribis- the desert dwellers- a name Greeks gave to the people of Arabia.

Mecca has had numerous names. The earliest known name is the biblical ‘Baca’.Baca in Arabic transforms to ‘lack of stream’. Indeed Mecca has always been a dry place.

Jurham was a tribe into whom Prophet Abraham’s son Ishmael had married into. Over the years after prophet Ishmael ,Jurhams controlled Mecca and the sanctuary. This had continued for few centuries, before Khuza another tribe took over Kaaba. It is in the reign of Khuza, Amr of Luhayy that paganism began in Kaaba. It began when Amr received a deity of Hubal as a gift. He ordered to place the deity in the Kaaba. Other families also proceeded to place their idols in the Kaaba including the Arab pantheon and three daughters of God: al Lat, Manat and al-Uzzat. This was around at the beginning of Christian era.

Consequently after next 400-500 years, in 5th century AD, Quraysh — a tribe of Ishmael’s descendants come into the picture. Zayd bin Kilab who was fondly called as Qusayy ‘the little stranger’ married into an elite Khoza family in Mecca and took over its reins. He was very intelligent and entire Mecca had grown fond of him. Qusayy regarded himself as the direct descendent of Ishmael and as such someone who was born to look after Kaaba. Qusayy is also regarded to have re-discovered the Zam Zam well, after being in oblivion for centuries. Qusayy was the direct forefather of a man who in another hundred years was to change the destiny of Meccans and entire Hejaz.

The journey to Mecca and Haj is compulsory to all Muslims. Religious obligation aside, one can find a numerous reasoning logic for such an arduous pillar of faith. For how I see it, the main pilgrimage- Haj or the lesser pilgrimage- Umrah, is meant to instil travel bug in Muslims. To travel across thousands of kilometres and experience the diversity of God’s creation in His own house. Mecca is probably the first city every Muslim hears of. Right from our childhood it is one city and place that finds a way into our consciousness. The sight of cuboid swathed in a black cloth is imprinted in our minds. What it exactly meant was not known to me.

Over the years I’ve carried my battles with faith and questions that surround me. By no means being someone very religious. The inner strife has always followed me in matters of faith and belief. Amongst this was the many time retold rundown which I had somehow convinced myself of. The ostentatiousness craze led by Saudi government had defiled the value of Kaaba. I believed the spiritual sacredness no longer exists in Mecca. I couldn’t understand. Early this month when I visited Mecca on account of Umrah, I carried these premonitions and biases with me. I performed my first Umrah late into the night when we first reached Mecca.

I was largely unfazed, still grappling with scepticism. What brings a sea of men and women to this landscape, which is not only harsh but unwelcoming too? The Hejaz mountains which surround Kaaba have the harshest terrain; sharp knife edged rocky surface. In course of my time at Mecca I realized, Kaaba gives you what you bring to it. My subsequent trips to Kaaba and Haram over the next few days did something to me. What exactly, I’m not sure. Perhaps, it is those in explainable feelings that have no physical reality to it. Standing tall one afternoon, under bright mid Arabian sun, in front of this cuboid, which has been there at that place since thousands of years, the sweat and belief of Prophets mixed in its foundation, the stillness of hot smudgy air around it broken by a pigeon flight, the circumambulating devotees chanting holy verses, in those tiny fleeting seconds Kaaba revealed itself to me. The magic under its sanctuary was well and truly over me. The noor of an omnipresent God. HE lights it up in the heart of his devotee, and what is unseen is disclosed. The nothingness of God’s radiance and the soul of a pilgrim are alight. HE and you become ONE.

The half lies of Koshur Identity

We need a psychological home as much as we need a physical one. A sort of a refuge where we go back, refuted by the world of allegiance.  Home is a place very special to Humans. Nothing in the world can replace it. It atones to our vulnerabilities.

