::: BEAUTY LIVE IN THE WORLD :::

I am an avid book reader and an incorrigible shopaholic. With the fear of sounding shallow, I admit getting a good bargain can at times be as fulfilling as reading a good book. But the hard-earned reputation of being brilliant at shopping could boomerang when I have to chaperone my friends at their shopping spree and things could be tormenting when I am broke. My ATM card is a mockery since I only know how to draw the money; guess I missed the lesson on depositing. But the shopping I had with my best guy friend the other day was entertaining as well as eye-opening. I bet that’s what the great rhetorician Philip Sydney meant by having a learning and pleasing experience at the same time. A self-professed Argentina fan, to be more precise, baby-face Messi’s fan, my friend wanted to get himself a jersey of Argentina with Messi’s name emblazoned on it. When we reached one of the city’s leading men’s clothing stores, to his utter disappointment and my amusement, the store was simply out of Messi’s jersey. The look on my friend’s face was exactly the look I see on faces of kids when they drop their much-pined-for ice-creams. To add injury to his insult, the salesman suggested that they do have Tevez’s jersey and would my friend care to buy that. Well, I like to call my friend a fair-weather football fan. He dœsn’t give a hoot about football for three years and eleven months and it’s only when there is World Cup going on that he remembers he is sworn Argentine fan and words said against the team is a personal attack on him. So given his past record and conduct, I had my reservations if he knew who even Tevez was, though I believe if Argentina moves further in the tournament, he will know and come to love the player with a burnt scar on his neck and an impressive resume of playing with world’s top-notch Football clubs. What I like best about the World Cup is that it brings the seasonal football fan out of most people and analysts and experts out of everyone. It seems such a waste of money that footballing nations are pumping big bucks on a team of coaches, managers and body of selectors. Why, the audience can do the job for less-than-a-quarter of what they are paying their team of accomplished experts. I simply love listening to the postmatch analysis. Don’t jump to hasty conclusions, I don’t mean ESPN or Star Sports. They only have bunch of players who onceupon- a-time made their appearance in past tournaments or played in top leagues. So what? Their analysis is hackneyed, oh-sopredictable and couched in sugary, syrupy language, taking care not to offend anyone so that no one files a lawsuit against the channel they are working for. The real surgery of the match is performed with deft hands, sharp eyes and razor-tongues in college canteens, work places, gymnasiums, cafes; in short, everywhere where there is a likelihood of meeting two or more people. Football offers excitement, thrill, the rush of adrenaline, drama, action, beauty, sportsmanship, and the camaraderie. By camaraderie, I am not talking about the sportsmanship between nations who outside the ground share a hostile history. I particularly have in mind the instant camaraderie I see in people when they realise they are rooting for the same team. I open my Facebook account and all I see on my home page are my friends mocking the loss of their friends’ favourite teams, communal mourning, or group cheering. Like the way the vuvuzela has been causing hearing problems to players on the fields, I am having a problem trying to find out what’s going on in the lives of my friends. Don’t get me wrong. I love this beautiful game. What’s there not to like about it? It’s a game where strength and stamina of an athlete blends with the agility and skill of an artist. The pace with which players move is stunning and the skill with which they manœuvre the ball is spectacular. The defenders trying with all their might to stop their opponents from scoring; the midfielders who walk the dual sword of dispossessing the ball from opponents and creating opportunities for their strikers; and the perfect finish of the strikers—no wonder the game is the world’s most popular sport. I watch the 90- minute-long riveting match with anticipation and exhilaration, but with a fear of being labelled shallow again, I confess I get really dejected if players don’t exchange their jerseys at the end of the match. Tell me, where on earth can you see a better- toned, sweat-glistened, sculpted body than on a football field? If the football aficionado within me makes me watch the match, the girl inside me glues herself to the post-match ground action. And trust me, I am not the only one who thinks along these lines. Guys who like Anna Kournikova or Maria Sharapova know exactly what I mean. Besides, these days, the place I work out of is virtually empty. Not many men turn up, and even if they do make it, they turn up late, rubbing their eyes and breaking into loud yawns, thanks to the pastmidnight matches and not to mention the ubiquitous matchanalysis. But I am loving the tournament, the ardour with which fans talk about their favourite teams, the plea in my classmates’ voice when they beg our teachers to cut short our evening classes, the almost-fanatical edge in the people’s voices when they are rooting for their teams, the outbursts, the ecstasy, the jubilance, and the outbreaks. So, why am I giving a lukewarm response to the biggest sporting event of the world? See, the fact is that I need to warm up, and given the length of the tournament, I am certain I will have more than enough time to get into the game.