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.