Recently a good number of netizens took to social media, displaying their affiliation towards Kashmiri identity. Apparently, phiran forms a large part of it. This was a reaction to some government advisory that phiran must not be allowed in offices. While everyone is free and entitled to their opinion, however, I found the reactions very hallow and reeking of hypocrisy. In Kashmir, everybody knows each other. It’s a small place and the society is closely knit. We rarely marry outside our mores. The inter mixing with rest of the cultures of sub-continent was almost neglible till very recent. However, a lot of those things are changing. In the age of internet and technology one can choose a partner by just a click. Yes, tinder does that! A lot Kashmiris are travelling outside, exposing themselves to a whole lot of cultures. While all of this is fine, it becomes very necessary that in the process we don’t lose our essential character. So what is that character? What is it that netizens were displaying their anguish against? A piece of cloak that you wear and click selfies in? And this by those people who abhor when their children speak in Koshur –regarding the language downright lowly. This tribe of poor self-esteem walking strivers is dime a dozen in Kashmir and they give two hoots to your culture and identity.

Hypocrisy is being double faced. While all the hoopla goes on for my identity and my Kashmir- whatever that means, the situation on the ground is glaringly something else. Our indifference to our civic sensibilities is pathetic to say the least. There is zero accountability. Illegal construction by real estate mafia is rampant. Most of the hotels in ‘world famous’ Gulmarg and Pahalgam have flouted rules, illegally occupying forest land.  Footpaths are used for everything else but walking. Anyone in power seems unapproachable. Bullying of the marginalized is order of the day. The honest is mocked.  The system is so effing against the common man. Yet all of it is accepted. Corruption is so rooted that it has become a system. As long as you don’t come in my way, I don’t give a fig! That’s the attitude.

I’m a downtowner. Though we shifted to city suburbs in mid 90s, yet the downtown boy in me never left me. I usually walk over through its tiny labyrinth alleys, when I visit home in summers, finding a long gone memory in some alcove of my mind. It’s the only place where I feel I have arrived. All of this may be gone though. The vandalism of our architecture is everywhere. The art deco old is giving way to the brash glassy new and nothing is being done to protect it.

If you visit any European city, the care and effort to maintain the architecture of a city is so visible. The new is given a way, but not at the expense of the old. There is a concerned effort made to stick to their identities. You can destroy a city and its people easily by obliterating its architecture. Take the old city out of Srinagar, what remains is a ghost city. Ugly and morose. That’s because the sophistication and richness lays inside the realms of our old houses.  Their features being so distinct if one walks along the Nallamar.  A wooden porch on the first or second floor; red oxidized floors; baroque carving on windows; thin brown bricks.   The air smelling of its people who lived for hundreds of years. Along the walls that I walk in my ancestral home, that I touch and feel, I find the souls of my ancestors. Their sounds echo in the oxidized floors. It is said everyone must leave something behind when they die:  A child, a book, a house, a planted garden. Something that your hand touched so that the soul has somewhere to go when you die, when people look at that tree or house or garden.

I wonder what I would leave behind for my son, to know his identity. Certainly must be more than a phiran!

Books, Grandfather and Life Lessons

The Japanese literary great Haruki Murakami said, 'If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.' Books are that axe which titillate one's soul. But how does one go about reading the right kind of books?  What got me writing about this was when I posted some pictures from my library on social media. The idea was to share my personal journey; which necessarily a potential bibliophile may not follow. I've always believed reading is your own personal jaunt.  As adults we can encourage and suggest especially to youngsters what books to read. That is how and where I picked my love for them.

Each Sunday without fail my grandfather’s cousin and bosom buddy Khwaja Ali Buchh would drop in at our place, in his crisp white kurtas: a man of impeccable honor and love for books. What would transpire in next few hours would absolutely enthrall the curious kid in me. From Babur’s battle at Panipat to Jinnah’s jibe at Molvi Yusuf Shah, they discussed everything. They would often exchange books and though they had aged, the brothers retained their penchant for book reading. I remember one of the earliest books that they suggested to me was ‘Kashmir towards Insurgency’ by Balraj Puri. A thin book which awakened me to the complex nitty gritty of Kashmir issue. In addition my grandfather insisted that I and my sisters read everything. At one time we were subscribing  eight to ten magazines: Reader’s digest, India Today, Frontline, Sportstar, Woman’s era, Femina. You name it.

