Considering Spain was ruled for – in some parts – up to 800 years by Muslims, it’s no surprise that lasting remnants of Spain’s Islamic past are present in everything from gastronomy to music, language and architecture. Even when the Islamic empire finally succumbed to the Reconquest, the dazzling architectural forms and styles lived on for centuries.

Islamic architecture is considered to be Spain’s most captivating architectural trend and certainly gives the country an exotic edge- especially considering the fact that Islamic architecture is the only style that Spain doesn’t share with the rest of Europe!

Islamic Architecture: Characteristics

Along with the closely linked Mudéjar style, Islamic architecture is one of refined sophistication, sumptuous decoration and peaceful harmony.

Another signature element of Islamic architecture is the integration of nature. Light, water and vegetation are masterfully incorporated into palaces, homes and mosques and serve both practical and aesthetic purposes. Especially given that Islamic architecture traditionally hails from a culture based in arid desert lands, you are bound to see lush gardens gracing courtyards, filtered light creating geometric patterns across the floor and tranquil fountains and reflecting pools both indoors and outdoors.

In the realm of urban planning, white-washed buildings were constructed practically right on top of each other on narrow streets. Along with the incorporation of shady courtyards these structures avoided direct sunshine and kept these quarters comfortable and cool.

Islamic Architecture: Legacy

Construction of the Great Mosque at Cordoba (now a cathedral known as the Mezquita) beginning in 785 CE marks the beginning of Islamic architecture in the Iberian peninsula and North Africa (see Moors). The mosque is noted for its striking interior arches. Moorish architecture reached its peak with the construction of the Alhambra, the magnificent palace/fortress of Granada, with its open and breezy interior spaces adorned in red, blue, and gold. The walls are decorated with stylized foliage motifs, Arabic inscriptions, and arabesque design work, with walls covered in glazed tile. There other, smaller, survivals such as the Bab Mardum in Toledo, or the caliphal city of Medina Azahara. Moorish architecture has its roots deeply established in the Arab tradition of architecture and design established during the era of the first Caliphate of the Umayyads in the Levant circa 660AD with its capital Damascus having very well preserved examples of fine Arab Islamic design and geometrics, including the carmen, which is the typical Damascene house, opening on the inside with a fountain as the house’s centre piece.

Even after the completion of the Reconquista, Islamic influence had a lasting impact on the architecture of Spain. In particular, medieval Spaniards used the Mudéjar style, highly influence Islamic design. One of the best examples of the architectures’ lasting impact on Spanish architecture is the Alcázar of Seville

It is the story of a prince and a fairy, Saif-ul-Malook and Badr-ul-Jamal, a story of love, adventure, faith, magic, suffering and betrayal – a story of the multitude of human passions.

Many different versions exist, but below is a reproduction of what the storytellers told us, as faithful to their words as possible, with some writer’s liberties. I hope you enjoy reading it at least half as much as I did listening!

Read Part I of the story here

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It was the lake – emerald green, calm as a mirror, ringed by rugged snow-capped peaks – the very one from his dream.

Saif’s joy was uncontrollable. “I shall find her, I shall find her here!” he cried, jumping up and down like a child.  ”My suffering is finally over!”

In his excitement, he forgot about how he had been transported to the lake in the first place – courtesy the jinn of Solomon’s cap, who was at this moment standing behind him in human form.

The jinn cleared his throat. “Prince Saif…there is one thing.” Saif turned around with a start. “What…?” he said slowly, peering at the jinn.

“You will not be able to see the Fairy Queen Badr Jamal. She is, like us, naari, borne of fire, hence invisible to the human eye in her true form.”

“So, what must I do to see her?”  Saif asked impatiently.

“You may pray,” the jinn replied. “Pray for forty consecutive days – the chilla – without food, drink or sleep, without moving from the circle wherein you sit. Then, and only then, will you be able to see the Fairy Badr Jamal.”

With these somber words, the jinn vanished.

It sounded impossible. Only saints and prophets like Jesus, Moses, Baba Farid Ganj Shakkar and Hafiz of Shiraz had been known to perform a chilla to completion – others either died or lost their senses in the attempt.

But Saif was not about to be thwarted from his objective so close to the end. “I’ve looked for her for six years, wandering the streets of Egypt with nothing but a kashkol, a begging bowl. Surely I can endure another forty days?”

