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The Feel [Aug. 18th, 2014|01:17 am]
Today, I've watched a full Arsenal game, and worked on my fantasy novel. Over the last three years, I've done one or the other on sporadic occasions, but both on the same day! I might as well be twenty-one and in college again!
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Exams [May. 1st, 2014|09:20 am]
The first sign of creeping age - it's almost impossible to get excited about exams. Two years since the last one, and now, it's an effort to just about care. Gotta summon up the spirit of the great Fraud from days long gone by, and say to myself, over and over again, "ab feel aa rahi hai!"
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Hello [Apr. 28th, 2014|12:46 am]
It's been a while. I wonder if anyone - but anyone - still hangs out around here! :) 
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Ronald Dworkin: A Personal Tribute [Feb. 15th, 2013|02:04 am]
Ronald Dworkin died this morning.

A curious kind of sadness has entered the world. A sadness that has insinuated itself into the fabric of the day, that blurs the edges of solid objects, that seems to hang, suspended, in the air, an invisible fog pressing down upon one. A sadness that stains the soul so deeply, that no flood of tears, or deluges of time, the years cascading upon years, can ever entirely wash it away. My first brush with death, with the permanence and irreversibility of the loss that it inflicts. And how strange that this feeling of emptiness, of loss, of the irrevocable passing of something precious, should be for a man I have never even met; only known through words, concepts, ideas, arguments, philosophies - all upon the pages of books. Who would have thought that an abstraction could cause such tearing grief, occasion such a profound sense of sorrow?

Let me try to explain, if I can, what Dworkin meant to me.

On my first day in Law School, as a vaguely clueless kid, all of seventeen years, I entered the library, and wandered around until I found my way to the top floor. Seeing a senior sitting there, I went up to him, and asked, "Could you recommend to me a book about the law?" He looked at me quizzically. "What do you mean by that?" "You know... a book about what law is." By now, he'd probably recognised that I was a first year, and utterly lost. "Do you mean jurisprudence?" I'd heard my father once talk about "jurisprudence" as if it was something nice. I nodded vaguely. "I don't know. I think so." He grinned. "You do mean jurisprudence. Come with me." He took me to the NLS Juris section, and pulled out The Concept of Law. "Here, this should give you a good place to start." He paused. "Or, if you're feeling adventurous..." He walked a little distance, and pulled out a purple book with a vaguely statuesque, wreathed female figure on the cover, and the emblazoned title that read: Taking Rights Seriously. He grinned again. "Try this. And in your next legal methods class, tell Rahul Singh that you've been reading Dworkin."

And that was the first time I heard the name of Ronald Dworkin, a name that would go on to become one of the most familiar things in the world, conjuring up, the moment it was spoken, a raft of thoughts, feelings, emotions, memories. I didn't read Taking Rights Seriously, then. I didn't read jurisprudence at all, through my first year of college. But then came constitutional law. Suddenly, there were a host of issues that I found myself passionately interested in. Free speech. The freedom of religion. Equality. Personal liberty. What were these words that sounded so alluring, and yet bore the faintly vague promise of the breaking of barriers, of constraints, of... danger? What did they mean? What were all these arguments about? I went back to the juris and the political philosophy shelves, and quite by chance, my eyes alighted upon Freedom's Law. I took a look at the list of contents. Seemed interesting enough. I took it down and started to read. And a world exploded in my head. A constitutive conception of democracy. What was this radical way of thinking, about a democracy that didn't treat the vote of the majority as determinative? What were these words, "equal concern and respect", that seemed to lie at the heart of a new, compelling order of things? And above all else, the writing, oh, the writing, so beautiful, so simple, so elegant, so utterly, absolutely, bewitchingly compelling. I was hooked. I read Freedom's Law. I read A Matter of Principle. I tried to read Taking Rights Seriously. I don't think I understood much, back then (I don't know how much I understood now). But I knew that I had found a voice that spoke to me, a voice that made thinking seem beautiful, a voice that, by turns, surprised, astounded, bewildered and outraged, but never failed to inspire.

Because Dworkin didn't just write legal or political philosophy; he created a world, a world that you wanted to believe in with all your heart, to argue for, to fight to build and protect, if it came to that. It was a world of liberal egalitarianism, of individual rights, of strong and principled judicial 'activism' (a word that I know D would disapprove of), a world of - to use his own words - "equal concern and respect". A world of Brown v Board of Education, Roe v Wade, American Booksellers v Hudnut and Lawrence v Texas. I am no longer as entranced by that world as I once was; but Dworkin, as its exponent, was utterly convincing.