Abba’s idea was to cultivate the habit of reading in us. Igniting the curiosity bulb in us.  And, I see the wisdom in it now. Books must essentially be read for pleasure. If a book, however popular it may be, fails to strike with you, just don’t read it. Put it on your shelf. Never be stuck with it. There are so many books out there to be read and learned from.

As the saying in sufis goes, ‘what you seek, seeks you.  In my adolescence days, like any other youth, I had my existential crisis. There were far too many questions in my mind. And unfortunately my pillar of strength my grandfather was no more there to guide me. While aimlessly travelling in south India, I met Thimma, a 45-50 year old Brahmin, introduced by my friend. Thimma owned a farm house on the foothills of Coorg district and had a married a widow. He was a rebel in a family of illustrious blood line. His grandfather was the first surgeon in Coorg and he proudly displayed his accreditations in his farm house. We spend the night talking about love, wars, philosophy.

The next morning while handing over my morning cup of tea, Thimma passed on a worn out book to me. Its pages were loose, murky yellow and smelled exactly how old books do. Still sleepy, I turned its pages and I started reading it. Not realizing I had already read much of it, I turned to its cover and looked for the title – it read- The Wisdom of Kahlil Gibran. I remember standing up and hugging Thimma, who was looking over me. He wryly passed that smile he owned and told me he knew, I would like it. The book was passed onto him by his grandfather. In a matter of time, frozen on its shackles, I remembered my own grandfather. Of the life lessons he taught me. Of being compassionate. Honest to oneself. And more importantly, keeping myself open to new ideas and thought process. It was his blessings perhaps that I found a teacher in Kahlil Gibran. Long after he was gone, he left an anchor for me. Reading ensures to us that we are not alone and protect us from having a closed mind. An open mind is a sea of possibilities.

So, primarily as adults it’s our responsibility to create that atmosphere at our homes, from which our children learn. Children, as it is, are great learners. They pick from us what we do. Conscious and sub consciously.  I was lucky to have a grandfather who created this atmosphere around us. We must pledge to do the same.

Srinagar- Our Altar

If a painter is to paint Srinagar of current times, as for instance so many 19th century Renaissance era painters painted European cities in- the beautiful promenades of Paris , city squares of Florence and majestic Roman boulevards, the scenes wouldn’t be smooth or intimate. Instead there would be constant jostling for space on traffic lights. Conspicuous drivers looking right and left, as if everyone is scheming against them. We worry that our space would be snatched from us. Few meters away there would be a scuffle over a trivial matter, and entire traffic would come to a halt. Choicest of invectives swirl in our already smoke polluted air; arms swindling in apparent rage. A slump of a humans begging on your wind shield. The cacophony would be mindless and inhuman.

A friend of mine once told me that he a drove a Israeli backpacker around in his car. The young traveller was very disturbed and told him that though they had holocaust, but they have put it behind them. ‘Why does everyone here feel like they are being left behind’, which he said wasn’t the case when he had last travelled to Vale with his parents in late 80s. What really has occurred with Srinagar that it looks nothing like it did? In her present state she seems like a disfigured wretched old woman.

One may imagine what all this says about us? In the midst of an ugly war that the city is gripped in, we tend to overlook such introspections. That sadly is the reality about war. It numbs you. But reality, of war gripped cities too, as it goes, is never linear. It is multi layered, and it has many hues to it.

Srinagar has become a city of privileges. If you have contacts with the right people, anything can be done. Pay a bribe and get your work done. There are people who work in Middle East for years, holding on to their government jobs back home, utilizing the tactic of north Indian word to it- jugaad.

It is very common these days in Srinagar, to see people driving cars much more expensive than they can afford. It is kind of an announcement from them that they have arrived. Where? I really don’t have an idea. The impact of such vulgarism is visible. There are countless rash driving cases. Children barely the age of 10, drive expensive cars, in absolutely no parenting guidance. In fact, parents don’t wish to leave their child behind in the race. More is better. The nouveau rich class especially in their quest to show off their newly acquired riches, are creating ugly ghosts.  We are getting Punjabi-fied in that sense. The annoying fixation with Punjabi culture and ethos is breaking our own fragile traditions and values.

