Every ‘MOM’ent begins with her!

Dear Mom,

Today seems like a good day to tell the world about you. Not just because there is a sense of celebration about the power of womanhood or about the limitless capabilities that women like you possess or even about the countless sacrifices that you all account for in providing for the lovely lives that we lead. It’s a good time mom because amid the cheer of your power, it seems most opportune for me to confess to you my fears, my powerlessness and the utter sense of insecurity that the realization of mortal laws brings to me.

My sense of dependency on you scares me mom because it forces me to blind myself to a future without you ever. Truth be told, you and I are both running the mortality race and I wonder which of us two winning it would I prefer: is the pain of living without you lesser painful than imagining leaving you back in this world without me? I don’t know mom and I don’t want to think about it at all because it makes me go weak in the knees.

It was two weeks ago Mom when aboard a flight from Hyderabad at night, a single fleeting moment brought me close yet again to the closeness I share with you. The air turbulence was slightly intense compared to other days and in one awkward moment, the plane seemed to cut through an airpocket. The subsequent thud that we felt surely must have increased God’s call log – each passenger’s frozen lips seemed to murmur a certain prayer of hope. For me, the first and last word in that gripping moment was ‘Mom’. I knew you couldn’t hear me at that time given you must’ve been engrossed preparing dinner for me several nautical miles away. But, I still uttered your name because that’s what I have done all my life and it hasn’t changed one bit … From calling out to you while being chased by a dog when I was 12 to summoning your presence while walking down a few metres away from cab drop point to home in the din of the night when I was 22 or seeing your photograph before critical results at school, high school and even B-school .. it’s not changed one bit mom and I guess it never will.

The burden of life seems to have robbed you of so much .. those wrinkles on your hands are contours that map me to my past .. each of those criss-crosses being a telltale of all that you have taken away from yourself and given me in the legacy of your selfless giving. You are my Atlas that never shrugged!

I often ask myself a futile question: can I reciprocate ever in equal volume? The answer is no, because you will never stop giving - being the mother that you are - and I will never stop taking given I cannot ever have enough of your benevolence – the credit-debit table is destined to be lopsided.

Dear Mom, I don’t know if you’re the best mother in the world – how can you rank Gods – it’s blasphemy to believe that my God betters someone else’s! But, what I do know is that you’re the best mother a son like me could ever crave for. And the world may never understand why I write what I write, but I know you will because like Sharon Doubiago, I too believe:

“My mother is a poem I'll never be able to write. though everything I write is a poem to my mother.”

Happy Momen’s Day!

Placement Hour: Time to obsess!

Remember the last time you obsessed about a dream – engineered it while asleep, lived it while awake – the last time you reached out to different Gods with one common prayer, the last time you geared up with the most single-minded focus for a day that would be as big for atleast 50 other people you have known and grown with in the last two years.

If you can’t remember any such day, brace up for your eureka moment! Your next two months will be nothing short of a sleepless sojourn. For some, the expectation of the big day will inflate their hearts with hope, for others, the same anticipation will freeze their thoughts with deep fear.

Some will be explicit, others implicit, but you will see it wherever you go. You may hear it over coffee conversations, see it in the half-filled plates on dinner tables or feel it under the breath of your best friend egging you on over a late night conversation. You may want to run away, hide from the spotlight – but make no mistake, there is no hiding this time around.

And, therefore, the sanest advice would be: Shape up and compete with dignity. It never was and will never be pleasant to be thrown into an every-man-for-himself cauldron with your best friends – those you have dined and wined with for the best part of your Bschool years.

So, read up on your laws, brush up your compensation formulae and lap up your OB concepts. And while you do this with the undistracted intent of a blinder-ridden racehorse, do not for once lose sight of your neighbor standing behind you – the goodfella who has entertained you over daaru nights and paid for your chai and tiger biscuits – the goodfella may now need your push, and a bit of pull, to make it to the finish line. Coming first is alright, but there’s more fun when you complete the race knowing that while you have pulled through to emerge victorious, you have done enough to pull others along rather than pull them down.

And, we all know that on that monumental day, a few will achieve what they set out for, a few others may fall slightly short of what they think they wanted to achieve. And disappointment will come for some who think they have fallen short, those who think they have failed. But, they will tide over it soon:  it’s a matter of time when they’ll realize that their bar of failure is far higher than the bar of success for the average 25-year-olds out there. 

So, dust up, get up, plug in that favourite song of yours that inspires you to outdo yourself, and obsess once again. I may not hazard a guess on what the end will be like, but can vouch that this journey will be surreal. And as I said last year after completing my surreal journey – the gap between achieving your dream and settling for a safe reality is a distance equal to one leap of faith. Soar on!

A Walk to Remember

The biggest side effect of a restless mind is one of blinded priorities. My current to-do checklist boasts of an avalanche of work staring at me in the face. And, therefore, by no means should I allow myself to indulge in a leisurely hour of random moorings. But, when there is a voice within keen to be heard and a thought inside seeking ventilation, you can’t help, but submit.