So, drawing a circle of pebbles on the southern shore of the lake, he seated himself inside,  closed his eyes,  and began to pray. He prayed, and prayed, and prayed, and as the suns went down and the moons came up, Saif grew a little weaker, his face thinner, his pain stronger, his yearning deeper. He lost count of the days, and awaited each night with the hope – “Perhaps I will see her tonight?”

But Badr Jamal did not appear.

One night, as the sun cast its dying amber rays on the Himalayan slopes, and twilight crept into the sky like the daub of a paintbrush, Prince Saif sat in his circle wondering if he would live to see another day. Physically exhausted, his body was about to give up the struggle, but his mind had never felt sharper, calmer.

It was also a chowdveen ki raat – the 14th of the lunar month, or the night of a full moon – and the sight of that perfect silver orb, glowing in the star-studded indigo sky, enveloping the lake, the mountains and himself in its ethereal light, filled Prince Saif’s heart with peace. “If I were to die here tonight, if my soul were to leave my body tonight, I would be happy man.”

Suddenly, a sound reached his ears – like the fluttering of a great flock of birds, far away at first,  then  closer – intermingled with a delicate tinkling, like the chime of a thousand tiny bells. Saif looked up;  a great white cloud was moving from the west towards the lake.

“Perhaps it’s the Angels of Death, come to take me home!”, Saif thought.

But they were not Angels, because Prince Saif-ul-Malook was not destined to die that night. That chowdveen ki raat, Saif became one of the handful of human beings to ever complete a chilla, and one of the rarer still to set eyes on the mythical Fairies of KohKaaf, the Caucasus Mountains. They flew to the lake every full moon to bathe, and their Queen was Badr-ul-Jamal.

The white cloud slowly descended at the shore of the lake, and seven forms emerged – seven beatific creatures, fair-limbed, dark-haired, golden-eyed, with large gossamer wings on their backs that glittered in the moonlight.

Saif was dumbstruck. An invisible force propelled him to his feet and he ran behind some large boulders, from where he could watch without being seen. His mouth agape with wonder, he watched as the seven Fairies laughingly doffed their wings, folded them neatly on ground,  and dived into the deep, shimmering waters of the lake.

And then he saw her – Badr Jamal, the same as in his dream. She was the last to enter the lake, effortlessly gliding through the water with her long black hair spread out behind her, her face radiant like the full moon, eyes twinkling like a child’s.  She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Prince Saif felt like he would faint from rapture. The object of his quest, of six years and forty days of tortuous struggle, was right there in plain sight; a living, breathing, palpable creature!

To be continued…

Reprinted piece by Manal Khan

It is the story of a prince and a fairy, Saif-ul-Malook and Badr-ul-Jamal - a story of love, adventure, faith, magic, suffering and betrayal – a story of the multitude of human passions.  Many different versions exist, but below is a reproduction of what the storytellers told us, as faithful to their words and mood as possible, with some writer’s liberties. I hope you enjoy reading it at least half as much as I did listening!

___________________________________________________________________________________________

Now listen to me,” he said, and he began.

“I have not seen the Fairy, but I have seen the glory of God.

Every month, on the chowdveen, the  14^th night of the moon, the Lake is like a mirror - cradling the mountains, the sky, the innumerable twinkling stars, the glowing orb of the moon - so still, so clear, you can scarcely tell between reality and reflection. It is a sight to behold.

Many a night I have also seen lights, floating lights, a thousand floating lights, here on the slope where we sit, and watched them disappear under the rocks…

I have not seen the Fairy Badr-ul- Jamal, but I have witnessed the glory of God.”

Once upon a time, there lived in Egypt a prince called Saif-ul-Malook. They say that Saif was the handsomest man to walk the earth since Joseph himself – tall and lean, with skin the colour of gleaming copper, a clear, noble brow, deep-set dark eyes and black hair that fell in waves to his shoulders. He was brave,  a skilled hunter, rider and swordsman, true to his Arabic name – “Sword of the Kings”. Born to riches, Prince Saif had never wanted for anything in his life; there was not a stone, river, man or woman in the kingdom that he could not claim.

Until one night, he had a dream.

A dream that changed the course of his life, and robbed him of his peace of mind forever.

He dreamt of a lake, a lake he had never seen before, surrounded by mountains that seemed to touch the sky and water that shimmered emerald-green in the moonlight.  In the lake seven fairies were bathing -  ethereal creatures,  slim as gazelles, with creamy skins, wide, golden eyes, and hair like rippling ebony – but the seventh among them eclipsed them all in beauty. Her face  was as radiant as the full moon, badr, but it was when she laughed, skipping on the water without a care in the world – it was when she laughed that Saif was seized by a joy and a sadness so intense, so inexpressible,  that he awoke from his sleep with tears in his eyes.  Badr-ul-Jamal…he had never seen anything more beautiful.