As for an expat like me who visits home, once every year in summers, the apparent change is glaring and disturbing. Being away from all this, gives to someone like me an advantage. Sometimes when we are in the middle of madness; we become immune to it. With time the abhorred becomes acceptable. That’s how human mind works. Adaptability isn’t always good.

However, there is the other side of being in exile- unimposed, unintentional it may be, but real all the same.  It is the listlessness.  The inchoate grief it holds in itself. The hollow feeling of never having arrived in the adopted city. The understanding that the road I take every day for work, has no idea about my strife. It is as alien, as it was, the first time I drove over it. At times it’s even difficult to articulate it. It strikes in odd situations. Mostly during morning showers, when the inkling of reality hits: being a nobody in this place, I am trying to call home.

But then trips back home are far less satisfying. There is very little left of what I remember as home. Things have changed. Last year I attended a wedding of a friend. There was Punjabi music played there and Bhangra in the tent. It was nothing less than a cultural shock for me. Which is why at times I find nothing of myself in Srinagar; which leaves me perplexed. Is that what you call being homeless? Is that the fate of living in exile?

Everything though is not lost. And I’m not merely stating it for being positive and not brushing everything aside as lost. We just need to find our way back. With time we have not moved forward. What was once a robust cosmopolitan city has been reduced to a poor Delhi cousin. Srinagar, ironic as it may sound to those who don’t know, was a city where display of wealth was regarded as a vice. People believed in living frugally. That meant the poor never felt left behind. There was a dignity in every life: rich or poor. The parvenu displays of wealth that stink like our many open drains, had no takers.

We must understand, our values and culture are very different to Punjab. In our uniqueness, lies our strength. A soulless city creates soulless people.  I hope we realize it. For if we don’t, the history definitely shall condemn us.

“For those who are lost, there will always be cities that feel like home.”

I hope, I can find back that Srinagar.

The Ashes Story

The Australian Ashes squad, 1892.

There are some sporting rivalries that go beyond the realm of the sport and the sportsmen. They take a place in posterity. England-Argentina in soccer, for example. Maradona's one genius head, and one godly work, gave it an altogether different meaning. Remember Mexico '86?

Then there was Bjorn Borg and McEnroe fighting it out on French clay and English grass. Fans sighed. The rockstar Borg had females bating. The headband and sweaty forearms had them swooning all over. McEnroe had a temper and personality. Contrasting styles, great tennis for fans. The aficionados called the rivalry 'Fire and Ice'.

India- Pakistan in cricket has had its moments. But, it is marred by politics. The rivalry, as I see it, is more political than sporting. For a reason or the other, cricket often takes a backseat. The pressure shows on players and it affects their performance.

Then there is the mother of them all – The Ashes. Tradition, stories, enmity, folklore, you name it. 

On the eve of the 1992 World Cup final held in Australia, Australian Cricket Board (ACB) threw a dinner party for the finalists England and Pakistan that was also graced by a host of dignitaries other than cricketers.   God knows what got into the mind of the organizers as they impersonated the Queen through a renowned Australian comedian Gerry Connolly. In what has become a famous walk out, Ian Botham, arguably England’s greatest cricketer and all-rounder, stormed out of the party, visibly angry and scathing out at the Australian press.

“I’m very proud of my history and culture. You guys wouldn’t know about it obviously, you’ve none of it,” yelled Beefy. The jibe, directed to hit where it hurts the most, underscores the intensity of the uneasy relationship and hardcore rivalry between the two cricketing nations.

There is something there when these two countries meet. On a first day of the first test at Edgbaston or Brisbane, the atmosphere is electric, the spectators are charged, the buzz is in the air. Everything else is secondary; cricket is all that matters. A bouncer is hurled, a hook is returned, a menacing glare follows. The Barmy army sings ‘The Ashes are coming home’. The Aussie sledging is raised to a new level.