In my fourth year, after having read and re-read Dworkin's political philosophy, I finally summoned up the courage to tackle Law's Empire. And, just like in the case of TRS, I felt the frisson all over again, and in all its glory. Interpretation. What a marvelous idea. The philosophers of courtesy. Interpretive concepts. And then came that bit about intention, literary theory, art and constructive interpretation. It was frisson after frisson then, explosion after explosion, a hurricane, a typhoon of ideas swirling in my head, clashing dissonantly with each other, din, chaos, confusion, disharmony, disarray, and oh, all so beautiful. Dilthey. Gadamer. Habermas. Stanley Cavell. Language. Literature. Law. Hamlet, for heaven's sake! If there has ever been a time when a single text transformed my life, it was the time I first read Chapter Two of Law's Empire. It changed the way I read, the way I understood, it changed the very way that I thought. And everything that I've done since then can, I think, in one way, be traced back to that wild, trembling reading of Chapter Two.

I read all of Law's Empire, went back and read Taking Rights Seriously, and then back and forth, criss-crossing through Dworkin's corpus. Gradually he converted me from being vehemently anti-abortion to qualifiedly pro, from being in favour of banning pornography to being entirely opposed to any form of ban, from being supportive of restrictions on free speech to being in opposition to them. In short, I was moving across the spectrum from social conservative to social liberal, purely on the reasoned eloquence, the gentle yet firm and persistant argumentation, and the utterly inspiring vision of Ronald Dworkin. He was a segway into other things: Rawls, Hart, Raz, Berlin, Hayek, Nozick - Dworkin was the foundation, the starting point, the fount of ideas and engagements, and the ultimate point of comparison. When I came out of college, I had developed - in however vague and ill-defined a sense - a "philosophy of life". At the heart of it was Dworkinian liberalism.

And that, I think, is what makes Ronald Dworkin so special, so central, so integral a figure in my own, individual life's journey. There is a time in our lives, I feel, when we first experience the need to define ourselves for ourselves, and to position ourselves in relation to others, to the rest of the world. A time in our lives when we first feel the irresistible pull of those tortuous, haunting questions: how should I live? What ought I do? What is true, good, right, just? What is the meaning of it all? It is a time when we first begin to struggle with our own sense of the self, and with a world that is out of joint, where everything seems by turns senseless and hopeless, when nihilism is a step and a shadow away. And I think that at that time, there is nothing more important than to have a guide, a Virgil taking Dante through hell, a set of signposts, a voice that can bring a semblance of order to the maelstrom of our thoughts. And I don't mean someone who can give us answers - but rather, a compass, a point of reference, that safe harbour from which we can begin our journey, always knowing that we can sail back to it for a while, to rest and recover, if the open sea becomes too frightening. Someone who can set us thinking, in some direction. The rest, I believe, is up to us - but the point of reference is critical. Dworkin was - is - my point of reference.

I'm grateful to Dworkin because I cannot imagine having selected - albeit through pure luck - a better point of reference. That is not because I think he's correct (I don't anymore, not entirely), but because he taught me to think. He taught me to question the premises of every argument, to critically imagine my own deepes, most naked convictions, to follow where the argument leads, and above all else, to never stop arguing, questioning and thinking. He taught me that there are no absolutes, no positions that are beyond criticism, modification or reversal, no questions that are or can be off the table, no ideas that ought ever to be taken for granted. For six years, since the time I first 'discovered' him, he has been with me, that voice, again, that always reminds me to take nothing for granted, assume no axioms, establish no postulates, think, think, think. But parallel to that, he has taught me also that there are questions worth thinking about; things that matter, issues that count. He has saved me from both mocking cynicism and Thrasymachean amoralism, one of which two seem to infect so many of the people I see around me, and in doing so, has taught me to believe that there can be a meaning to life, and that one must always strive to seek it, even though, like the horizon, it always recedes from your grasp. I do not think that there can be a greater service that one human being may render to another.