The next morning, Saif was visibly troubled.

“Why so crestfallen, son?” asked the king, his father, at breakfast.

“Father,” the young man confided. “I think I am in love.”

The king was overjoyed. “What happy news, son! This calls for a wedding! Who is the favoured princess?”

“No princess, father,” Saif replied grimly; then, with a sudden burst of elation: “She is a Queen…A Queen among fairies!”

The king’s face furrowed into a frown as he considered his son’s words. “Saif, you do realize what you are saying?  A fairy! She is a bird, a creature cast of fire, naari. So how can a human being, and earthbound mortal like you, ever hope to possess her?” He shook his head vehemently. ”It is impossible. Abandon the idea at once. It will bring you nothing but misery,” he foresaw.

But it was no use. It was too late for discussion, for persuasion and advice. Saif’s  heart was already on fire. He begged his father’s permission to set out and look for that magical lake where the fairies bathed, in the hopes of finding their Queen. With a heavy heart, the king consented, blessed him on his quest, and watched his only son ride away into the desert.

For six long years Prince Saif searched, roaming every corner of Egypt, from Alexandria to Sinai. Begging on the streets, his hair in his eyes, his shoes in tatters, consumed by love, people no longer recognized him.”There he goes, the madman!” they cried. “There goes the madman, the majnun, who looks for a lake the colour of emeralds and mountains of pure white! Who ever heard of such a place?” And they laughed and pushed him out of town.

One day, as he wandered about the outskirts of Cairo, Saif saw a holy man, a buzurg, sitting under the shade of a lone olive  tree. “Perhaps this holy man can help me,” Saif thought. As he approached him, the old man looked up expectantly.

“Ah, there you are,” the old man said,  a smile playing on his lips. “I’ve been waiting for you, Prince Saif.”

Prince! No one had addressed him like that in almost six years. But before Saif had the chance to express his surprise or explain his predicament, thebuzurg dug a hand into the bountiful folds of his cloak and produced an old, battered round sheepskin cap, frayed and thinned with what seemed like centuries of use.  Placing it in Saif’s hands, the holy man said, looking at him with keen eyes, “You have been through a lot, my son. But the important thing is that you don’t give up - nothing  valuable is won without a struggle.”

Saif toyed with the cap in his hands. “Thank you,” he said hesitatingly. “But what am I supposed to do with this?”

The old man chuckled. “Why, what do you think? Put it on!”

Puzzled, Prince Saif gingerly placed the old cap on his head.

What happened next cannot be described, only experienced by the wearer of aSuleimani topi, Solomon’s fabled magic cap. There was a gust of wind; Saif felt the earth give away under his feet; suddenly, he was shooting through the sky in a fantasic whirlwind of faces, places, colours and memories; a deafening rumble filled his ears; and then, in the blink of an eye, his feet were firmly planted again on the earth. When he opened his eyes, this is what he saw.

For Test cricket, the significance of touching 2000 becomes even more relevant from the perspective that not four years ago, there was a huge war cry over the threat to the game of cricket as it stood with the advent and immense popularity of Twenty20. While Twenty20 accorded the convenience of time and packaged entertainment, it threatened to break down the skill sets of cricketers that shaped their endurance test over the five days of Test cricket.

To then have the occasion to celebrate the milestone is not merely a celebration of Test cricket having withstood more than a century since its inception but also, to mark the event as the impetus with which to propel the future of Test cricket forward. Perhaps it would not be unwise to say that the reason he ICC has chosen to mark this milestone more prominently is not merely to sit on the legacy of the past but rather with the intention to use the opportunity to showcase the fact that Test cricket may have had to accede to the newer formats such as the ODIs and more recently the bombardment of Twenty20 but that it is not lost relevance and that is not merely surviving but thriving when presented with the right background.

Even within the battle in the pinnacle version of the sport, there are several other milestones that could become encased in history. Sachin Tendulkar, the modern day batting legend, is on the cusp of 100 international centuries and in the interest of lending more weight to an already high profile Test, the impending milestone is being anticipated for Lord’s where ironically Tendulkar is yet to etch his name. But it will not be an exhibition affair wherein the England cricket team will be merely content to stand back in the field and applaud as Tendulkar raises his arms to the sky and that is what makes the competition ever more of a highly charged nature, which is great from Test cricket’s perspective.

