Passing away, and living on

If I was doing this longhand, the hand may have shivered a bit and the words would be trembly. But this post had to come out. Like a spasm.

I think maybe my age is to blame, which makes my elders of a dying age. Or maybe the present age we all live in, no longer as simple and honest as old-timers are used to.

Either way, the pattern has become unnerving: every year now, there's a couple of those dreaded phone calls or emails telling us about another family elder who has passed away.

I think about my uncle who lovingly decked up a bedroom with balloons and roses, for a first wedding night. Someone with whose blessings Usha and I started our married life. He maybe thinks about his own wedding night too, and countless other wonderful moments since. I think about this uncle, who recently lost his wife.

I think of my granny when I am playing carrom with Aakash. She was an awful shot and Aakash plays better but in common was a thrill of 'thumbing' and illegally pocketing coins. I indulge Aakash like I used to indulge my granny - because she was indulgent too back then, sacrificing her afternoon nap to play carrom after school.

I think of my grandpa when I'm in the grip of reading something. I may have got my love for books from him - after he lost his eyesight in later years, my reading out the newspaper headlines was the highlight of his day.

I think of Usha's uncle who would sit with a pile of fruits, plating healthy dessert for family after every meal. I think of her grandma whose love she can still feel and whose cooking she can still taste, long after she's gone. 

It is Hindu belief that elders who pass on join the pantheon of Gods, who then watch over their families. When someone tells you there's a million and one Hindu Gods, they don't realize it but they are only half-joking.

There's usually a framed photograph of the deceased family member just outside the area where the idols are kept. We have one at home of Mom's.

It may be the angle it was taken, but I often get the feeling when I am close to the picture that the eyes are roving, and watching and following me. Its hard to appreciate being watched over when the person is alive, its very comforting after that. I think of her often and not just when I wake up some mornings with a shiver and a renewed sense of loss. I think of her when Aakash is being difficult and am at a loss on how to deal with it. She put up with a boy known to sit by the side of the road after the school bus was gone, refusing to come home till he got his 5-star chocolate bar. She of all people would know how to deal with any tantrum. I think of her when I feel weak from a stupid backache or fever, so small in front of the mountains of physical anguish she climbed. I think of her when Usha wears a saree or necklace, that she lovingly passed on.

I think of dreaded news and calls that are yet to come. I think of my diminutive, darling granny scurrying around at my uncle's home in Chennai; the sadness of outliving her beloved daughter weighing heavily on those little shoulders; but still the 'moru' magician and still doing other kitchen voodoo.

I think of the dead but should think more of the beautiful life that was lived.

I look forward to the new year, while learning not to forget.

An anniversary, and a helping hand

Two weeks ago, Usha and I [lifelong vegetarians] went to Costco and bought over 100 lbs. of canned chicken, chilli, and tuna products.

It all started a few weeks prior to that. On the eve of our 12th wedding anniversary, Usha made the surprise suggestion: how about, not buying any gifts this time?! Not knowing what she had in mind then, I was a bit dubious.

We live in me-first world, not helped by choosing to reside in unabashedly capitalistic America. Anniversary and special occasions mean showering each other with gifts. As if love, somehow, is not enough.

What Usha really had in mind was charity. After recovering from that initial surprise, there were some hours of research [painless really, thanks to google] to identify the organization to donate to. Usha was also clear that Aakash had to be part of this process. Look around you, the wonderful/ innocent/ gentle creatures that our kids are, they are also - shockingly - materialistic. Not knowing anything different and since we like to spoil them having ourselves been deprived in childhood, the kids are certainly not to blame. We were also clear that we did not want to just swipe a credit card to make an online donation and get instant karma.

And so we picked an organization called Lakeview Pantry on the west side of Chicago, that provides groceries and other essentials for needy families walking in to the pantry.