I often wonder if there’s a premium that we put on emotions? The answer, either ways, explains how much we open ourselves to two extreme possibilities: of either building a fortress and preserving our inner selves within its lonely walls or letting ourselves in the open and J-walking on social highways almost certain to be run over by hurt and pain, sooner or later.

I have always been a great advocate of the safer option – of staying within the foreclosures and keeping any possible infringements at bay. This is a choice that lays down clear terms and conditions: “I’d be happy to know who you are, but would request you to abstain from knowing who I am!

But, this philosophy does make room for exceptions; this frontier does open up to a few. And there is not one reason alone that explains this exception: these are individuals who inspire confidence that they’d heal you when you come back wounded from all the pretence of social conventions, they’d evoke a heartfelt laughter when you are tired of pasted smiles, and revitalise the life within you when all seems lost in your quest for emotional security.

You take a chance because these people open you to the beautiful possibilities that you never imagined before -- they are the encouraging pat on your back on a discouraging day, the warm hug on a cold day, the dope of belief when disbelief raises its ugly head.

Opening up to these exceptional few, however, does eventuate into a slight compromise on emotional safety – it may not be a J-walk on social highways, but it’s surely a stroll by the roadside, one that is safe, but not secured enough.

These people also do run you over sometimes either because they drove recklessly and rammed you on the safe road berms or, perhaps, you walked into their driveway when the signal was green. The reason could be either of the two or both, but when you do get run over, it invariably hurts – a tad bit more I suspect, because emotional hurt is new to you.

I was walking on the safe berms blinded to the possibility that I’d ever get run over. But, I did – was it the recklessness of the driver who deservingly entered my life or was it the careless stride of the pedestrian within me. Irrespective of the answer, that stroll in the most emotionally vulnerable territories handed me more joy than what I ever got in years of safe confinement. And while the stroll down the highway continues, for what it’s been so far, it has indeed been a Walk to Remember.

This time when I'm home

This time when I’m home,

I will rewind to a decade ago,

And redo the life Shillong gave me a chance to know.

I will wake up early and face up to the pure morning chill,

And do everything that 10 years ago, was part of my normal drill.

I will undertake that walk across the green expanse,

And trek up the hill to hear birds put me in a trance.

This time when I’m home,

I will reopen my cabinet, and glance through books on Maths and grammar,

And go visit the school auditorium to recall my first speech – one of nervous stammer.

I will walk onto the school cricket field and in the ‘catch it’ wails of those there,

Will recall the last-ball victories and first-ball ducks lodged in memory somewhere.

This time when I’m home,

I will lighten my burdened spirit in the Cathedral’s silent hour,

And meet the blind ‘beggar’ outside, who strums magic on his aged guitar.

This time when I’m home,

I will give my mother my ears,

And let her vent the pent up emotions of five distant years,

I will do everything to add to her glee,

Be it gardening with her or making her a cup of warm tea.

This time when I’m home,

I will retire from the maddening race and pause awhile,

And let life walk with me, instead of chasing it across the leisurely mile.

In their eyes, each day they see a Dark Night Rise

It was one of those afternoons in Mumbai – the rain pelting down the rooftop, the sun mired in a lost tussle with the clouds while the winds wrestled for the right direction. It was a day – bane and sterile – incapable of arousing any single thought, let alone inspiring the idea of an entire blog.

And it is with that unexciting texture on my mind that I entered the multiplex to watch Batman’s escapades to save Gotham. And while the movie promised much, I got value for money even before the movie began.

The unending sequence of ads on the gigantic screen was followed by the 52 seconds that most beautifully captured my imagination. This was the time of the National Anthem, but with a different touch.

Those participating in the rendition were children, the likes of which had never seen the sun rise or heard the birds chirp. They were kids, presumably in their early teens, living a life, parts of which God had discounted at their very birth.

How then did they connect Jana Gana Mana like no one else had ever done? Their hands glided the air as the tune read – Vindhya Himachal Yamuna Ganga, their legs ankled up in lofty fashion to symbolise the gigantic reach of Punjab, Sindh, Gujarat, Maratha; as their eyes glistened with pride at the last salutation – Jaya He Jaya He Jaya He. This was patriotism speaking through silence, this was nationalistic fervour shining through darkness.

At that moment, how many of us gasped a sympathetic sigh for the ‘incompleteness’ of their lives. A strange paradox it is, but my guess is their incomplete lives were far more complete than ours.

From what I saw on the screen, they had made those 52 seconds their own – breathing in feelings and communicating through symbols – far louder and clearer than words could ever achieve. We have been gifted the science to see and hear better than them, but they have learnt the art to feel and live better than us.

When words speak louder than action!