The coveted tiny urn for which the two countries rough it out carries the weight of a century and more; of sweat and squabs; of long sea voyages in the early 20th century; of Bodyline and Jardine; of Bradman and Jim Laker; of Botham at Headingley and Warne at Old Trafford. 

The story goes back a century and a quarter. In a mock obituary carried by a British newspaper in 1877 after Australia’s victory at The Oval, it stated that the English cricket died, body will be cremated and the ashes will be taken to Australia. And the legend of The Ashes was thus born.

The avowed foes have met in many epic battles since. When the English steamship docked on Australian shores in the winter of 1932-33, the press was all over the unstoppable Don Bradman who had averaged 130 in the previous Ashes. England were under pressure. However, Douglas Jardine, their captain, born in the British Raj of India had a plan. His tactics included Larwood, who is said to have never bowled a wide in his career, to bowl fast on the rib cage, with seven fielders on the leg side. It worked; England regained The Ashes. Wisden calls it the most unpleasant series. On one occasion, Australian captain Bill Woodfull was left down on the ground after being struck just above the heart by a Larwood bouncer. The Australian crowd booed. That wouldn’t change much in the cold and calculating Jardine. Moments later, he called out to Larwood  - "Well bowled Harold" - and set the fielders again in the hated Bodyline formation. Police had to be deployed on the boundary. The Australian captain next day retorted angrily: “There are two teams out there. One is trying to play cricket and the other is not.”

How zealously the Aussie spectators had started hating Jardine is underlined by a small incident that happened when the England captain was at the crease during the fifth test at Sydney, England about to complete a 4-1 series win. When the play stopped for a drinks break, Australian captain was about to hand over a bottle of water to Jardine when a spectator yelled out to him: “Don’t give the bastard a drink. Let him die of thirst.” Even the stoic Jardine enjoyed that little moment and recalled later that “it was one of the few humourous remarks which we were privileged to hear on this tour.”

At the height of Vietnam War in the 60s, a young US marine James Stockdale was captured by the Viet Cong and sent to the infamous Hanoi torture centre. He was interrogated, beaten and tortured. Stockdale spent 7 years in the prison. He could have easily avoided abuse by cozying up to his tormentors somewhat. An occasional anti-American statement and they would have treated him like any other ordinary inmate. Yet it never crossed his mind. He willingly gave himself up. As he later explained, it was the only way he could maintain self-respect. He didn’t do it for the love of his country. Nor was it about the war. It was purely about not breaking down inside. He did it solely for himself.  Sometimes, I wonder how many English and Australian players think this way when it comes to Ashes: of not breaking down, for there is so much at stake for both England and Australia. A part of that credit must also go to the writers, who have woven remarkable stories around The Ashes. Cricket is one of those few sports that give scope for prolific writing and the likes of Neville Cardus, CLR James, Mike Coward, Peter Roebuck have given it a gourmet treatment for the reading aficionados.

My first brush with The Ashes was in ’93 when Allan Border’s side routed an insipid England led by the Groucho mustachioed Graham Gooch. England, in those days of misery, were used to frequently changing their playing XI (in the previous Ashes of ’89, English selectors led by Ted Dexter had used as many as 29 players throughout the series).

From that bright summer of Kashmir, the romanticism of Ashes stuck to me forever. With the internet still a good decade away, those days the only means of keeping track of the series was through Times of India sports page, which would arrive in the afternoons, and the weekly Sportstar magazine that I read with great enthusiasm - the tour diaries of Mike Coward in particular.

In the following winter, with enough time to kill during the winter school break, my cousin brought some VHS cassettes from his Delhi trip for me, sensing my love for the game. Two of those cassettes included ‘That Man Botham’ and ‘Richie Benaud Presents’. One of the most visible memories from it remains Richie Benaud, in his typical soft tone, speaking about the 1974/75 Ashes played in Australia. Those were the times when young people around the world had started experimenting with LSD, free sex and personal freedom. Shackles were breaking. Students rose up in Paris one morning with placards of revolution. Cricket, the game of nobles was finding its hippie fad too, ready to break the norms. Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson, when they ran fast, sending bullets down to the batsmen at the other end, were egged on by the aggressive Aussie spectators. Cricket was no more a gentleman’s game!  And Australia were led by a certain Ian Chappell who believed in granting the opposition no quarter. He played tough cricket and led from the front.