I came to Oxford a confirmed Dworkinian. Not the most comfortable of positions to take in the home of analytical positivism. I was apprehensive, at the beginning of the BCL year, that the heirs of Joseph Raz would, through sheer intellectual power, convert me to their side, and the vision of Dworkin was one that I did not want to give up. The exact opposite happened. I brought all my Dworkinian bloody-mindedness to class, spending all my year defending - or trying to defend - Dworkin. I told Professor John Gardner that he perhaps hadn't quite taken theoretical disagreement into account.  I spoke about plovers' eggs to Professor Green. I took along Law's Empire to Professor Finnis' class, holding it up and reading out passages like some circus showman, to make the point that Dworkin had been misrepresented by his critics. I suggested to Professor Endicott that, if he examined his own position closely enough, he would find that he was a Dworkinian. I texted Niranjan telling him that Nicos Stavropoulos' exegesis of Dworkinian interpretivism was so beautiful, that it showed Dworkin's structure for the magnificent, coherent whole that it was so perfectly, that it had brought tears to my eyes. I walked with Shiv in the Balliol Fellows' Garden, saying things like "But why can't they bloody see that Dworkin is just... bloody... right! It's blindingly obvious... isn't it?" I messaged Tania with stuff like "Today, I argued for fifteen minutes with Professor Endicott, and at the end he said... "that's... interesting." Yes!!!" It was the taking up of lances, the riding out the joust, the thrill of (trying to) cross swords with the foremost men of jurisprudence, in defence of a man and a set of ideas that I was passionately committed to. It was fun. It was brilliant. It was life. And then, in the middle of the year, Justice for Hedgehogs came out. I bought my copy at Blackwell's the first time I saw it, and stayed up all night reading it. It was, of course, the last of Dworkin's books, and the last of my frissons on reading a new Dworkin work. It was a beautiful synthesis, the coming together of a lifetime's work on law, politics and moral philosophy; and as I read it that night I saw, once and only once, not just law, but the world, the whole world, according to Dworkin: coherence, elegance, simplicity, beauty - the final, harmonious coming together of all things. I have never seen it that way since, but the blinding power of that vision has remained with me, and one of the most beautiful things that Dworkin has done for me is to make me believe if for but one moment, that such a world is possible to imagine.

I applied for an MPhil on Dworkin (of course). What better way to spend a year than reading Dworkin? And over the last few months, the journey has taken me to wild and unexpected places: to literary theory, via Stanley Fish, Derrida, Bakhtin and Foucault; to the philosophy of language, via Wittgenstein, McDowell and Hacker; to aesthetics, via Roger Scruton; and to radical political theory, via Marx. It's been utterly wild. I've gone off in random directions based on my hunches on reading a line in Law's Empire here, a sentence in Hedgehogs there, a phrase in TRS, and so on. Yet although it's been random, it's been incredibly enriching. Although I now find myself disagreeing with Dworkin as much as I agree with him, although I no longer find the ideal of coherence and harmony as compelling as I once did, it's because he created in me the urge to question. And although I am as confused and lost as I was six years ago, it's been some ride along the way!

I had a dream. That after finishing my MPhil, I would send it to Dworkin, and he would tell me what he thought - whatever it was - about my bumbling, year-long efforts to defend his legal philosophy against the positivists. I did dream of finally meeting him, and I imagined our conversation many, many times in my head. Now time has killed the dream... like it kills so much else.


In my journey along the path I have taken, the study of law, there are two men without whom I would (for better or for worse) be nothing today. One of them is gone. That's why, today, I feel bereft. That's why, despite never having met the man, I feel like I've lost someone very close to a parent. Although I will return to his work, now, and in the future, again and again and again, I can never again imagine the presence behind those beautiful words. That voice, so powerful, so eloquent, so... liberal, is forever stilled. And the world is a poorer place for it.

What comforts me is that until the very end, he wrote. He wrote in defence of the causes he believed in, the ideas he was passionate about, the things he thought mattered most. He was shattering his lances in the joust even as death whispered a lullaby, he was on the field until the last sun set forever. Like Voltaire, nothing could halt his pen but the grave. And for me, there can be no better example of a life lived well and long, in service of cause and ideal. If I can die like that after having lived like that, I think I will die happy. Because, as Dworkin once told us...