The backdrop to the 2000^th Test could have not been more perfectly planned even if the ICC chose to do something about it. That it has coincided with the 100^th India versus England Test has automatically set the stage for a showdown and the best way to celebrate the sport is by playing host to arguably the best match up under the present system of adjudging the two best teams in the business at the moment. With India the reigning no.1 Test team and England itching to grab hold of that title themselves in a challenging affair has already set the game up. That there is not necessarily the drama of a great rivalry but of a contest with a huge catch for the winner makes it perhaps the veritable battle for the crown. What better way to celebrate the occasion of Test cricket that to have the two most competitive teams in the business making it all business, displaying not only the authenticity of a true Test contest but also, serving as a platform why Test cricket needs to be nurtured in the interest of  the game.

The above is part of a report published by The U.S Dept of State/Bureau of International Information Programs. This colorful, 60 page glossy book, has lots of photos and info “Being Muslim in America.” Below is the link to the entire report in PDF.

View the PDF

The advent of the Twenty20 version of cricket had one day cricket in the heat of discussions with some cricket aficionados wanting to retain the format that brought the golden goose home in the first place while others were more than happy pandering to the shortest format and still send bank balances for a wild spin. However, there was no reason why the three formats, including Test cricket, could not co exist in harmony if a balance could be retained.

But scheduling was not the only concern for one day cricket. The game, cut out of the same cloth as Test cricket, but with very different designs embellished, was in danger of being forced into extinction because it had become monotonous, predictable and less palatable for cricket fans with short attention spans.

One day cricket needed a change. But it certainly did not need the kind of fragmented ideas that have seen the game being sliced and played in two disjointed halves. Fortunately, the ICC did not see a similar design on how the one day game should progress. Instead the ICC appears to have made note of several suggestions and implemented those that not only preserve the identity of the one day cricket format but also, enhance those qualities that separate it from Test cricket.

Amongst the many interesting plans that the ICC has brought forth into implementation include the use of two new balls at the start of each innings as well as tweaking the power play overs. In doing so, already elements within the game have been enhanced to add a little more spunk to the proceedings.

Cricket, in any format, has traditionally been considered weighing heavily in the batsmen’s favour. For the ICC to then bring about changes to the one day cricket format in such a way as to lend greater importance to the ball as has been for the bat, it has already elevated the one day game in the eyes of cricket aficionados who appreciate the contest between bat and ball rather than the merely lusty batting that has become the bane in the guise of entertainment in sport these days.

By bringing in two new white balls at the start of each innings, not only has the ICC avoided the headache for the umpires to change the balls at the thirty-four over mark but also, ensured that the bowlers have a greater license to dictate at the start of the innings. With the balls staying harder longer, it will be difficult for the batsmen to negotiate the truly talented fast bowlers, making the game a rather enticing prospect which will keep fans glued for longer than the first ten overs.

And in order than the final ten overs remain the slog overs but without the teams manipulating the power play overs into another predictable affair, the ICC had forced the captains to put their thinking caps on and ensure that the overs between sixteen to forty remain just as suspenseful as the first and final ten overs of the match. In doing so, the ICC has tackled one of the biggest issues in one day cricket today – where do the fans go during the middle period of the innings? Now with teams have to cope with sudden changes in the middle of the match, it should change the routines by which fast and spin bowlers are used as also when pinch hitters are launched. The one day cricket has a lifeline. It is upto the teams now to make it work. The ICC had certainly taken steps in the right direction and needs to be applauded for not doing about their job with a butcher’s knife.

It is not often that boards and players see eye to eye on matters. There is plenty of that going around and the most obvious of these would involve the harrowing relationship that explains why Chris Gayle is all gaaaudy on the sidelines in his garb rather than blinding people with his majestic stroke play. But in a second issue of its kind, the BCCI and the Indian cricketers seem in remarkable harmony.

While the present topic touches upon the relevance of the Umpire Decision Review System, one can see shades of their collective resistance and resolute domination on matters when the ICC had the difficult job of getting the Indian cricketers to adhere to the whereabouts clause in the WADA drug code. Compliance with WADA would give cricket a direct ticket into the multi discipline events such as the Olympics. But with the kind of prosperity that accrued even when the world slumped in depression is an indicator of just how unfazed the BCCI is with respect to having to conform or letting cricket join hands with other sports.