Those days, any footage from Australia used to be a rarity. I remember being totally mesmerized by the whole atmosphere. Sunny Australian summers, sun kissed bodies, bouncy pitches, good coverage and sea gulls, plus some great aggressive cricket.

Tony Greig fends off a Thomson snorter, Gabba 1974

John Edrich is brought down by a Lillee bouncer

BBC correspondent, Christopher Jenkins on 1974/75 Ashes.

Usually, fast bowling is associated with West Indian quicks of the 70s and the 80s, that famous pace battery. However, the pioneers were Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thomson, and 74/75 Ashes was their baby. Their fast bowling was frighteningly quick and England by the end of it were bruised and battered - both physically and psychologically. Lilliee and Thomson took 25 and 33 wickets respectively. ‘I thought  stuff that stiff upper lip crap. Let’s see how stiff it is when it’s split’, Jeff Thomson had said in a post-match press conference. England were so plagued by injuries that they needed reinforcements from England - one of them the 41 year old Colin Cowdrey. In what may be called a futile exercise in the midst of a bloody war, Cowdrey’s inclusion had little impact on the series. Australia trounced England 3-1. Post series, writer and historian Gideon Haigh wrote about the fearsome duo. “Lillee and Thomson remain a combination to conjure with, as sinister in England as Burke and Hare, or Bismarck and Tirpitz.” 

With Packer’s circus taking over the game in the late 70s, cricket in England was losing its popularity, until that man Botham propped up in one English summer, producing a feat that remains unparalleled. Not surprisingly, the ’81 Ashes came to be known as the Botham’s Ashes. The ‘81 story is stuff of legends and plots that seems like a carefully crafted Erich Segal fiction.

England, captained by a young 24-year old Botham, were 1-0 down when the third test at Headingley began. Beefy relinquished his captaincy after the second test. His form had dropped and according to David Gower when Beefy was out for naught in the second test at Lord's, almost sealing his fate as captain, even a hair strand dropping would have broken the silence that descended in the England dressing room. English cricket had plummeted to a low. Mike Brearley, the 38-year old professor of philosophy, was appointed as the captain for the third test. England’s fortunes however didn’t seem to be turning. They were annihilated in the first innings and asked to follow on. At 130/7 with still some hundred runs short of making Aussies bat again, in a remarkable turnaround and back to the walls blitzkrieg, Botham and Graham Dilley added 130 odd for the 8th wicket. Bouncers from Lillee and co. were smashed by the mercurial Botham to all corners on a cold July English afternoon with utter disdain. But even after such spectacular display, all Australia required was 130 to win on the final day. By now clouds had given way to bright luminous sunshine. When Australia looked well on course at 56/1, Mike Brearley in one stroke of brilliant astuteness changed Bob Willis' end and asked him to bowl down the hill. Result: Australia bowled out for 111. England had fashioned one of the most remarkable come-from-behind victories in cricketing history. 

With the momentum and impetus well rooted with the English, they went on to win the next test at Edgbaston where Australia, yet again, failed to chase a low target. For now it was Botham's turn to light up the magic with the red cherry. In a hostile spell of fast bowling, Beefy returned with figures of 5 for 1 and England went on to win the test by 29 runs.

In the fifth test at Old Trafford, Botham hit a sparkling century. Studded with marvelous square drives and swaggered hooks, the flamboyant all-rounder brought the Manchester crowd to its feet with a quicker than run-a-ball century. England won the test by 103 runs. The final test at The Oval was a draw and England regained The Ashes.

The 1981 Ashes gave Britain its first sporting hero since Bobby Charlton in Ian Terence Botham. Australian captain Kim Hughes’ remarks post series perhaps described their frustration aptly: “This series will be remembered in a hundred years. Unfortunately!”