"On occasions like this one it is hard to resist speaking directly to young scholars who have not yet joined a doctrinal army. So I close with this appeal to those of you who plan to take up legal philosophy. When you do, take up philosophy's rightful burdens, and abandon the cloak of neutrality. Speak for Mrs Sorensen and for all the others whose fate depends upon novel claims about what the law already is. Or, if you can't speak for them, at least speak to them, and explain why they have no right to what they ask. Speak to the lawyers and judges who must puzzle about what to do with the new Human Rights Act. Don't tell the judges that they should exercise their discretion as they think best. They want to know how to understand the Act as law, how to decide, and from what record, how freedom and equality have now been made not just political ideals but legal rights. If you help them, if you speak to the world in this way, then you will remain more true to Herbert Hart's passion and genius than if you follow his narrower ideas about the character and limits of analytic jurisprudence. I warn you, however, that if you set out in this way, then you are in grave danger of being, well, interesting."

Goodbye, until we meet... again.




I did say, once, that I would never go back to Wolvercote. But there's nothing like real loss to bring the rest of it into perspective. Wolvercote again, it was, as always, for moments like these...

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Leavings [Dec. 24th, 2012|11:06 pm]
Tonight, I fly back to the old homeland for a holiday with the family. First, to Bangalore (yes, the irony is not lost on me), and then New Year on a houseboat somewhere in Kerala. Dubious internet connection, at best, until the 8th of January, so an early-days end-of-year post. 

And endings there are. Two days ago, I wrote an email to Rhodes House, informing them that regrettably, I would not be applying to extend my scholarship to the third year. And so, whatever else happens, this much is now certain: when I return to Oxford, I will have six more months in the city of dreaming spires, and then this chapter of my life will be closed. 

Every night of 31st December, I play a little game with myself: I try and predict where I'm going to be at the same moment next year, what I'm going to be doing, what I'll be thinking. Most of the times, the latter two predictions turn out to be wrong to varying degrees, but there's always been enough to be able to make a fairly accurate guess about the first. But this time, I have no dea where I will be this time next year. The halls of the Delhi High Court beckon now, more and more convincingly with each passing day. Or the halls of another university, perhaps. Or... something else altogether, maybe. I don't know. 

And there's a part of myself that calls me a fool for walking away from all.. this. beautiful town, with its woods and its lake and its river, London two hours away, a guaranteed academic future - the straightforward MPhil - DPhil - Fellowship - Lectureship route - at a great university... is there anything else that one could possibly want as an academic? Perhaps not, but then, maybe I'm not meant to be an academic Sigue corriendo, I quoted the Fraud back to him, when he asked me why I was leaving, and I don't think there really is any other explanation. Can't stay. Must go. 

Perhaps I will look back upon this as the worst decision in a career of bad decisions, but somehow, right now, I don't think so. I think it's the only thing I could have done.  

There will be a time to reminisce about Oxford, but it is not now. And yet, I cannot contain the feeling of how quickly time flies. Six more months in this beautiful, brooding place. Can it really be?

And 2012 has been an utterly bizarre year, in every way. How can one year, I wonder, change you more fundamentally than five years in the Law School furnace? That is just the way of it, I suppose. Bring on 2013. I have a feeling that this one's going to be even more bizarre than 2012, if such a thing were possible - and not least because the future after July is invisible. Let the morrow bring what it will. See you on the other side. 
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Reading - 2012 [Dec. 23rd, 2012|05:55 pm]
An utterly crazy year, reading-wise. I'm probably forgetting lots, but here goes. This does not apply to individual essays. And this time, a random rating system. 1 star for good, 2 stars for very good, 3 stars for excellent, and 4 stars for life-changing-go-read-right-now! 

J.L. Borges Fictiones (and other short stories) ****
Victor Hugo Les Miserable **
Milan Kundera Life is Elsewher ***
A.S. Byatt Possession **
A.B. Caecaeres The Invention of Morel ****
S. Sarna The Angel's Share (recusal on grounds of bias)
C. Mieville Railsea **
Guy Gavriel Kay A Song for Arbonne (re-read) ***
Guy Gavriel Kay Tigana ***

Lermontov Collected Poetry ***
Baudelaire Les Fleurs du Mal ****
Milton, Paradise Lost (re-read) ****
Virgil, Aeneid (re-read) ****
Byron, The Collected Works (re-read) ***
Borges, Collected Poetry ***
Rilke, Collected Poetry ***