“It’s only words, and words are all I have to take our peace away”

This modified version of Boyzone’s famous number, to me, captures the quintessential cause of most conflict.

Often, it’s words - incisive, brutal and scathing – that germinate hurt, discord and discontent.

It’s only after war has been fought in words that battle lines are drawn on the ground. Aided by context and people, words alone push individuals to the point of no return. Often relationships, laden with years of effort, purpose and meaning, are diluted by a single moment of verbal failure.

Do parties then attempt reconciliation? Yes they do. Karpman’s Persecutor embraces the role of a Victim – apologetic and desperate – to mend the earlier errors. But, the ‘erstwhile Victim’, now the Persecutor, is, perhaps, too hurt to forgive. The Rescuer, meanwhile, is seen as an ally of the Victim and the Persecutor has little choice but to be indifferent to both.

Is indifference then the end of conflict? Or is it the beginning of the end of the relationship? While there isn’t enough theory to substantiate either point of view, I suspect a state of indifference marks a critical threshold – either it gives space for an unprecedented resurgence to the bond or, as several cases would suggest, it marks the first stanza in the dirge that echoes the obituary for the relationship.

And sometimes still, indifference is not a mediating step – rather it is an end in itself. My guess is that conflict gets most excruciating when the state of indifference attains a degree of permanence.

So, the next time you wonder why your best comrades and friends have drifted away from you, revisit the past and look for that 'one word' that made all the difference. 

If thoughts could count...

“She is gone. But, I am glad. Her struggle has ended..“

This piece could well qualify as a mistimed discourse, especially at a time when there’s enough on my plate to keep me engaged. But, a compulsive thought lingers on in my mind and I’d feel suffocated, almost choked, if I didn’t ventilate it out.

I have earned the distinction of being deep as a thinker and subtle as a writer. Unfortunately, both the attributes evade me as I give words to my thoughts. Is there a more subtle way to state somebody’s passing away or is there a deeper, more mature, way to look at death and beyond?

This piece is about a close friend, arguably the best ever I’ve had. It’s as much about the biggest loss she has suffered till date as it is about my inability to be around her in this moment of grief.

She has been a fighter, one of the best I’ve known, and she will come out of this trough. That’s my thought, my belief and my confidence. But, do thoughts alone count? Panning the last 4 years, I can’t recall any single episode when I was up against a challenge and she wasn’t around. In thoughts, in words and in actions, she was always there in every which way possible.

It’s this inequity of friendship that churns me from within. I have never wanted to be on the ‘more benefitted’ side of the Friendship Equilibrium. But, this is one of those emotional scales where she has outweighed me at every step.

As my life gets mired up in the rigour of corporate life, I ask myself how many more people will have to make do with my thoughts alone in their moments of grief. As I pray for the departed soul, I am honest in my thought; as I condole my friend, I am still honest in my thought, but the big question still stares me in the face -- do thoughts really count?

When You are Gone!

We came close before you went away;

So far adrift, even before I could say:

“Hold On;
I fear the darkness, wait till dawn”!

True that I don’t have a boastful story;

But, you heard me through your heart of glory;

Made me speak and narrate;

The travails of my struggling fate.

I opened up before you;
A fatal mistake, I always knew.
With time, my expectations grew;
And a formal distance, you drew!

Formality proved too much to take;

With you, there was so much at stake;

Slowly, with each passing breath;

The brilliance we shared was nearing death.

Of what’s gone, a courteous friendship did survive;
Perhaps, it was always destined to come out alive.
I have gone back to being who I was in the past;
But, Thank You for making me the person in the little time that did not last!

April 24: Sachin, Shillong and me!

Life often is about the dual existence of opposites – of people, of situations and circumstances. As I resolve to pen down the moorings of a disturbed mind at 2.22 am, be warned that this piece will only contrast further the co-existence of those opposites.

I logged onto Facebook around 9 am on April 24, 2012, and was taken aback by a deluge of collective prayers for a certain Little Master. “Happy Birthday” could almost qualify as the second national anthem today, endorsed by everyone in the virtual social space. This virtual space is markedly distinct in terms of age, race, community and, often, nationality.

But, today it seemed bound in oneness by a certain 5 ft 5 inch Mumbaikar, critically acclaimed as the demigod of the modern world. For when he trudges onto the field, Gods of all forms – Ram, Jesus, Prophet, Guru Nanak, et al – are kept busy by prayers coming through from various people divided by caste, community and race. 

Strangely, the man in point plays cricket -- a game which is played within the confines of 22 yards and one that is limited by boundaries. Clearly, the mass madness shows that the boundaries are only in the ground, not in the mind. The birthday of Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar alone wouldn’t inspire me to write at this unearthly hour. He has been documented in every which way possible, and my eulogies will hardly contribute   to Sachinayana – an epic that is the handiwork of each of the 1.23 billion crazy Sachinomaniacs.