After a couple of calls to verify what would be most useful [protein!], we took Aakash along to Costco to buy cartons of chicken, chilli, mandarin oranges, and tuna. He had fun adding up the costs and pounds of purchase, not to mention the thrill of picking up new items never seen in our shopping cart before. Somewhere along the way there, the gravitas of what we were doing, slowly sunk in [Why are we buying meat? How much will each family get? What will the kids eat?].

Growing up, acts of generosity and selflessness always swirled around me. I have read somewhere that after a person dies, the voice of that person is next to die from your memory. And so, mom's selfless nature and her acts of generosity are all I am able to summon when I think of her. And those stories about her are what I especially like to share with Aakash [and I don’t do this nearly enough].

I am quite fortunate though. Sometimes, I have to rub my eyes to convince myself how lucky Aakash is to have the mom he has, as I was to have mine. Usha is such an uncanny replica of mom that I feel for her, more than I do for myself, that she lost someone so special so early.   

Carrying all the food to the pantry and entrusting it to the efficient and youthful staff at Lakeview felt really nice and the warm feeling lasted for days. There’s a promise made to ourselves to repeat the deed at least a few times a year and hopefully we are also building a young man’s character in the process. 

So many thoughts, but just a couple more in conclusion. I hope we can start a conversation on this page. 

What exactly are immigrants thinking, to donate in a country they can’t even call their own? For better or worse, this is where we live now and we’re fortunate to be privileged enough that we can do this.

Have I somehow diluted the deed by publishing it on social media? Again, there’s a nod to mom here. Besides being selfless, she was also extremely gregarious; that I'm using both those traits to describe the same person is borderline illegal, no? She did not have social media back then [not that she would have needed it], I don’t have her gregarious personality [and never will].

Domesticity divine

Domesticity divine so says a Taurean
Call me not antediluvian

For what’s crazier than stay at home with no plan
And more adventurous than books of many genre to scan

What’s more romantic than ironing her silk top
And hands brushing over dishwasher and countertop

More epic than who gets to 100 soccer goals in the yard
Layups and dunks and letting down your guard

What’s more exciting than planning the next move
And promises not to be stuck in a groove

Calling normal (as) exciting I know will cause some furore
And clearly I can sustain this verse no more

So let’s troll priceline and ding for the next vacation
Convinced the journey is better than the destination

To ban or to be

"Banned book week" was an intriguing event at Wilmette library this past week. And [surprise, surprise] the event was a big feature in the kids' section too. Books were wrapped in brown paper and sealed, it felt like you were smuggling out [rather than checking out] copies from the library. This triggered some random memories. 

I had imagined he gallantly saved it from a bonfire at India customs; but a good friend assures me there was no drama when he brought me a copy of "Satanic Verses" from the US many years ago, back when the book was banned in India. Another memory [of an exchange rate compelled "ban", even though the rupee had a bit more stature then] is of joyful discovery and haggling for foreign magazines [business genre, just to be clear!] from street side at Churchgate in Mumbai. The last memory is jarring and not really sure why I'm reminded of it. Its of a procession, through Chembur, led by a donkey - a famous cricketer's picture garlanded with chappals sitting on it - the fervent "hai! hai!"s that come only from the pain of being subjected to another 16 out of 70 balls.

All this to say: a world without censure, and with freedom of expression, is certainly a more aware and interesting world.

And what was Aakash' banned surprise? A light in the attic. Shel Silverstein, we adore you even more.
 

Life moves

A week ago, we made what I believed was the biggest move of our life so far.

From a university town to solemn suburbia. From the embrace of an apartment to where-do-I-freaking-start-from home. From pushing the clock to finding that rushing is not an option anymore. From a ‘walk to’ to a ‘ride to’. From slamming yourself out to checking off each porch and garage light. From traipsing for tennis to stay at home hoops. As the last boxes were moving in, the mind was meandering out – thinking of other moves big and small, moves physical and not, moves wrenching and tranquil, moves personal and make believe.