Ibsen, Love's Comedy **
G.B. Shaw The Doctor's Dilemma **
Chekhov Uncle Vanya *
Goethe, Faust ***

Milan Kundera Life is Elsewhere ***
Milan Kundera Testaments Betrayed ***
Oscar Wilde The Complete Essays ****
Hazlitt Lectures on the English Poets **
Hazlitt Essays on Shakespeare **
Schlegel Lectures on the History of Western Drama ***
Richards Principles of Literary Criticism *
Walter Benjamin, Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism **** 

John MacLeod, Highlanders: A History of the Gaels *
James Hunter, Glencoe and the Indians **

Freud Civilisation and its Discontents ***
Nietzsche The Birth of Tragedy ***
Carpenter The Inklings: CS Lewis, JRR Tolkien, Charles Williams and their Friends **

Gah. I have this nagging feeling that I am forgetting a lot. 
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The Writing Life [Dec. 18th, 2012|08:47 pm]
Write. Edit. Delete. Write. Write more. Delete. Write. Edit. My protagonist is bloody wooden. Need to humanise him. What to do? Oh, of course. We'll write him an intimate scene. What's that, precious? We've never written an intimate scene before? Well, now would be a good time to start, wouldn't it, yes precious? Write. Edit. Gods, this is pure saccharine. Delete. Let's switch over to the action sequences. They're far easier to do. There's a fire in the library, the protagonist is trapped on the top floor, and now we need to find a way to extricate him, since when we were describing the layout of the library first, we hadn't planned for this scene. Argh. Go back. Edit. Delete. Write. It's 3 PM! Six hours! After sincerely promising to not go a minute above three hours. I have to write an MPhil thesis!

Yes, I am in the throes of the writing life, with all its rare highs and seemingly endless lows. Ninety percent of the time, I am dogged by the conviction that this is the most profoundly wasteful enterprise since Napoleon attacked Russia; that I am a terrible writer, my dialogue stilted, my plotting predictable, my concepts outworn, my characters a crime against humanity; that like many blind leaps of faith, this will only end up in bitterness, of looking back and thinking of glorious days wasted, of passions ill-spent, of hopes and dreams that were destined to be broken even as they were hoped and dreamt; that this 150,000-word document has begun and will end its life never stirring from the "My Writing" folder on my laptop.

But for the other ten percent... when everything comes together, when it clicks, when I write caught up by the logic of my own story, when it seems that this is a brilliantly innovative premise I'm working with, when I'm convinced that I am Bradbury, Huxley and Orwell rolled into one (that should tell you I'm working on a futuristic, soft sci-fi dystopia :P), when my words and thoughts take me to a faraway beautiful land, a world away from the shark-infested sea that is 21st century literary publishing.

For that ten percent makes it all worthwhile.

I think. 
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Shifting [Dec. 13th, 2012|04:10 am]
I thought this time would come at some point. I had been avoiding it for a long while, because the thought of having one comprehensive blog has always seemed attractive to me - football rubbing shoulders with life, and travel posts immediately before and after poetry. But somehow, the written word has always seemed different, out of place - literature and poetry are like another world for me, and they, I think, deserve their own space. 

Henceforth, I shall be writing about literature and poetry at http://anenduringromantic.wordpress.com. I suppose I shall migrate some of my more recent posts, slowly enough. 

The title of the new blog is an affirmation of faith. I affirm that notwithstanding all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune and notwithstanding the thousand contummations that the heart is heir to, Milan Kundera, for all his eloquence, has not and will not convert me; that post-Freud-ism, post-Lacan-ism, and all similar post-isms that seek to take the magic out of a smile and the enchantment out of a Highwayman's moon can take the proverbial rod, and stick it up their collective you-know-whats; that a line of Lermontov will always speak to me at a far deeper level than all the corpus of Larkin; that Keats puts his finger on the pulse of the universe when he says: that "Beauty is truth; truth beauty - that is all; Ye know on earth and all ye need to know"; and because the two cowslips I saw today, growing side-by-side against all odds, high upon the hills of Dover, in the frozen heart of December, in the midst of barren rock and snow, tell me that, like their fragile, short and beautiful life, our hearts are meant to endure.