I am more intrigued by the duality of life. So, here is a date -- April 24 – that united the country with the same fervour that a certain August 15 or January 26 does. And it is on this very day that a small section of this united nation saw a contrasting manifestation of divisiveness. By all measures, Shillong is a peaceful town nestled in the abode of clouds called Meghalaya. I have lived a good two decades in the what the British termed as ‘The Scotland of the East’, and can vouch for all my money that its progressive mindset is the envy of several towns, cities, and metros.

Here, the poverty ridden don’t ask for alms, they earn it by playing you a certain musical instrument. You could falter in your diction in a conversation with the Taxi driver who would amaze you with the proficiency of the English language. And you may quote parallels, but only Kolkata comes close to matching Shillong’s plurality of regions, religions and language. Land in the city in October and the Durga Puja celebrations would mislead you to believe that Shillong is part of West Bengal. Fast forward to December and Christmas festivities, the cakes and cookies, would remind you in a subtle way that Shillong is the capital of a Christian state. Three months on, and it’s Holi -- the colours dilute every inconsequential boundary and drape all communities in the same mix of green and blue.

What then happened on April 24? The media will tell you that it was a conflict between two sections of the society, the government would, perhaps, approve of the claims. But, as someone who by all means prefers calling himself a Shillongite, I am sure beyond doubt that the conflict is more individualistic than collectivistic. It is the intolerance and immaturity of a couple on this side and a couple on that side of the community frontier. And if I may hazard a guess, much of what’s happening has the backing of certain ulterior political interests.

By no means is the arson, the bloodshed and hatred representative of a breakdown of collective maturity. This is a city that’s been a melting pot of true diversity and my guess is that the majority sentiment will prevail and peace will be restored sooner than later. In situations like these, Sachin-like demigods will have to emerge from the common ranks, take the lead and restore sanity amid the madness.

To a city that’s made me who I am, I sign off with a wish in my heart and a prayer on my lips. Khublei Shibun!

To Shillong, with love!

Where the hills are green,
And the waters crystal clean;
Where the sun rises to the sparkling spring;
And humming bees weave a charming ring;
Where every second person I meet;
Calls me by my name to Greet;
To that vibrant March Spring, I belong!
To that heaven on earth they call Shillong!

At Slip stood our Wall!

Dear Rahul Sharad Dravid,
As you retire from the Gentleman’s Game, my guilt overrides me as I make these confessions.
1. I never enjoyed watching you bat. Like several other Indian fans, in most matches, I was awake and glued to the TV when the likes of Tendulkar and Sehwag were exhibiting their mastery, but timed my sleep hours for the time you came in to bat. You could never keep me awake with awe-inspiring lofts and pulls. But you let me sleep -- sleep with a reassured peace that you were around, standing as the Wall when our other heroes were falling by the bullet!
2. I never missed you when you weren’t around. Each time, a Rohit Sharma or a Virat Kohli came onto the scene and people got chatting about giving these new blokes a chance, I joined them in the clatter. When the question arose on who should make way for these young turks, I thought of you. You can’t hold me guilty for believing that I wouldn’t miss you. You never left the scene to make me miss your absence. To play some 93-odd test matches on a trot since debut, you hardly ever gave us a chance to see an Indian team without you.
3. You had no say in the team. I remember how they shuffled your batting order and gave you the gloves in the run up to the 2003 World Cup. You were never asked, it seems, but just told. Why for once did you not tell the powers-that-be that you are a test cricketer of repute, why didn’t you ever throw your weight around? May be, because when others were looking to preserve their careers by taking centrestage on Indian pitches and hiding backstage on foreign batting tracks, you chose to risk your lifeline. Each time they gambled with your career, you came out with a fortune.
4. I am one of those myopic Indian fans who held a grudge against you each time you dropped a catch, unmindful of the fact that no one in the history of the game has more catches to his credit than you. I have cursed you for dropping the few, have I thanked you yet for the hundreds you held?
5. I think of Lords and remember a certain Saurav Ganguly, I think of Taunton (1999 World Cup) and remember the same name; I flash my mind to the Eden Gardens (2001) and remember a Very Very Special player and when I probe deeper, I can only think of Tendulkar’s 186 against New Zealand in Hyderabad. Where were you when these feats were being achieved? History tells us, you were right there. You have always played the neglected hero, but history is kind enough to record your heroics. Years later, generations to come will remember you as the last puritan to have played the Game of Cricket.
6. You never believed that charity (of runs) begins at home. When your contemporaries were hogging the limelight on sterile Indian pitches by tonking 200s and 300s, you most often had little time, just about enough, to complete a century. But, when the same players went abroad, their appetite for runs dried. Their 200s and 300s ceased, but what remained constant was you, and your willow making the 22-yards your own. To have the highest batting average for the country in Test matches won overseas elevates you to greatness. At least now, let this nation of cricket fanatics take a bow!