Growing up, moving was not unusual - in fact there seemed a flurry. Boyhood years spent in Manila and vacationing in India, then dad being away in Jeddah and visiting India. Those moves feel marvelous looking back, as they involved many gifts. Each time dad visited my smiling glance at his face would turn into an even wider grin looking at his feet and the new pair of sports sneakers unfailingly there for me [carrying it like that meant even more gifts could be stuffed in the suitcase I like to think or if you want to think ingenious, one less new item for customs duty]. 

But moving back to Mumbai, the moves seemed to kind of dry up. Past life is no indication of the future could not have been truer for me, as I spurned one opportunity after another to move. Mainly I think because it meant moving away from being mama’s boy. I chose to do both my engineering and MBA [the years of education rest lightly on a TamBram’s shoulder] at good schools but this is telling: within a mile’s radius from home. However painful moving may be, not moving is considered cowardice. Choosing not to move is not such a moving story.

Marriage is one type of a move, becoming a parent another wonderful one. Moving up in your career [or sideways or round and round] while moving away from family is the kind of black hole move that always seems to lure you in.

You start to believe you're pacing yourself well for the mother of all moves. But relinquishing your own parents [it is really that, however much we immigrants may rationalize] to be 10000 miles away may be the most wrenching move. And the most devastating journey of all, God forbid? The 24-hour journey to perform the final rites of passage.
  
Human nature has a bias for the bright side, a penchant for the promised land. We feel the sense of dislocation only during the act of moving: as soon as we’re moved, we have the urge to unpack and to feel settled and organized. All, so we can start thinking again in peace about the next move.

A week ago, we made what I believed was the biggest move of our life so far?

Much silliness about nothing

I have a knack of stating the obvious: when it comes to being pushy and demanding, no one is as glorious as immigrant Asian parents. And besides our daily prayers, we don’t sleep well at night if we haven’t cussed at the public school education system.

I try to look at the bright side and found something to really smile about recently. Aakash is in grade 1 and they have a writing activity called ‘silly sentences’. Its sentences you have to construct using key words - the only rule is the more fantastic and outlandish, the better. The point is to have a lot of fun while letting your creativity loose; and I find myself endorsing that approach, however silly:) and limited the activity may be. And I know, I know, a big apology to model parenthood that I’m even using silly and one’s son in the same paragraph – ha! But today, I really want to share some of Aakash’ writing – they’re laugh out funny, interesting, and I’d even say deep and nuanced, but that’d betray proud-dad bias.

Words go to classes to learn more about themselves

Papers swing on branches

I went swimming in a hot cup of chocolate with marshmallows

A person sketches someone who does not have clothes on

Advait crashes into a walking paper

 

The beyblade shines on the sun when it’s spinning

The glue is bleeding because someone stepped on the glue

I can slide down a stapler

I keep ghosts at my house

I drive my car inside restaurants

This is the end of silly sentence classics

Of writing and being mama's boy

Fair warning for this post is that I will sound like a vain dandy. And how will immodesty do for a TamBrahm boy with a good upbringing? But what use mother’s pride, if it is not acknowledged? If it can’t, at least, be used as homage.

Mom was the biggest fan of my writing. That is, if my limited and very sporadic output could be called writing.

Even the occasional articles in the college magazine, and some caption contests won, were a matter of great pride for her. There were my letters [handwritten in cursive style] to dad who worked overseas in Manila and then Jeddah for few years. Among the adolescent flavor of those letters [that I cringe about now], I used sports mainly tennis metaphors to tell him about my school rankings [“Becker did not do well at the Australian open (unit test) but he we will be back at Wimbledon (final semester exam)’]. Mom had him bring those letters back every year when he visited and those were neatly stored away in a box containing, oddly, bank check books and LIC receipts.

During days studying Engineering in Bombay, there was my self-righteous letter published in the editorial page of The Times of India, about a ragging incident at the VJTI hostel. With mom, that may have been the one that brought the house down. Our close relatives did not hear the last of that from her, and I could never live down the embarrassment from the extra attention.

Close family say I'm very laid-back to the point of being irresponsible sometimes. I’m sure if there’s one thing they could change about me, that’d be it.

