Sach things

Sometimes fine writing transcends prose and feels like a haunting melody "One billion hard-pressed Indians, just one hero" or lilting verse "Give us an idea of what a light thing life ought to be".

Have you felt too that some written passages are so memorable they get a timeless quality? Such is (CP)  Surendran writing on Sach @ Sharjah in 1998 [can anyone forget those insane innings?]. While you won’t agree with all he says ["Please win. Win for us losers."], it could be because you and I [and others of our urban-educated ilk] comprise less than 1% of the demographic. Its also a perspective and an important one - it holds a mirror to a nation, for times when mass hysteria tends to drown out any dissenting note.

CP Surendran writing in April 1998:

Batsmen walk out into the middle alone. Not Tendulkar. Every time Tendulkar walks to the crease, a while nation, tatters and all, marches with him to the battle arena. A pauper people pleading for relief, remission from the lifelong anxiety of being Indian, by joining in spirit their visored savior.

Wednesday or Friday, Tendulkar lifts his gleaming bat, points it like a sword towards the TV cameras after his customary hundred, and a million hands go up in blessing; and in begging, pleading silently for redemption from the oppressive reality of their existence, seeking a moment's liberation from their India-bondage through the exhilarating grace of one accidental bat. One billion hard-pressed Indians, just one hero ...

The poor Indian lifts his hands to Sachin in supplication: give us respite, a sense of liberation; lift us up from the dark pit of our lives to well-lit places of the imagination with your skill-wrought perfections. Give us an idea of what a light thing life ought to be. Take our blessings, but give us a break. Please win. Win for us losers.

Telling tall tales

It started out harmless enough – a way to keep little Aakash in good humor [read ‘NOT-bawling-when-mommy-is-away’]. Other friends who are parents said it was over-rated and takes too much time, effort, and imagination. Why resort to it when you can use DVR and put Caillou in endless loop or have a turbo-charged McQueen or a benign Thomas do 273 laps on the toy track?

Then there was my wife’s and our parents’ mistrust [and my own misgivings] if I had taken this enterprise a certain way. That mistrust [and those misgivings] stem from my stunning lack of ‘knowledge’ about Hindu mythology. I put knowledge in quotes because as with some other things such as names, people, and places, I delude myself that it’s more to do with remembering – or not remembering, in my case. That I’m in fact a good Hindu parent who knows all there is to know about Indian gods and goddesses and other assorted Hindu myths. That using the power of stories handed down generations; I can somehow make my son a good TamBrahm boy [and myself a better human being in the process]. But alas, that’s as untrue as it is true that Rukmini was Krishna’s queen [before you go Ooooh, disclaimer that I had to verify even that simple fact with Usha]. And then of course Usha. Why even mess with that genre of story-telling when the other parent is a present-day incarnation of Ved Vyas? At the risk of being dismissed as both a skeptic and a sexist, I have always found it difficult to reconcile that a male could be such a prodigious story-teller.

So anyway – get to the point; stop beating around the whole damn forest. Right? Much as I made my case against it, this blog is about why I still consider myself a story-teller and how my son and I have had hours of eye-popping enjoyment around it.

Take last night for example. After a whole day jumping, running, and sliding at Chicago’s Winter Wonderfest, the moral thing would have been to feed and tuck Aakash in. But then there was a sleepy plead for a story which I could have easily ignored, that’s how drowsy he was. Before I knew it though [and much to Usha’s chagrin] and as I was making it up, both Aakash and I were going ooh and aah over this tall tale of superheroes behind the Haagen Dazs counter at Navy Pier. Spiderman was using his web to pull together butter-pecan, vanilla, and strawberry mounds to concoct a tall ice-cream cone stack for Aakash. Superman was zipping at super-sonic speed from store to store to bring the missing ingredients for his friend Atharva’s double chocolate chip ice-cream. And in the absence of coffee, Transformers used milk, sugar and tons of magic accompanied by lights and hissing to produce a cup of cappuccino for Amma.

My favorite [and I have a hunch Aakash’] stories are simple enough and sans super-heroes. Those are the ones where I put Aakash and a group of his friends in an adventure. It’s slice-of-life but adventure for them because they’re independently doing what they’d normally be accompanied by adults for. Such as taking a vacation to India. It’s only Aakash, Rishi, Spruha, and Neela that are doing it – NO parents allowed. Rishi calls American Taxi to book the cab to the airport, Aakash is in charge of all their passports, Spruha and Neela the more responsible task of talking to the authorities during check-in and immigration. They [I love it even more when Aakash’ friends are around to hear the story too] get such a kick out of it, it’s not funny. {Look around you, kids of Aakash’ age are always asking what they would and can do when they are 19 yrs old, 34 yrs, amusingly 99 yrs; and you’ll know why it’s so}. To continue the story - when the kiddy gang is at several thousand feet, what do they see flying outside the plane but a character in red and blue. Who then flies in and offers to give each of the kids a joy-ride on his back, zipping alongside but faster than the plane. Super-heroes can be ubiquitous, eh?

