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.