When my mom was growing very sick, I had planned to step up my writing and blogging, if only because I wanted to print it all out, get it bound and present it to her. True to form, I never got to it and that will be one of my enduring regrets.  Your writing is so bad it can disturb the dead was one famous editor’s legendary critique of a submission, but I still hope that mom’s watching over, and reading, my current output. Like her, I’m not very religious but just the happy notion that she may be watching over something that filled her with pride, brings me a lot of warmth.    

It’s true, I’m mama’s boy and when Ammai [Usha’s mom] visits us later this summer, one of my plans to bond better [right now, we have what could be called a strong but silent relationship] is to pick her brain about obscure Tamil proverbs and sayings. Usha says Ammai drops those all the time and just some gems so far [“Adhikari kushu vitaal ananda kushu*”, “Valiya paarthal shingaram ulla paarthal okkalam**”] means I can hardly wait.

And when that happens, a blog post to share the joy of language I’m bound to experience will surely be on the cards.

{I’ve heard Tamil swear words are some of the most colorful around but sadly, I don’t think that’s something Ammai will encourage very much!}

* someone with authority are allowed mistakes that others are not
** decorative from outside, vomit inducing from inside [as in, a home]

Of teasing out toothpaste and Costco excess

Since political correctness is a malady for our times, let me say in defense of what I'm about to say next that I'm being ironic and not negative.

Doing more with less is a nice catchphrase the developed world uses; for those of us who grew up outside, that was in our DNA.

If you've lived in the US for some time, wander into your pantry or storage closet. Very likely, you will come across a 3-ring pack of Heinz ketchup or maybe a 4 can set of shower scrub or a 5 pack Gillette shaving gel. And you have a situation there not unlike the Chicago university motto: Where fun comes to die.

That pantry and closet situation is you stocking up for a rainy day [if you live in San Antonio] or a snowless winter month [if you’re in Chicago]. Sorry, not trying to be sarcastic. Actually, trying to be very sarcastic. To come to the point, that situation is a sure way to more acquisition because imagine staring at and using the same type of shampoo or scrub year after year. You're bound to lose it and when you do, just a single bottle of the new brand will not do. Because if you happen to like it, you’d rather save by buying mega and have it in stock too, correct?

Cut from a Costco lifestyle to the more austere one many of us have grown up in. If you were brought up in middle-class India, odds are your uncle used an idukki/ kitchen tong to eke the last dredge of life out of a toothpaste tube! If not your own family, the domestic help (‘baai’) who worked in multiple apartments {network of baiis were like the news feed of the real world before Facebook, weren’t they?} may have gossiped to you about which family beat the crap out of the poor tube. It’s not that we could not afford to stock up; it’s just how we chose to live.

Drinking filter coffee each morning began with the ritual of stepping outside to buy the milk. If you instead cared for a wake-up call in the morning, you signed up with the doodhwallah and the 5AM harsh ringing of the doorbell would be milk announcing itself [It could also be someone milked dry, as in my brother the Chartered Accountant returning home after pulling 24 hrs at his Tax firm].

More out of less. The mind easily wanders to some time spent in Gujarat – a three wheeler /rickshaw, rickety and almost tottering, yet carrying 8 passengers when the safe capacity is 4. And that’s not a melah act or performance I’m talking about but just the daily evening ritual of transporting  employees from remote textile units back to the train station and on to civilization.

Doing more with moru. 'Moru' in Tamil means buttermilk and no one embodied the doing more philosophy in the kitchen than my diminutive, darling granny. Making dahi or yoghurt at home would certainly ring a bell for many of us. What may not be as common is that after the first setting of the yoghurt, it was possible to magically transform that, in smaller batches, into different tastes and textures. And that’s exactly the kind of kitchen voodoo that paathi [granny] specialized in. I liked my thayru [yoghurt] a bit bitter and others at home could care less, slightly sweet was perfectly fine with them. In the hands of the moru magician, the different taste needs were no problem at all. She was slightly OCPD too, a neat freak and in her kitchen, food [especially dahi] could never go waste. It would be progressively whittled down into smaller and smaller containers in the fridge. If the ‘cling wrap’ had been invented then, I’m sure she would have used that to organize yoghurt in different spoons. In the hands of my granny, the master cook, that would indeed be the 'perfect bite'. As I picture her now, scurrying around in the kitchen at my uncle's home in Chennai, the sadness of outliving her beloved daughter weighing heavily on those little shoulders, I wish I could hug her every morning for all that she did for mom and our family.          