Many stories of course have a Wonka-esque quality to it. Those are the stories replete with roads made out of orange jelly, houses made of chocolate pudding, and dogs made of lick-able and likeable candy.

And then there are the stories which may have you going – what kind of twisted parent are you? It may be because Usha and I are such big fans of Lord of the Rings that Aakash has taken a fancy to the character of Gollum. [I know, I know. A big apology to model parenthood]. These adventure stories have the kids being stalked and chased by Gollum only to have them outwit the ogre in the end. This is also a call-to-action or maybe call-to-imagination as it were as I ask each kid to think [aka Home Alone] of a ruse or idea to trap the evil Gollum.

There's a personal, very selfish cause-and-effect I have surmised. I think I owe my renewed interest in writing to the creative bursts from story-telling.

What use, otherwise, these tall tales? I shall not launch into long-winded support of it. Only to say you know there’s wonderful payback when the art is used against you – “I can’t finish my lunch Appa. Gollum is coming to the kid’s library and Superman and my friends have to make him go away”.

My tale of two cities

Huddle up everyone for this is the classic tale of two cities.
… Not the Dickensian tale [will you settle instead for a writer of some disrepute?]
… Not David v/s Goliath, more David v/s his twin [if he had one]; two cities and their populace so perplexed about being similar that they forget to delight in their differences.

You would think Chicago chances are already buried with its epithet of “Second City” but old-timers say that’s part of Chicago chutzpah, her way of cocking a snook at the form book.

What’s the best place in these cities to get a “humanity bath” and experience the pulse of the place? New York has its square [Time Square], although if you asked some folks from Chicagoland, they’d say NY has become “square” - while a witty comment obviously meant to malign, NY is anything but dull. Chicago has its mile [Michigan Ave] – a hodgepodge but inspired show of architecture, museums, fancy stores and other stuff that can only be described as miscellaneous [how for e.g. does one even describe the feeling of mulling a chess move (in a free-staged public game) as you contemplate this giant, egg-shaped structure squatting in front of you?].

Nothing can beat a cycle ride around Central Park as nothing can beat a run by the Chicago lake front. NY has its momentous Met - a historical bulwark that has surprisingly kept with the bizarro times we live in: I can never forget the Fashion meets Fantasy special exhibit of Superhero costumes it once did. Chicago has its Museum campus which as much about the variety museums it houses, is also about projecting an attitude with its impossible location on lakeshore.

NY has Broadway and musicals; Chicago is known for its improv with Steppenwolf and amazingly quirky Second City.

There is the peace of mind from living in a quaint university suburb [such as Evanston] with the joy of being so close to the center of the Universe that is Chicago [did I hear a WTF from New Yorkers?]. There is the impossibility of renting and living in NY city and so the sad compromise of commuting from Jersey.

What about entertainment i.e. the movie glitz and glamour we cannot live without? Movies shot in Chicago – The Dark Knight, Save the last dance, My best friend’s wedding, My big fat Greek wedding, When Harry met Sally; Movies shot in NY - Annie Hall, As good as it gets, Taxi driver, but then also When Harry met Sally and My best friend’s wedding. Not to forget Godfather, whew … guys have that one burned into their soul, don’t we? And then there’s Home Alone 2: Lost in New York about the kid who loses himself in O’Hare only to lose himself even more in New York city. That’s before he transmogrifies into Superkid with a mind and drive that can leave grownups feeling inadequate.

And the personal – my Chicago and my New York cannot be the same as yours, can it? There’s the sibling situation - one inhabiting the exciting and reckless world of NY iBanking and the other in a fun and almost poetic neck of the business woods. And the romantic trysts … dressing up for and experiencing your first Broadway musical is a memory and a half, as also marveling together from the 103rd floor on a star-lit, already emblazoned night.

If the world imagined by Escape from New York were to become reality, would New Yorkers make a beeline for Chicago? I think so.

And finally: If in reading through this article you detected even a bit of bias towards Chicago, that’s purely intentional. Sitting on the fence may be the safe bet but its being opinionated that makes this a wonderful world, right?

Micro-blogging - etc.

Another week of not writing the unwritten, not backpacking the wild, not changing careers, not learning a language, not rocking the boat. But filter coffee was perfect, new plans were hatched, there was love and fresh air. What's my tune, then?


Reading, eating, sleeping. No racquetball. More eating and sleeping. So hectic there's not enough time for TV. Phooey to all the weekend over-achievers ... family's on vacation and I'm being the slacker God always meant for me to be.