Beefy’s popularity skyrocketed to the extent that he was called as the fifth Beatle. It wasn’t just his game, but his looks and his exploits off the field too that often kept him in the news. On one occasion, it is said that Beefy made such passionate love to a Barbadian Miss World that the goddamn bed cracked - perhaps, only in some carnal justice. This escapade became folklore and made its way into many Beefy stories.

Ian Botham on that June 1981 Headingley afternoon.

Bob Willis hits Rod Marsh on the head, Headingley '81.

Iconic moment. Mike Brearley tosses the ball to Bob Willis

In the subsequent years, England maintained its dominance. However, the famous ’89 series when Allan Border’s side, dismissed by the English press as the weakest to have toured England, was to change it. England led by David Gower lost The Ashes 4-0. After the series ended, Allan Border explained how he, very clearly, asked his side not to be friendly with the opposition. Gower called Border’s behaviour strange. They were good friends off the field, however, cometh the test  match, at toss, Border would just shake hands with a glum face, without exchanging any pleasantries, and run back to the pavilion. This was a mind game and a preparation to own the rivals and it seemed to work. Such gamesmanship!

While English cricket in the 90s fell from one low to another, Australia produced some champion players in that era, with Shane Warne’s first Ashes delivery called as the ball of the century. That classic leg spinner’s dismissal: ball pitching outside leg and clipping the left bail. How that ball missed the girth of an oversized Mike Gatting is still beyond me. But it was another addition to The Ashes tales.

Warne's ball of the century, Old Trafford, 1993.

In a cutthroat battle like this, very minute details can catch astronomical proportions. Ask Nasser Hussain. There have been volumes written on his decision to ask Australia to bat, after winning the toss at Gabba in 2002. Scorecard at the end of 1^st day read: Australia 364/2. Derek Pringle, former England medium pacer and now a well-known broadcaster wrote: “In earlier times, inserting the opposition and seeing them finish the day on 364/2 would have been enough for a captain to summon his faithful hound, light a last cigarette and load a single bullet into the revolver.”

While there have been a number of Ashes series that are remembered for the quality of cricket and the intensity with which they were played, the 2005 Ashes stands out as nothing before or after it – perhaps aptly viewed as the greatest Ashes of all time. Apart from top notch cricket and closely fought battles, it was so unpredictable and tense with innumerable moments of drama and suspense. It was also an anticlimax in that nobody expected England to even draw the series, let alone win it. England were so used to humiliation at the hands of the Aussie invincible over the last decade and a half that nobody in England or Australia, or anywhere else on planet Earth where The Ashes was followed, gave England any chance. But then, what we witnessed was an unexpected treat. There is always something special about the underdog turning the tables on the mightier opposition.

From 1986-87 onwards until this series, England couldn’t manage a single series win, most of the times rolled over by the Aussie juggernaut. But not now! A determined England side led by Michael Vaughan was intent on breaking this long string of defeats and break it did. It was a great team effort by the English, but two superstars, Kevin Petersen and Andrew Flintoff shone brighter than the rest and taking the attack to the opposition beat the mighty Aussies at their own game. The 2005 Ashes changed the subsequent results that used to be so heavily lopsided in favour of Australia over the last fifteen years. England went on to win the 2009, 2010-11, 2013 and 2015 Ashes. 

The Ashes were coming back after 18 long years. The triumphant English side at The Oval 2005.

In moments of my procrastination, which by the way are frequent, I picture my best experiences. A ten-year cruise through Caribbean or backpacking in the tropical forests of Brazil or drive in a 1965 Chevy through the ochre landscape of south Spain or an Ashes test at Lord’s.  And if a dazzling fairy like the ones in Aesop fables asks me to choose one from this wish list, I would hands down choose the last one.

Artists go to Italy to pay homage to the great masters like Raphael and Michelangelo, as pilgrims go to Jerusalem and Mecca, or students in the middle ages went to pontiffs and chief seats of learning where science and philosophy had made a mark. Orientalists in 18^th and 19^th centuries travelled far in search of exotic east. I think the romanticism of a puritan Ashes fan belongs to such mystical realms.