But we easily made exceptions to doing more with less, didn’t we? If you're a South Indian, you know your mom or aunt could easily get through 4 or 5 cups of filter coffee every morning. Each cup was from freshly made decoction concentrate. To call that excess, now that would be sacrilege. And then the sweets and savories during Diwali, talk about going overboard. Tins, no, drums of laddus and ‘mixtures’, enough not just for the family for Diwali but enough to supply even near-and-dear ones for a month. 

In conclusion, my point sadly is, I don’t have a point. And it’s into the weekend and I'm slacking, and so I’m not going to be forced into taking a position. But between the developing and developed world, between needing and wanting, between teasing out toothpaste and Costco-like excess, at least lucky for a life both simple and rich.

Of a Ram and Shyam life

I surprise even myself, that's how Facebook active I've been the last 6 months or so. For someone who speaks sparingly (you'd think good listener at least but no, generally distracted describes me best), the words come freely (IF and) when I sit to write.

I suspect others answer to that description too, where our online persona is more the life of the party than our real ones. Most of us don't lead lives as constantly exciting as our Facebook/ Twitter activity would have you believe. But that's precisely why its become so irresistible, and why social media  is here to stay.

That most middle aged men (and women) lead lives of quiet desperation may be too morbid to suggest. But clearly: we're never on a year long vacation, don't  produce impossibly cute babies every 9 months, we're not bumping into famous people every weekend, not acquiring a diamond trinket every month.

But the beauty of social media is that's exactly what it would have you believe we're doing all the time. Because its not just instant but prolonged gratification: a newly added FB friend gushes on the timeline pic of your wedding from a year back and its like a virtual reception all over again (if you're an Indian, your wedding guests likely outnumbered your FB friends, but I digress).

You can showcase your Facebook year in review and you may well be the most popular person that never lived. Time has stood still and you're still the most promising geek from b-school, the most outgoing girl in your college, never mind what the rest of your life suggests.

One can even be memorialized on Facebook or if an "ironic legacy" is more your style, there are social media services such as LivesOn that maintain your "personal digital afterlife" ("even after your heart stops beating, you'll keep tweeting").

To close (but not in conclusion), my personal homage to social media here.

Spring > Summerofcontent

Just a whiff of the 40s in Chicago and the sporting gear's in the trunk; dad and son are already up to no good. There's been some letting go this weekend [I parted with my French beard of many years] and some learning anew [Aakash made his first jump shot with NCAA size basketball and standard height hoop]. It’s time for renewal, it’s already Spring.

Ten years from now, when he starts calling me old man [gently, I hope] and is confiding [in full, I hope] more to mom about teen angst, I wish the sporting bond survives. That we can still pick up the tennis racket or the soccer ball and it’ll feel like time had stood still. For now, as summer nears; let there be, not just forehand volleys but also verbal volleys; that I’m able to coach not just his love for the game but also a love of the language; that he feels just at home with power words as with power strokes.     

Fun with verse

Leisure [or rah-rah Facebook]:

What is this life, if full of care,
You have no time to update and share? -

No time each day to change profile pics,
And awake for likes that are record breaks

No time to see, the apps you pass,
Are Angry birds and Temple Run so crass,

No time to see, in your damn news feed,
Self-righteous posts, for all to heed,

No time to fawn over baby pics and exotic trips,
The social reality you can't come to grips,

No time to accept my friend's request
What's wrong if at my friend's friend's bequest


No time -if you're more private- to chat & poke,
You thought being part of a billion FB citizenry is some joke?

