“I always like walking in the rain, so no one can see me crying.”

No, that’s not your ordinary Mumbai resident, the morning after three blasts rocked crowded markets Wednesday evening, killing 18 people and injuring more than 130. It’s a famous quote by Charlie Chaplin, arguably the greatest comedian the world has ever known.

But the joke is on the Mumbaikar, yet again, as torrential rains lash this coastal city in what seems like Mother Nature’s wasted effort to wash away somebody else’s sins.

People pick up the pieces and move on, not out of resilience, but a paucity of options amid a struggle for survival every day. Schools are open and the shutters are back up in most shops, even in blast-hit localities.

My wife left for her film shoot at 7 this morning, as if nothing happened. It did make me think. Many moons ago, in 1993, I stopped to help a fellow passenger who nearly fell between the local train and the tracks. I saw something similar two days later and did not even bother to stop. I couldn’t, as I had a meeting I could ill afford to miss.

The same goes for the street vendor and Mumbai’s floating population who have no option but to go back to the same spot and set up shop.

Is this because the city couldn’t care less? No, Mumbaikars seem to find solace in sticking to the beaten track. Do they sense security when they do not stray?

Two goals, one denied and another granted, queered the pitch for use of technology in the beautiful game.

Trailing 2-1 against Germany in a do-or-die pre-quarterfinal match at the 2010 World Cup, England’s Frank Lampard unleashed a long ranger in the 39th minute which beat the goalkeeper and hit the crossbar.

Even as the English players started celebrating, the referee waved play on although replays showed the ball had clearly crossed the line in Bloemfontein.

The romantics will call it poetic justice as this brings back memories of England’s third goal in the 1966 World Cup final against West Germany — where the exact opposite had happened. Geoff Hurst’s goal was allowed and England went on to lift the cup.

Within a few hours, Carlos Tevez was clearly offside when he put Argentina ahead in the 26th minute against Mexico. The twice champions went on to win 3-1 and will now meet Germany in the quarterfinals.

FIFA’s critics say this was afterall the world’s biggest stage and the margin for error should be zero.

Three hours of running from pillars holding up tin sheets to police posts, which provided security cover to shacks that had cropped up as polling booths, made me realise how frustrating the whole process is when the world’s largest democracy goes to vote.

It’s been more than two years since I moved to Mumbai and, frankly, voting was never top of my family’s agenda.

But, it all changed post the November 26, 2008 Mumbai terror attacks. Although we skipped the candles and the drama outside the Gateway of India near the Taj, which saw a protracted gun battle between armed militants and Indian security forces, one cannot deny the impact the attacks had on our collective conscience.

My wife said we cannot just sit back and accept whatever that happened as part of the new reality – terror can strike anywhere, anytime.

For her, it was the “jaagore” moment. For me, after doing my bit of reporting and producing news on India and South Asia for around 10 years, including an overnight vigil outside the Taj Mahal hotel till the miltants were finally eliminated, it was more like “we’ll see.”

My wife said we need to register our names and, if nothing else, at least vote in the elections. As a citizen in a what many call a dysfunctional democracy, she felt that’s the least one can do. For me, that meant “work”. I realised my cynicism will be put to the ultimate test.

This time around, my wife was willing to do all the work. Hail Activism!

Back in the early 80s, cricket had already captured the hearts and minds of impressionable kids like me, my elder brother and our band of boys who had nothing but disdain for those ‘studious’ kids who were more into science clubs and lending libraries.

Hardy Boys, Famous Five and Nancy Drew were considered a conspiracy hatched by mothers to keep kids at home. While other kids went to bed safely tucking their favourite book under the pillow, I hit the bed with my batting pads and gloves on. India Poised!

Luckily, our mother felt better off sending us to the playground in our residential colony rather than spend money on books and a lot more on replacing broken lamp shades and window panes – collateral damage as my brother and I played eleven-a-side ‘Test’ matches at home, where the bowling side got a chance to bat only after the entire opposition was bowled out.

Given my cricketing skills, my brother and his ‘Indian’ team (which again is him calling himself everything from Kapil Dev to Roger Binny to Madan Lal) never took more than 5 overs to clean up my batting order, irrespective of who I was representing – the Aussies, the Windies or the Englishmen.

Come to think of it, he always got to be India and won too, something which I never accepted in the true spirit of the game.

As I dragged myself away from the wicket after trying a left-handed wallop a-la Graham Yallop, I always felt ‘it’s just not cricket.’ I hated ‘India’ although Sunil Gavaskar was my favourite and plotted moves to hijack my brother’s Indian team.

That opportunity presented itself when the World Cup came calling to Indian homes in 1983. We still didn’t have a TV at home (we had to wait till 1986) and our parents had already warned us against either pestering them to buy a TV or seeking permission to go over to our neighbour’s place (one of them had a Dyanora Colour TV and the other had a Solidaire).