I felt sublime touch at racquetball earlier this evening. With racquets, ralleys, and righteousness, it mimics tennis (it's winter in Chicago for God's sake and yes, too cheap to pay for indoor tennis). So - my infinitesimal homage to the Man and his game as we wait to be enthralled again by Federer.


I'm looking for a 2010 metaphor and surely its the Year of the Sloth so far. That's not in the 12 animal signs from Chinese Zodiac but also they did not get my last couple of years right - should have been the years of the ram and not the rat. In the meantime, God, its nice to have a life.


After seeing other dads of a certain (elder) age at sport, musings on (im)mortality from a 4 yr old: '"Appula, I want you to be always 35 yrs." Coo, enjoyed that:) Ouch, kids do say the darnedest things.


Indian independence day is close to what one could call a 'universal' independence day - due in large part on the means [tenets of the freedom movement] and in some part on the ends [progress since].


If movies also engaged our sense of smell - imagine stench of burning rubber in BOMBAY, the heady smell of books during a class in DEAD POETS SOCIETY, the sweat and grit in ERIN BROCKOVICH, or the extravagant food in MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING. What would it be for you?


Grandma said you can never turn back the clock and so a day like this brings such cheap thrill. But between changing time on the microwave, wall clocks, and watches, there was no time for anything past due. RIP Grandma, life is just as it should be.


I can't always "walk the talk" - sometimes the terrain is synthetic, the shoes are not rugged enough, the stop watch is not swiss. And I'm human. We live in exciting times maybe but I'll settle for less-than-a-revolution sometimes.


Drop, reach, lob, scamper, jerk, pop, faah#@!%&. While a sports-injury at this age has a certain cheap-macho thrill to it, sad if it prematurely ends tennis and cricket for the season. Granny, is there a Hindu god of sports you can appease?

Micro-blogging on words and the 'unwordly'

No offense to Pulitzer pundits, Booker boors, and assorted highbrow but the most delectable writing may well be about sports and within that, cricket writing. "What do they know of cricket who only cricket know" "Cricket is the least harmful of British colonisation's 'civilising' influences"


One reason to enjoy writing is I can complete my train of thoughts. Look around you - talking is no longer civil, you are interrupted even before you can start. 


Now, don't get me wrong but a mini-resolution for the year is not to use the word awesome in honor of and till such time as the awesome thing really comes along. Cool? Awes ... Er ... Cool.


"(nudge and wink)"
"(laughter, like bells)"
"(sigh, deafening)"
"(arched eyebrows)"
"(pause, so pregnant)"`
Conversations with 'you say it best when you say nothing at all' quality to it. To die for, to live for.


Means or ends ... journey or destination ... here's another thought: joy of the argument or urge to have the final word?

Micro-blogging on business

So many promises made in December,
It’s nice to bait it hook, line, and sinker;
All for a better tomorrow is the thinking,
Hopefully January is not a rude awakening;
Why can’t December [and New York] be forever?


Modern business meeting:
Person A - states the problem.
Person B - big on semantics, rephrases the problem.
Person C - says something verbose and impressive but unrelated to the problem.
Person D - throws the rule book at you. ... and so on.
End meeting. Now, what was the problem again?


Time to do something that's more kick-ass than, umm, kiss-ass:-)


A dollar for every hour over-worked and snatched away from family, from sports, reading and being plain goofy. Notional millionaires of the world unite, you have nothing to lose but your wretched inability to say No.

Micro-blogging on travel

The wonderful thing about travel [done right] is that it makes you less insular. Then it's no longer why something is non-American or why it's non-Indian but just thrilling in the melting pot.


My India is not the same as another Indian's or that of an outsider looking in. Why then do I delight in it [aka Dalrymple on India]? It's when any foreign land, with its million new sensations, is experienced at the deep end.

Dearly beloved Bombay

Is resilient a metaphor for something to screw?
You may say what a strange ode to brew
For a city that's given love, friends, and wings to fly,
But where events ever-so-often can make you cry;
Be safe, flawed paradise, a giant kala tikka in my mind I just drew.

Blogging in verse

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

Pleasures of slacking

At work these days, I take a break in the morning to read the daily paper. This is in addition to the lunch break. These times, I mostly like to get away from my workspace and park myself in the office lunchroom.

I hugely enjoy these breaks, not least because it is coming after what I like to call my ‘winter of discontent’ at work – a complex assignment that demanded obscenely long hours. The work cafeteria has glass walls that overlook the office. During these breaks (and this has nothing, at least consciously, to do with the glass walls), I make an elaborate deal of it – lay out the New Yorker and my lunch and splay myself comfortably. (Splaying by the way is not the best way to eat or do anything except if the objective is to just splay). And then the fun starts.