No time to complete your profile detail,
Your online social persona that'll seriously curtail

No time for using FB Insights to gloat over your likes and reach,
Using Android is your problem, and shame if to Pinterest you plan a switch 

A sad life this is, if full of care,
You have no time to update and share.

Our South Indian things: [to be sung like "My favorite things"] 

Curd rice with pickles and savory spices,
Vishukani namaskarams and avinyawattams,
Anything exciting always wrapped up in guilt,
These are a few of our South Indian things.

Dosas and idlis, and gayatri japams,
Filter coffee mornings and suprabhathams,
Peer pressures that start from learning to walk,
These are a few of our South Indian things.

Diwali bakshnams and snuff using vadhiyaars,
Unjals and kashi yatrais and other wedding rituals,
Go west plead parents and our fate is annual visits,
These are a few of our South Indian things.

When immigration law bites,
When backwater memory stings,
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember our South Indian things,
And then I don't feel so bad.

What goes around comes around

There was a bashful bloke from Mumbai
fervent about vada-pav and cutting chai;
Now in Chicago, yearning for days old,
Goes back on vacation it is told;
Pancake and fondue with friends, taste like humble pie?

After a company outing
 
It was billed as unforgettable,
Weather almost made it untenable

Heroics to set it all up and a boundary claimed
But truth be told ‘twas the cookie corner that was most densely safe

There were wives and girlfriends in attendance
And also, believe it or not, a pair of yellow boots

The food was filling and the company was convivial
Even the bloke on his iPhone seemed quite jovial

Who said the budget was tight
All said and done, it was a fun night


Domesticity Divine

Domesticity divine so says a Taurean
Call me not antediluvian

For what’s crazier than stay at home with no plan
And more adventurous than books of many genre to scan

What’s more romantic than ironing her silk top
And hands brushing over dishwasher and countertop

More epic than who gets to 100 soccer goals in the yard
Layups and dunks and letting down your guard

What’s more exciting than planning the next move
And promises not to be stuck in a groove

Calling normal (as) exciting I know will cause some furore
And clearly I can sustain this verse no more

So let’s troll priceline and ding for the next vacation
Convinced the journey is better than the destination

It wasn't time yet

Its mostly shut tight these days, a sorrow it won't let go. But many years ago, before cell phones, she would be sitting by that sliding window late at night, her anxious eyes scanning the road for me. I might be away for a late night movie with friends, or annual day at Ruia, at an inter-college fest, fair at Don Bosco or study circle with friends. She would be at that window without fail. Returning home today evening, I happen to look up and feel cheated that she has missed her beat. I know I will catch myself looking up many more times now and in the future. And it does not seem to be enough to know that she may still be watching over me, when I can't see her doing it. More than anything else about Mumbai, I pine for her the most. Two years on mom, I could be that shut window and I've missed you so.

Happy birthday mom, miss you every day. All those crazy-sappy about mom: what’s your most memorable gift/ surprise for your mom on her birthday? I don’t have a very striking one, and so have the rest of my life to regret it. But; there is the memory of buying a salwar kameez in Karol Bagh, Delhi from first internship pay. Two sizes too big and also, realized later, that I was duped into paying three times too much. But she rolled with it, although I think she got it altered secretly so as not to upset me. Hopefully things were way more classy since, mom, because you were after all, all class.

Air, water, and books

Returning from a class this morning, I stop at the library with A. We check out a lazy weekend pile and then the fun starts. I have to coax him out as he has started reading, shockingly, on a couch inside the library (how apt). There're couple of errands and he continues to read walking to and inside CVS as I grab the salt (like this is his personal Dandi march of liberation). Mad at me for stopping again, he keeps at it inside the dry cleaners:) My initial amusement has turned to surprise and then praying hope. We're back home and he's still reading as I type this. There's going to be mindless ball kicking and endless Temple run for sure but dear A, you made someone really really happy this weekend!