As for piper-of-dawn - it too will remain, because it has been with me for almost seven years, seven unforgettable years of all kinds of creation and carnage, and I will never try to erase the past by deleting it, even though I wish I had never written some of the stuff on here (what was I thinking?!). It will remain the best place to write about travel, and other random thoughts on life, which I have from time to time.    
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Writing [Dec. 11th, 2012|10:57 am]
I have stayed up all night, bleary eyed, head throbbing, and adrenaline running through my veins, and I have finished the first draft of my science-fiction novel. 

12th December 2012, in a dingy little hostel room in Dover. A strange and very non-symbolic backdrop, it must be said. But then, the white cliffs are only a couple of miles away, and there's romance enough in the air. 
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One Last Time [Dec. 9th, 2012|12:14 am]
I'm just back from a fairly mundane 5-a-side at Uni Club with some Greeks. Honestly, these days, with the bitter December cold, and with all the football I've played over the last year and a half, I only go to keep some semblance of fitness up. It's very difficult now to *get up* for just another game of football.

Friday evenings with Cristian Riveros and a bunch of Spaniards are the exception. Now those games are frenzied, frantic, non-stop. People perform the seal dribble on court, step-overs are the norm, and one-touch passing into space is always the expected thing. And there's a girl who shimmies, back-heels and does the most outrageous flicks imaginable - but I digress. Yesterday, completely carried away by the moment, while playing keeper, I dived full-length to keep out a shot, and then again to push away the rebound with my face. Two bad ideas. When I got up, I was bleeding from the knee, shoulder and mouth (my teeth are still hurting). As The Fraud would put it: hurts like heaven.

I suppose the point is that I cannot remember getting so crazily caught up in the moment for a long, long time.

Not since... PFL.

And I hear that back in the land of fading memories and forgotten dreams, it is starting again.

It's a strange thing. I don't think I was truly out of Law School last year, during the BCL. Everytime I stepped on to the astro-turf, I remembered the basketball court. I knew exactly when Jessup deadlines were. Spiritus, Univ Rounds, Univ Week and so on... I think part of my mental life was still following the Law School calender. I wrote about Law School on my blog, and it felt bittersweet. There were memories, and longing, and happiness. Difficult to cut lose so quickly, I suppose, when you spend five formative and madly intense years of your life in one place. And then, with the passing of the BCL, something changed. I thought of Law School less, remembered it fewer times. I went back in August, and after that, I don't think I've even blogged about it once. It's rapidly slipping to the back of my mind, behind veils of mist and smoke, as a new life, a new existence, takes me over.

And yet, the memory of PFL is as vivid as ever.

One last time, I think. This is the last year when all those whom I fought beside and against will take to the court. All of them, together. And for the ones I know best, the ones with and against whom I had the most memorable moments for so many years, on that floodlit basketball court, it is their last campaign. Some of them have won it all - twice. Some want to. Badly. And they will be there. As I wander about on the white cliffs of Dover next week, beneath the leaden grey skies and upon foreign shores, one last time, I will think of them all, and remember home. I will think of the Captain sprinting forward on a wild break-away to score the fifth goal against Manish Jha's team. I will think of Coomar with his ridiculous, bending free-kick against Nikki, and him raising his arms to the sky. I will think of Karpet sprinting from one end of the court to the other. And I will remember Vakasha clenching his fist and shouting "Hold the line!" the moment we went 2 - 1 up in the final. I will remember them all, in bitersweet joy and sorrow for all the beautiful things past, for all the memories that will never die, and silently, I will wish them good luck for their last time.

Yes, I will remember Moares too, of course he is, wherever he is, and all the others who, for thirty glorious minutes, time after time, left everything on that little, square strip of concrete, bathed in that alluring floodlight. Srikant, Jassi, Ashankan, Techi, Viraj, Basu, once teammates and opponents, and lucky enough to be still walking out there.

I will remember back-heels in the rain, and smile; 0 - 7 and 0 - 3, and grimace; penalty shoot-outs, and grin ruefully. But above all else, I will remember feet and ball. Because truly, at the end of the day, like we've all said to each other so many times, all that matters, once you walk on to that court... is what you do when the ball is at your feet. 

PFL, the ultimate anodyne for all the existential anguish of the world. What I would give to be back there. Just for one week. Just one turn in the midfied, and the pass for the Captain to run on to. Once. Amidst the lights, the crowd, the passion, the fire, the rage, the ecstacy, the dreams, the yearning, the tears, the poetry, the song.

From somewhere, far away, I will be.  
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