This morning for example, two lovely ladies were discussing dance and treated me to some ballet steps they had learned. That led to a discussion about Julliard and Save the Last dance and the merits of Julia Stiles as an actress {"Gorgeous and also strikes you as an intellectual". "Yale educated but did you know, hush, that she now appears in a risqué television series about lesbians?”}. It’s the sort of fun conversation you would never think an office set-up could afford you.

And then the flawless women and men (not necessarily beautiful, because it’s the flaws that make one beautiful) who hang around waiting for their name to be called and their time under the lights. {I work for a company that does media as part of the final service we offer to our clients}. It’s a great way to network for the future {“did you know about this new TV series that is all male-cast, but with all female roles?”} besides earning money for the day.

Not to mention, the discussion around food and cooking and diet {I’m still in the kitchen, remember?}. These are the ones I enjoy the most and in keeping with that give here a free-flowing, un-bracketed writing treatment.
“Nothing like carrot cake. It’s probably the best-kept secret in the cooking and binging world.” “Oh, well. I remember the cappuccino more from when I’ve had carrot cake”.
“Fruit diets work best when it’s not taken in addition to the regular cheese and fries diet”.
“I love coconut in my food.” “That does not even belong in the kitchen.”

And then there are the politically-incorrect office crushes and romances. Politically incorrect because the organization has not driven you to distraction enough with work to bury hopes of any spring fling and such. The timed entries. The furtive glances. And meals shared in silence in the backdrop of an adoring audience.

It's also amazing how at times an inspired work-related decision will happen just as you’re polishing off those fries or sipping that ginseng tea {"Why not apply that work flow to this new project and make it a standard, if it flies?"}.

As I leave a semblance of heaven and head back to more drudgery, I can’t help thinking about offices with lunchrooms. And those without. And how that is likely to be a deal breaker for me when I look for another job. Whatever ails the modern enterprise, it must be said how Sisyphean a task it is to keep employees engaged. To those, I provide advise gratis – you can never go wrong with a break room (ok, ok, lunchroom) having glass walls.

As I conclude this blog, it occurs to me how irrelevant the title is to the content of the blog. Because after all, work breaks can’t be considered slacking, right?

Fatherhood and the Culture factor

Thankfully, the changing diapers phase is well and truly behind us. But I'm not off the hook yet, for fatherhood, at least for the next 15 or 25 years - depending on where my wife and I settle down, in the US or in India. Ours may be the last (or is it lost?) generation of grownup-kids (India and elsewhere in Asia) who stayed with their parents till they were almost pushing 30. We were too comfortable to let go and our parents never thought you could overstay their welcome. A fact most amusing for my American friends who would be well and truly on their own as soon as they figured some means of earning. As one of those friends confided, better that than being booted out of the house!

Becoming a dad is an indescribably exhilarating feeling. But for me, it was not unmixed with angst. The fact that we were not allowed to determine the sex of our baby in advance, and so gloat over the possibilities. The fact that I was not allowed to accompany Usha into the delivery room and welcome my son as soon as he came into this world (though I am told that's just as well). But thinking about it now, I have no business really to be even a bit bitter about where Aakash was born. The joy and cacophony of grandparents and assorted uncles and aunts of the newborn would be unrealistic, I think, to find anywhere but at home (home still conjures up only India, at least for now). As also the festivities seeped in tradition that follow childbirth. Not to mention the support structures (close family and paid-help ... how cynical that I should talk both in the same breath?) that virtually take-over in the first few bewildering months for the new-born parents.

The changing diapers phase is behind us, yes. But like every father finds out, the last phase was probably the easiest. You get paranoid about his teeth but can't really blame him for gorging on chocolates because you like it too and so that kind of stuff is always lying around. You want him to be a model of words and action even though you are by nature, anything but. You don't want to push him too hard but can't deny the feeling of pride when he says or does something beyond his age (maybe you too are really one of 'those' parents who treat their kids like performing seals!). You love that he loves his mom so, even as you're slyly trying to score brownie points and not make a complete fool of yourself in the process {when he's desperately seeking his mom in the presence of friends and strangers, for example}.

Summer is around the corner here in Chicago and with it comes the anticipation of watching as he learns to ride the bike, playing cricket (yes!) and football, and getting those bruises and scrapes that little kids do, to make their fathers unhappy and proud at the same time. Its going to be indescribably deja vu once more and I yearn for it like nothing else.

Summer of content?

It's a 15th anniversary but congratulations may not be in order. 15 years since my first published writing [that it was for the college magazine is just a detail]. 15 years since swearing [with another wide-eyed, wannabe-writer friend] that we would stomp the road less travelled. And finally, tragically, 15 years of having done too little about it. The bed of inertia is well-made and well-slept in so how does one get out of it, even if on the wrong side? But as I look out of the window at a Chicago evening, warm and bright at 830PM, I think aloud: is my summer of 'content' finally here?