This is a special announcement. Clocks have now gone back one hour. Please be aware that we will be moving from BST (British Sad Times) to GMT (Grim and Miserable Times)

Goodbye sunshine, hello Seasonal Affective Disorder.

After you've searched far and wide for happiness, imagine for a moment that happiness comes looking for you.
Will you let it in? Or leave it waiting at the door?

Belfast

In a land with forty shades of green
a stream
gently flows, charting an uncertain path
to an unknown destination.

Leaves, autumn's snow, drop
unrushed, into the shallow end
while in the bend,
bubbles pause
to speak in hushed tones.

In the distance, H&W cranes
watch over a city,
while a mother,
getting ever smaller,
but just as constant, no less stoic,
waves in a rear-view mirror.

Somewhere, in a warm corner
of the memory,
there is laughter.

In the air,
thoughts unravel,
while below, a patchwork of fields
stretch out
like a grandmother's quilt,
well-worn,  familiar,
quietly falling apart.

It is only the body that travels, never the heart.

Greetings

While most other life forms in this part of the world are preparing to go into hibernation, I am making my first tentative attempts to emerge out of mine. Until, of course, the clocks go back (which is in roughly two weeks) and whatever little resolve I have will then freeze under an avalanche of snowflakes and thermal underwear. But enough. Before this little island is taken over again, Narnia-like, by a seemingly perpetual winter, let me try and get some words in.

So, where to begin? 

In the last three months, a number of significant events have taken place in my life. I realise that some (if not most) of these will be of little interest to anyone but me, but here is a shortlist anyway (in somewhat random order of significance- in keeping with the beautifully upside-down-inside-out nature of my present condition). Now, on with it- mild frostbite is already setting in.

I married an amazing woman.
I flew for 14 hours non-stop and didn't throw up once. I repeat- I didn't throw up once.
I learned how to tie a reef knot.
I laughed. Loudly. Several times.
I woke up in one continent and went to sleep in another.
I met people who'd last seen me when I was still in diapers and talked funny.
I sang 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' in public with my wife and sister.
My uncle passed away two weeks before he was due to travel to the wedding.
My grandmother's leg prevented her from making the final leg of the journey to the wedding. (the awkward pun is a defense mechanism)
on more than one occasion I experienced, as Colin Firth famously described, 'stirrings somewhere in the upper abdominals which were threatening to form themselves into dance moves'
I carried a baby (not mine) through airport security.
I traveled in an official Government of India car.
I met Bruce Lee. He was moonlighting as a waiter in an Italian restaurant in China.
I married an amazing woman.

That is all for now. I shall keep you posted on the weather front.

Seeing as you're one of only two people I’ve known literally my entire life, I feel as though I know you enough to say what I’m about to say.

There are things to be said about sharing what could be perceived as 'private' thoughts in a 'public' space, but we'll save that conversation for another day.

For now, what I want to say is this-

I don't know whether you're the first person I saw when I peeled my little eyes open for the first time, chances are it was either you or a nurse. It definitely wasn't Dad, because he only arrived a couple of days later, armed with a smile and unrealistic expectations of what a new-born baby was supposed to look like, and compared me to a jaundiced rat.

But this isn't about me, it's about you.

I don't remember lots of things before a certain age, I just know they happened. Like how you used to drop me off at playschool, read me stories, and allow me to put all kinds of crap in your handbag everywhere we went.

Other things I do remember, like the time you took me to the barber just so I could have my hair styled in some ridiculous style that was fashionable at the time. And then we got soaked in the rain on the way back home and I cried because my ridiculous style was ruined and you spent an hour trying to recreate it for me.

And the time you took me to buy football shoes and you let me have the expensive ones even though they weren't that much better than the cheaper ones and then you carefully poured wax along the stitching so they would last longer. They didn't last all that long but the memories, those last forever, you don't need wax for those. I remember them like it was yesterday.