You faced 31,258 balls, the highest in the game’s history, to amass some 13,000-odd runs, the second highest in the game’s history. May be it just never occurred to us that you were busy at work too, while your other colleagues’ natural brilliance stole the show.

As the press conference in the Chinnaswami Stadium drew to a close today, it perhaps brought a shocking closure for several cynical and thankless Indians. At 39, you have learnt to deal with fans like me; I am not sure whether, at 25, I have learnt to deal with the absence of a selfless man like you.
At No.3, you will forever be mera No.1 . Stride on Gentleman, you will be missed!

To the old woman I met this afternoon!

Dear Granny-like-stranger,
Nearly 11 hours after we met, I am thinking of you. The images flash by as I recall you stumbling with the beyond-capacity weights on your shoulders. From the time you asked me to help you board the bus, till the time you left, I was looking at you very intently.
Your hands had twirled itself into wrinkles, eyes sunken into an endless gorge and your bent posture made me fear the helplessness of old age I would encounter 50 years from now.
I think of the several spineless young men who were standing beside you. They offered no help despite being half your age and twice your strength. I think of you and wonder if you did not have a family, a son or daughter? No child worth his salt would let his mother shoulder such physical burden in the winter of her life. Were you an unfortunate exception?
A lady of your age had no business testing your endurance with such physical activity. You must’ve lived through several battles in your glittered life; your body must’ve taken several blows. But, why is your physical fight still on in the last lap of your life?
As I meander towards the end of this piece, I am faced with a plethora of mixed emotions. I wish I had spoken to you for a while longer, understood what brought you to this pass at the fag end of your life. Life isn’t cricket, is it? The last few overs here shouldn’t be ‘slog overs’ as in the game of bat and ball.
But, you seem to be playing the slog overs. And it’s a colossal shame for people of my age, if parents of your age have to bear the titanic burden on their shoulders and brave it out in the sun.
As you stepped onto the bus, I stood behind you fearing you may fall. When you turned around and thanked me with your gracious smile and blessed me with that benevolent look, you touched a cord somewhere.
When I saw you this afternoon, we were strangers. Now, the reflective story of neglect has turned you into a fable for me. Signing off with a hope that the bus dropped you ‘home’.

Mixed emotions!

There are assignments pending and exams impending, there is a brutal coercion to excel and insurmountable pressure to perform -- amid the academic chaos, me writing this blog piece can easily be misconstrued as someone having got his priorities wrong. If that’s the case, so be it.

As I attempt to pen down these thoughts, I feel slightly disoriented. Rummaging through the layers of mixed emotions, let me begin with a story – A story of brilliance, fortitude and, if I may call it, a paradoxical tragedy. I met her eight years ago at school and she was brilliant, she still is. She was among the sharper brains in the class - brutal in her goal-setting; ambitious in delivering them and humble enough to keep her feet grounded amid astronomical achievements. She wanted to study medicine, she did; she wanted to be honed by the best college in the country; she did; she wanted to become a doctor, she became one; and a brilliant one at that. Each day she met hopeful people entrusting her with the task of alleviating their pain, curing them and restoring brightness in their dimming lives – she delivered on their expectations. But, she lost the battle with one patient, her last one. You couldn’t blame her for that. This patient was diagnosed with cancer and, as a doctor, she could have treated this as a one-off case that exposed medical science’s limitations. But, she didn’t, she couldn’t move on. Reason: This patient in question happens to be her mother – someone who co-partnered her dream; co-authored her success story and inspired her to take up this profession known to save lives.

In a conversation with a friend, she mentioned, “What’s the point of claiming to save lives when the one who means the most to you dies before your eyes?”; to the world she declared, “Christmas means nothing without you.”

Today, I revisited my friend’s story through an old couple at the doctor’s clinic where I had gone to get my throat fixed. This couple, easily in their 70s, was fighting a similar crisis – the wife had been diagnosed with neck cancer. As she went through her exercises in the doctor’s cabin, I saw through the transparent door how her husband, enfeebled by age, stood behind her in support.

It’s moments like these that bring me closer to life and the ultimate reality that lies beyond it.

For my friend, that one moment of separation will linger on for life; for this couple, destined to be separated, moments such as these will bring them closer as they prepare for the imminent farewell.

Life is fleeting; are we keeping pace? Are we appreciating and valuing people enough? If not, we are making a colossal waste of the little time that remains.

On a philosophical dope, I asked myself if I am prepared to face such moments and let go of people; but I shirked at the very thought. I am not as strong as those whose tales I have just narrated. If not anything else, I have leant to value people more.

And there is one thing I, for sure, will do henceforth: “Never wait for the opportune time to say that next word. For all you know, your ‘next’ may just be their last.”