I am very vain about my book collection back home. Usha Sanjay and I had even lovingly cataloged it at one point. I returned with couple of old favorites from vacation this time. Picking up ‘Goa: a daughter’s story’, can’t help think that re-reading a book is like meeting an old friend. The familiarity as I turn the pages is oddly comforting. Some of the pages are smudged like silly spats one could never quite smooth out. Then there are the forgotten bookmarks, which remind of play locations [society water tank for table tennis and car parking area for cricket] where time has stood still. There are story details that jump out as if qualities you never saw in the person before. One never judged the book by its cover. And one can never be done cover to cover, always leaving the possibility to meet again and know more. Life is too short to repeat but aren’t we better for it, as for an old friend?

Nostalgia

I have never been very religious [another trait, good or bad, that I owe to mom]. I was walking down Matunga Road this morning, yes same place where I’m going to be re-born in my next life as a rich Gujju or an Udipi owner’s son, or a temple priest, or a crow, or something. My feet take control and they drag me into the Asthika Samaj Guruvayoor temple. I am somewhat nonplussed in the sea of ardent devotees. It doesn’t help that I’m carrying a copy of Asurayana, a story from Ravana’s point of view [and you have to trust me guys this was wholly coincidental]. And then I hear the Nadaswaram and drums [which I duly record but unable to attach here] and am instantly transported. As with many other temples, this one too has an attached hall for the many Hindu rites of passage [birth, thread ceremony, marriage, etc]. And I’m transported to the days of snot-nosed cousins, runny plantain leaves, 51 Re gift envelopes, and easy and loud camaraderie. And I walk out of the temple feeling light and happy, and dare I say blessed.


Cycling over Chembur flyover to the gymkhana (in a 2Rs/hr rental), the racket balanced with wrist band on the handlebars, is the earliest memory of pursuing tennis in Bombay. Being God-fearing & marks-obsessed is your fate as a TamBrahm boy, and tennis may have been the out I was lucky to have. (Cricket was common and in the DNA so does not count). Fast forward to the US, it took all of three years before I took to tennis here in Chicago - and then racquetball in defiance of the winter. Walking to the YMCA for RB, balancing over ice and snow, the mind is forcing a weekend respite from corporate dead end. Thoughts of getting into Ruparel science despite hard to score at Marathi seem eons ago and yet, the parallels and flashbacks are hard to resist.


Watching the punchy little film Kai Po Che burst a dam of personal memories, Gujarat 1998. Of a B-school internship with Castrol: riding pillion from one textile unit to another, market surveying in Surat. Of gutka-chewing kids working at those units with stars in their eyes about Mumbai. Feasting on the best thalis ever, the plague in the city a forgotten lie. Being heckled by regulars with 6 packs (playing cards, not muscles) because I sat in their 'reserved' area going by train Surat-Ahmedabad; meeting colorful teenagers bringing denim and tshirts to sell at Fashion street in Mumbai; thinking, at Sabarmati: is peace to die for? After early work and life experience at this cradle of entrepreneurs, how could Kai po che?


Growing up, cricket seemed like the only sport there was. And the Indian cricket unit demanded so much soul, heart and mind from a fan that it was almost exhausting to think of any other sports or team. I was lucky enough to have played some tennis though and watching Wimbledon on the telly together is the most vivid memory of time spent with dad [although why he would always, but always support the other player still rankles]. For a few years now, supporting the Chicago Bulls team is reminiscent of that child-like passion one felt for cricket. And watching it with a most ardent and knowledgeable 7-year old fan can make even time stand still. After a special night on the courts v Celtics, you once again hope that this team will reach the pinnacle of their sport and become an NBA champion. That like April 2nd 2011 in Mumbai, there will be another date to never forget. Even as you start thinking that, you know you're going to have to be disappointed several times first. But then, being patient is a true fan's life-long curse. And real closure comes only when your team achieves maximum while you've been supporting it. It does not come from being told that your team was a champion in some murky past. Because the past after all is an elaborate lie told so no one is disappointed.