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| Varieties of the game |
| The IPL shall just create a loyalty to oneself, and one’s bank balance |
| In my opinion, Test cricket may be compared to the finest Scotch, 50-overs a side to Indian Made Foreign Liquor, and 20-20 to the local hooch. The addict who cannot have the first or the second will make do with the last. The pleasures of the shortes... |
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| Selective sympathy |
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Sir — By reprimanding M.S. Dhoni for sacrificing a goat in a Ranchi temple, the People for the Ethi ... |
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| Terminal illness |
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Sir — As Abhijit Bhattacharyya has pointed out, not only are most of India’s airports hopelessly cl ... |
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| Parting shot |
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Sir — The standard of English-teaching in West Bengal is so abysmal that it is affecting the job pr ... |
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| DO NOT GO GENTLY |
| To be accepted as a powerful nation, it is necessary to behave like a powerful nation. This simple and self-evident truth doe...|
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| Leaden eyes, why do you stare so? |
| The title of Samir Roy’s exhibition of recent works, Quaint Gaze (Gallery Akar Prakar, Feb 16-29), invokes a visual register that is at once direct and richly difficult... |
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| Shades of longing |
| The photographs in Subir Chatterjee’s recently concluded exhibition, Elsewhere (Seagull Arts and Media Resource Centre, March 7-24), were, in a sense, ‘free’ objects. E... |
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| Can’t do the Can Can |
| The Calcutta School of Music boasts a Bösendorfer concert grand, now long past her prime, and an original Steinway grand that is even older, as well as a few upright pianos al... |
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| Dreary spring |
| It may be spring but the Calcutta art scene shows no sign of rejuvenation. Arts 39 (March 7-16), an exhibition featuring some wellknown artists at the Academy of Fine A... |
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| Unforgettable India |
| I had a small windfall. Last month, my son living in Mumbai re-directed a bound manuscript of articles I had commissioned for... |
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There is so much silence between the words,/ you say. You say, The sensed absence/ of God and the sensed presence/ amount to much the same thing,/ only in reverse./ You say, I have too much white clothing./ You start to hum./ Several hundred years ago/ this could have been mysticism/ or heresy. It isn’t now./ Outside there are sirens./ Someone’s been run over./ The century grinds on. — MARGARET ATWOOD
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