Walking down the wrong path

It is 5.58 am and surely not the sanest hour to go on an esoteric overdrive. But, when has desire to express your mind been a dependent function of time.
And hence I write, inspired by an intriguing 4-hour conversation that’s not only kept me sleepless, but also awakened me to a new tangent of thought.
Is there something called a wrong path? Are right paths with wrong destinations any different?
They would have me believe that it’s not worth walking down either of the two barrels. Is the destination paramount? Does the experience of taking a walk down the wrong lane constitute regret?
Life always gives us two choices – one to subscribe to predictive behaviour, the other to be a rebel. I am a rebel of sorts. I choose to walk in wrong lanes, but not at the risk of trespassing.
Some of the most beautiful lanes have a point of divergence. I am walking down one of those paths, not alone, and it is a fascinating experience. Now, I see a point of divergence; was my path wrong only because it ends in separation.
What about the memories we made in the excursion down the lane? What about the whispers echoed on way to separation, what about those smiles we shared, the compliments we exchanged and the memories we created? Do they get divorced too at the point of inflexion?
Sticking to a path that leads you there is stereotypical, treading a path that leads you somewhere is exploratory. I am an explorer.
“Don’t walk down the wrong path. It’s not worth it!” they say. It’s better to walk down the aisle aware of consequences, than stand stationary at the edge as a preventive gesture. I am in the inertia of motion and I can’t stop walking. Let me trust the momentum to take me the distance.

Thank you September 11, 2001!

There is almost a sepia touch to the memories I have of the day when apocalypse hit America ten years ago. It was a pleasant evening, or so I remember, and my day was winding to a close. The lazy twilight across the horizon was such a misleading precursor to what lay ahead.
I have this uncanny habit of surfing through TV channels at the speed of light. And while that evening was expected to be no different, my dead heat race with TV channels was aborted as I stumbled upon Channel 29 on my TV list – NDTV.
The words were clear, the message was loud. America had been hit by terror, not once but twice in a span of seconds.
The horror sight of two planes crashing into the gigantic towers was there to stay; the wails of those witnessing destruction-in-motion were there to remain; the dance of death around the epicenter of life had been choreographed to haunt us for years.
For once, I’m sure most Americans wouldn’t mind the Alzheimer's syndrome if that’s what it takes to Ctrl+Alt+Del September 11 from their memories.
The sight of men and women freefalling from the twin towers in their miraculous bid to escape death could easily account for the scariest sight ever witnessed by the human eye.
What were they thinking on their flight down the towers to Ground Zero? Were their regrets, were their silent farewells?
In those 10 seconds before gravity did them in, was there a man saying a silent sorry to his wife for cheating on her; was there a woman saying ‘I’m proud of my children’; was there a 20-something whose lips whispered ‘I love you” one last time; was there a fearless sturdy man admitting to himself for the first time ever ‘I am scared’.
Between the top of the tower and the ground below lay a limitless expanse and in that vaccum of infinity, many words must have been said, many tears shed and many smiles broken. And in all of this, there was a larger acceptance – the acknowledgement that death is as much a reality as life is.
For me, the day enhanced the value of life. Now, I’m more aware than ever that what comes across as another day in my life may just be the only other day I have with me.
It’s only a moment you’d take to say sorry; only a moment to say I love you; only a brief second to say Thank you. On September 11, 2001, they had their ‘moments’ in their last flight down the WTC. You and I may have none -- for if climaxes were written according to plan, life would have been way too predictable.

Tears that will be remembered for years

It’s not that I always engage in a discourse on my life. Too often I have shied away from opening the dark shades that shadow my past. But, you probed deep and gave me no inch to escape.
At a moment when I was supposedly strong, in rhythm and comfortably in my zone, you got me to divulge matters close to my heart. And as I spoke, your lips began to tremble; as I recalled darkness, the light around you turned dim, and when my tears came knocking, your eyes moistened and glistened with emotions. They turned red and you cried, you did what I had been dying to do for ages.
In your tears, I sobbed my tragedies, in them I vented my long-drawn anger; I experienced freedom, I saw relief. Through that twinkle in your tear-laden eyes, you stripped me off my inhibitions and set me free; your weak moment empowered me; your sense of emptiness gave me a rush of fulfillment. I was in a trance, I still am.
Decades later, when this piece is revisited, I hope it reminds us of a certain Saturday when facades were broken and hypocritical walls demolished.
And, for what got you to cry, the question is a mystery for now, and is likely to remain one forever!