Just like the BCCI is an autonomous body that keeps thwarting the Sports Ministry’s attempts to centralize it, it is equally comfortable with the idea that cricket need not have to aspire for the Olympics, quite secure in the fact that when there is something equivalent to the World Cup, the globe shrinks to just a dozen or so teams that make the competition. But that the BCCI would extend its authority across factors that affects other members of the cricket world is what seems to be irksome for others.

The BCCI has been unflinching in how it hands the IPL and the foreign cricketers who sign up with it. Now the BCCI (and in this case, it would include the Indian cricketers although they would not be the ones making the final call on the decision) is standing adamant that the Umpire Decision Review System is inefficient and exorbitant to be implemented across the sport as the part of enhancing the quality of the sport with the technology to aid the umpiring.

There is a certain admission across foreign boards and cricketers that the UDRS does have its flaws. They are even willing to admit that it will be a while before the system is perfected to being beyond reason. However, the issue that is most perplexing to them and to cricket aficionados who certainly value the merit of a good decision made, it is inconceivable to think that the BCCI cannot see through the point that unless the system is put to use uniformly across and that is used over a period of time, the errors or loopholes within the application of technology cannot be addressed.

There are certainly some rather relevant points made by senior thinking cricketers such as Sachin Tendulkar. But perhaps it is time to realize that leadership in being the custodian of the game is not merely to expand one’s coffers with a unique and supremely successful proposition that is the IPL despite the obvious opposition but also, in lending weight to those ideas that will be imperative in the years to come. The opportunity for the strong Indian team to not only embrace such game changing innovations but also, stamp their own insight, intelligence and angle which now will have more relevance because of the position they command as a result of their performance, not necessarily as a direct result of the clout that the board enjoys over the rest of the kingdom. Instead by turning into the equivalent of obnoxious brats who refuse to accede to the concerns of their equally important counterparts unless their own interests are served, the very least that India can be counted upon to adding to their reputation of being bullies, albeit of a different kind, something every team avowed after the period of Australia’s cricket supremacy.

There is merit to question why the UDRS was not tried across domestic cricket. However, since it is a situation where ninety per cent of the Test playing nations are eager to trial it and one board, albeit a rather powerful one as is never more evident, is holding them up, it is natural that the voice of dissent is louder in number but still a feeble groan in front of a defiant stand. It is unimaginable because perhaps nobody stands to lose more than India, as the no.1 ranked team that others want to overtake, by not adopting technology. One critically erroneous decision against the world class batting line up could undo months of hard work; one wrongful denial of a dismissal could make the world of difference between confidence and a bruising. Which side would India rather be on?

In Ithaca, my favorite season was Autumn – a firedance in the sky, bold and blazing, curling flames at your feet – and in New York, it has to be spring, the teenage of nature, blooming poetry from every stem, every lilting branch, a breathtaking ballet of pink and white to melt the numbest of hearts.

On such a blossomy New York morning last week,  my colleague Ryan and I were at Ground Zero, jostling through hundreds of New Yorkers and out-of-towners to catch a glimspe of President Obama as he arrived to lay a wreath at the September 11th Memorial Site, giving symbolic “closure” to the victims and families of the 9/11 attacks following Osama bin Laden’s death.

We didn’t see him, not even a fluttering hand through a darkened car window. But Obama became irrelevant once we actually started talking to people and recording their reactions to the news.

Reactions were predictable: One African-American woman beamed with pride that Obama had been in office “to do this urgent and important duty”.  A man who had lost four friends in 9/11 said he felt a sense of “relief” and “joy” beyond words; a young Latino-American who had recently joined the New York National Guard said that Osama’s death was a source of “unity” for the people of New York, that it showed “how Americans come, in all shapes and forms, whatever nationality you are, whatever colour you, you come as one.”

But what was unpredictable was these people’s, these ordinary, middle-class, tax-paying people’s calm acceptance of the fact that yes, this “war” was “not going to end with the death of one person”, and, more disturbingly, that it needed to go on, that it should go on. In the words of one 67-year old ex-Marine, “We have to be there in all of these countries to assist…so we can crush these people when they come in to try and hurt us. It’s not over.”

While Ryan asked the questions and I filmed behind the camera, I thought about the questions I would have liked to asked these people: “But do you know the real victims of your country’s fallacious war? Do you know who actually pays the price? What do you have to say to the families of the tens of thousands of innocent men, women and children killed in Afghanistan, in Iraq, in Pakistan because of this war? Were their lives less valuable than the 3,000 Americans who died here 10 years ago? Do you not see that what you’re calling ‘patriotism’ and ‘duty’ is decimating entire societies, entire nations as we speak?”