To the 20-somethings I met in Mumbai

Last week, I left a cold Delhi in anticipation of a warmer Mumbai. Away from the chill, my expectations of warmth stemmed from the excitement of meeting my sister after a long time.
There was a job to be done yes, but then there were larger rewards to redeem. Meeting my sister by the Marine Drive was perhaps the high point of the trip. My heart swelled with pride to see how a little girl, shy and scared, whom I left there a year ago, had graduated into a confident world beater. Brave and tall (metaphorically here, she's about 5 ft only :p) she stood strong, yet kept her childlike innocence intact. Meeting her friends, however, turned out to be the most embarrassing of interactions. Knowing that the brother-sister secrets I shared with her were secrets no more accounted for a ripe blush on the cheeks. Jokes notwithstanding, I must confess: those energetic kids made me feel secure and reassured that my little child is in safe hands.
The following day heralded a challenge and I set off for the battlefield early in the morning. And while the battle in its entirety may not merit a mention here, an individual with common aspirations surely does.
A crowd of eight all fighting for oneupmanship -- it was meant to be a warzone, but it ended up being anything but that. And while decibels competed for a higher pitch, a feebler voice stood out. Amid accents of varying degrees, all that I registered was that one voice — devoid of pretence and pompous show.
Hours later, when the entire world around me was jostling to cram that every inch of Indian politics and geography, she stood out – calm, serene, almost unfazed. I chose the serene company over the hustle and bustle and that marked the beginning of the few most momentous hours of the day.
Lunch followed. I masticated the delicious food, but digested something else -- her constant reprimands for being a novice at self-serving food. “You’re funny” was what resonated on the dinner table.
After a hungry stomach wiped clean the plate, it was time to wash hands. Incidentally, Mumbai’s tap ran dry on that day and water was too precious to waste on cleaning hands. “You want to use some wet tissues,” she asked.
And often i'd hear that ignorance is bliss. True to that moment, i was convinced. My lack of knowledge about the purpose and efficiency of the tissues budgeted for some light moments, a wacky mock and a few senseless jokes. And if anything, it only broke the shield of formal discomfort and granted a more informal comfortable texture to the interaction.
They say it's in the lesser striking moments that a person's most striking persona comes through. In the age of wannabes, when people wear faces to fit into groups, there was this individual with zilch pretence. "Watched the King's Speech?" I asked.
"I don't watch Holywood movies!" she replied. Between the question and the answer, there was much more than what was asked and far more than what was told. It is the pride in one's originality that shapes characters and it takes immense confidence to beat the stereotype. Kudos to you! On my scale of 1 to 10, you scored an impressive 9.
Not may people leave a lingering impression and for those few who do, every bit of credit needs to be given. As this write up draws to a close, it leaves massive space for speculation and conjecture. My two cents: Read only as much of what is written here, and not beyond!
And when the tap runs dry the next time, you know what to do. :)

A writer is dead?

A lot of water has passed under the bridge since the days you inspired my writing. Remember the time when i'd write poetry to woo you or use eloquence to serenade you, days when your smile inspired sonnets after sonnets.
I write today, too, just that poetry is now long dead and for the little prose that remains, there isnt much hope either.
Strange, but I can't quite imagine any emotion without you: my writing lacks radiance for it hasn't seen your beaming smile for years, my words don't emote tears for they haven't seen you cry for ages; my thoughts lack warmth for they haven't seen a hug for eons and my creativity just refuses to impress for it hasn't been appreciated in a long long time.
But I still try my bit and, write a lot with the little that remains. Now, I search for radiance in them who bring light to me in my darkest hour, I search for tears in the umpteen tragedies i've had the privilege to be part of, my thoughts gain their warmth from the embers that flicker of your memories immolated long ago and my creativity has just learnt that it can do just as well without appreciation.
Tragedy, however, is that they who read me then are pained to read me now. They look for humour and I don't have any to offer, they seek power, but i feel enfeebled..they want commitment and I'm plain scared of the word.
But, they are insidious and have conspired to inspire me, to restore faith in my letters. I wish them good luck! For in their success lies the odds of a writer's resurgence and in their failure lies his obituary!

Tainted in Green!

AS Pakistan recovers from one of its worst on-field Test defeats and an even worse on-field loss of credibility, it is time we see the matter from a different perspective. Yes, the tabloids would splash braver editorial expressions than those used earlier – “Pakistan's Darkest Sunday” or “Messy Board Gets Messier” – but can we for a moment introspect on the little-addressed issue here.
Imagine a Mohammad Amir growing up in a non-descript lane of Pakistan: steaming in with a tennis ball in hand and bowling down the stumps with invariable ease, imagine the chant “Hamara Wasim Akram” reverberating every time he knocks down a player's off stump or sends one whizzing past the nose. For a nation that treats cricket with the same devotion as ours, we need to understand the magnitude of frustration expected to creep in -- we are talking of a country endowed with the most prodigious cricketing talent that's there. And I say this with confidence: dig through the annals of cricketing history and name me a better bowler at 18 years than Mr Amir.
But, can you continue to bowl at that fiery pace with a groaning stomach or harbour a cricketing dream in a thatched house. Perhaps yes, but not when players (read bowlers), inferior to you in your neighbouring country (read India) do ads on Amarpali apartments and own plush bungalows with all the state-of-the art facilities. And all those with one-tenth the talent that you have. Grossly unfair, isn't it?
Heard of casting couch? Beautiful girls asked to provide extraneous service, better termed as 'compromise', in order to make it big? Is there a difference between a Mohammad Amir, if proven guilty of match fixing, and a wannabe model who sees a 100 bedrooms with 100 different men before landing a short role onscreen. And why do they – the Amirs, the models and actresses – make the compromise? The tragic reality is: Abundant talent that convinces you that you are destined for greatness, but opportunity, or the lack of it, that evades you till your desperation takes you on the wrong lane.
I have my sympathies for the men in green. And it's not that I condone match-fixing of any kind, because that truly demeans the very spirit of the gentleman's game. But, when you do not have an international match hosted in your country in three years, when you have to depend on the benevolence of an England and Wales Cricket Board to host your 'home' matches, there is not much hope that you are giving the tailormade-for-cricket youngsters.
There can't be a grosser injustice than this: A catch taken by Munaf Patel (and it's almost comical to imagine Munaf as a fielder) in the Indian Premier leage fetches him Rs 1 lakh, but a five wicket-haul taken by Amir and the subsequent man of the match award wins him a poultry Rs 30,000. Cricket in India is not the same as Cricket in Pakistan. Here, a good performance means multi-million dollar endorsements, there a good performance means little in terms of money. Here, cricket pays for your life, there cricket plays with your life, if you decide to depend on your on-field exploits to fund your off-field expenses.
If we eulogised Irfan Pathan when he tamed the ball in the air to trap those LBWs, if we showered commendations on Ishant Sharma when he tailed the ball in and out to show Ricky Ponting the doors in the Perth Test, we could just as well recognise the superaltive talent of the world's best find for a left arm fast bowler. If only our companies had the will and gesture to absorb the talent on that side of the border in their multi-dollar deals, I am sure we would hear little of the kind of darkness we have so naturally come to associate with the men in green.
The world needs Pakistan to keep cricket alive and Pakistan cricket needs the world to keep breathing. Let more Mohammad Amir's take up cricket with an assurance, that if not their own country, a neighbouring country would ensure the returns for their contribution, as Gentlemen, to the Gentlemen's Game.

I love you Maa, you know na!

I love you Maa, you know na!

It is one of those days when I am sitting before a computer with the sole intent of killing time -- staring more at the clock on the bottom right of the screen than using the internet for any eventful purpose. Yes it is just one of those days!
Sitting in this dingy cyber cafe outside Sri Venkateswara College in South campus (where my sister is writing an exam), I have very little on my mind to scribble about. But then, since when have we started depending on the mind to be our ideation chamber? I have a heart too..equally thoughtful, perhaps more so today considering it is just 'one of those days' when a certain lady in everybody's life is remembered with extra special gratitude and warmth.

The 9th of May is indeed a very special day! Celebrate it with hugs, cheers and kisses...and leave no stone unturned in letting that one angel know what she means to you. I also wish I could do something more special than just making a trunk call to say "I love you maa!" It is 'One of those days' I wish I could barter my limited human capabilities with Superman -- say "Up up and Away" and fly the 2,300-odd kms that separates my mother and I.
How I wish I could hug her and let her aging hands hold me with the same protective spirit I had felt 23 years ago when a doctor separated our umbilical connection and placed me on her palms. Maa I know I have gained a bit in size and form, and so if need be, I am ready to be dwarfed if that lets me fit into your lap -- the only place on earth that feels like heaven.

Just your memories maa have made this cyber cafe look so much more bearable now -- in the last 25 minutes that I have spent penning my thoughts about you, I swear I haven’t looked at the bottom-right (clock) of the screen even once. Just your remembrance maa has made this "one of those days" seem so much better..so much more pleasant.

And as I see the greenery outside (very rare in Delhi!), I miss walking the green fields of Golf Links with you. The 'chicken' and meat shop outside this cafe reminds me of my 14-day tryst with 'Chicken' Pox two years ago, when you broke all rules of quarantine to be by my side when others, for their own good (lol!), had deserted me. I miss you to no ends maa..I realy do!!

It's a strange coincidence then that to further my thoughts on this very special day, I reflect on the work of a man who today celebrates his 150th birth anniversary -- one of India's most prodigious sons, Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore.

If I may be forgiven, I have tailored his eternally inspiring piece 'Where The Mind is Without Fear', to put into perspective just what I feel for my mother.

Where Mankind Is Without Tear
WHERE the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where love flows free
Where my world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls
Where your words come out from the depth of truth
Where my craving stretches its arms towards you
Where the scream of treason has not found its way
Into your caring habit
Where your life is led forward by me
Into that ever-widening thought and action
Into that priceless lap, my mother, let my mind awake.


Heartfelt prayers and oodles of wishes for all mothers..Happy Mother's Day!! And finally, I look at the bottom right of the screen again. It is time to rush to office. Much love!

PS: The original piece

Where The Mind is Without Fear

WHERE the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

Rabindranath Tagore