I said nothing of the sort. I was a journalist, and Pakistani on top of that, and the last thing I wanted to in that sort of crowd was get into an argument.

Turns out, somebody else was there to do it for me – a lanky, bespectacled and very articulate white dude by the name of Sander Hicks, founder of the “Truth Party”, a grassroots political group that believes in exposing, among other things, that 9/11 was a hoax. Wearing a black T-shirt with the words “9/11 Is A  F****** Lie!” emblazoned on the front,  Hicks shouted maniacally but fearlessly to the crowd, “Why am I here? Am I here to celebrate and validate a murder? Without a trial, without due process? Or am I here to think about what is really happening in our country? Do we justify war and torture based on 10 years of lies? I say no! And I don’t care if there’s a million people here saying I’m an a**hole, just for standing up for peace and truth!”

I’m still surprised that he got away with saying that, and a lot more, without even a scratch, though there were several jingos in the crowd who would’ve liked nothing better than give the provocative Hicks a square punch in the jaw. But shouting back “A** hole!” is about as far as they let their anger go.

Then, in the middle of the fray, a red-faced, white-mustachioed little man broke in.  Wearing a black leather jacket covered in Vietnam insignia, he cried in a thick Texan drawl: “You know what I would’ve done if I were President when 9/11 happened? I would’ve nuked the entire Middle East, starting with Mecca!”

So far that day, I had been watching and listening to everybody almost in the third person, a perfectly neutral body. But at those words, I felt my heart plummet like it would at a vertical drop on a Seven Flags rollercoaster, and a row of goosebumps shot up my spine as if I were suddenly caught in an Arctic gale wearing a T-shirt.  I looked up from the camera. My eyes stung; I thought I was going to cry.

It was pure reflex. Something essential and sacrosanct, seeded deep in my soul, had been momentarily convulsed, and at that moment  I could’ve clawed out the old geezer’s eyes.

There was a collective gasp from the crowd, and people were quick to admonish, “No, no, that’s crazy!”, “Not all Muslims are bad!”. Clearly, the guy was a loony, and it would’ve been stupid to take anything he said seriously. But his words stayed with me long after his black leather jacket disappeared into New York’s hubbub of loonies, and I thought, “So this is how it feels – to be on the ‘other side’ of extremism?”

We’ve had plenty loonies from our part of the world dispense similar tirades about the West, about the U.S., Europe or Israel – and God knows I’m not a fan of those parts of the world or their foreign policies. But to an ordinary citizen, who has as little control over what their government does as we do over ours, how would it feel, to be so sweepingly abused, to hear people talk about obliterating our very existence, burning flags and defacing temples as if it would have no consequences, as if it would offend or incite nobody; even for someone like me, deeply suspect of nationalism and all other -isms in general, I admit that it would hurt – that it does hurt.

It’s complicated. It’s complicated when imperialism is involved, when capitalism and neo-colonialism is involved, when there is a legitimate anger and resentment and struggle for justice, like in Palestine, or Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan. It’s difficult to talk without the invective, without the bitterness, when you have been truly wronged; but all I can say is, let’s let humanity win.

That’s all we have, to keep us alive and save us from total catastrophe. At the end of the day, it’s the ordinary citizen’s sympathies and consicence that we can appeal to, we can touch; it’s their ordinary humanity that we can depend on, not any politician’s or government’s. Let’s not sacrifice that, no matter which ‘side’ we come from.

This is not about Gambhir. This is about the double standards of the powerful, rich and autocratic Indian cricket board who looks the other way when lines like too much cricket are flaunted, when former Indian coaches like Gary Kirsten point out that the players are fatigued and injured because of the IPL and then, appear all benevolent in giving the cricketers rest for five ODIs. Gambhir complicates the BCCI from taking punishment against the KKR franchisee for ignoring the medical report because Gambhir’s problems have not occurred, but aggravated, as a result of his participation in the IPL 4. If the BCCI knew of Gambhir’s problems, why did the BCCI not stand in the way of the likes of Dhoni ( with back and finger problems), Sachin Tendulkar ( with hand injuries last season), or Virender Sehwag ( battling a shoulder waiting to fall off? Does one really need to spell it out?

The notebooks will be available June 15 online via Best Buy and Amazon.com. Samsung will also bring a Chromebox desktop model to market for business settings – for $28 per month per user.

With over 160 million people now using Chrome, it’s not a stretch to imagine a bunch of them buying a Chromebook. Will you?