And then as we got older and bigger, and you got older and smaller, there were other things. Like the countless times you carried those massive tins of flour from the chakki even though they seemed to get heavier with each trip. And those big bags from the vegetable market that you hauled all the way up the hill because we were too busy being busy to help. I also remember the time I woke up in the middle of the night because I had a nightmare that involved you not being around anymore and you sat up with me and explained the concept of death as best you could to a 12 year old. And then soon after, even when things were difficult, you stayed strong and got on with it with a combination of grace and fortitude, that I still, after all these years, struggle to comprehend, but will always admire you for. And even when you were weak that was ok because sometimes it takes a special sort of strength just to show weakness.

You are my rock, my ever-present guiding light, a light that never seems to diminish with time but instead grows brighter with every passing day. You are amazing in every possible way. And never let anyone tell you otherwise.
I love you mum.

“Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity"

- Henry Van Dyke

A big shout-out to my friend Shane Sandhoefner, who a year and a half ago pulled this poem from out of his shirt pocket and read it out at my farewell meal in Cambridge. And with whom I met up again last week on a boat in Richmond. I hope to see you again soon, my cricket-loving, Bob Dylan-quoting, Shawshank Redemption-watching friend.

In the meantime, here it is- a damn fine poem on a..umm.. damn fine subject.

My Time with the The Ajay

We met in Cheltenham Spa
which seems unlikely on the face of it,
but is i suppose only as unlikely as meeting
anyplace, in a certain sense.

He tried his luck at fleeing,
but i caught up and sat right by him.
The past makes a sound much like
the gentle hiss of a heating vent.

Mondays and Fridays were the heaviest-
we renamed assets till our eyes were numb
and fiddling with the feisty pair-split,
bu by god, in the end they fit like a glove.

Parth couldn't tell my voice from his,
which presumably led them to think
it was actually me who came to visit,
me they took out to dinner.
Abdul sent me his best wishes,
and now Vaibhav thinks I'm the one going to Pearson.

The Ajay taught me cricket,
you've got to grip it and rip it-
and we did so at a local park,
where The Ajay nicknamed me Parth,
which added to the general confusion
especially for Charlie and Dawn.
So i nicknamed him Shane,
but it never quite caught on.

We all saw him at karaoke.
He sat down and was suddenly
straight from the 1970s,
almost put his arm around me
with his feet tapping along
to Lola, or some other song,
and we finally sang us some Dylan
because we're both like rolling stones.
We're always moving and spinning
downhill, we're like gravitational poems.

The world is draped and limited
in strange ways, and the words stay
just a few centimetres from
the tips of our tongues.

But we can still smile softly
at the familiar shapes,
these ever-numbered days,
and laugh thinking
that some things hang around,
like an ink stain on a thumb.

I am my Dad, who ran the last kilometre of my first half-marathon with me,
just to see me cross the finish line.
I am my Mum, who makes sure I’m wearing fresh socks,
but loves me even when I'm not, which is almost all the time.

I am my Ammachy, who taught me -with modest success- to speak up,
and my Appacha, who taught me the magical properties of silence.

I am Johnycha, who signed the first cheque for my university degree,
Mathewcha, who got two speeding tickets to drive me there,
and Maavan, who drove 200 miles to bring me back
(after another bout of flying fever).

I am Sushil, who has become used to giving up half his room,
with- what he must by now consider- alarming regularity (liberties, bruv).
And also Santosh, to whom I didn't repay the favour,
leaving him to curl up instead on the floor of my cold flat,
wearing two layers of clothes and a hoodie.

I am my brother Vijay, who called me achacha maybe once,
my little sister Sujaya, who called me it five times,
(and has long since swapped it for more colourful terms of endearment)
and also Hannah and Rachel,
who call me it whenever their Dad is in the room.

I am Gisamama, who has my specific medicational needs covered,
Anniemama, whose knowledge of Mumbai Marathi comes in handy,
and Liz, who will (hopefully) service my lifetime dental plan.

I am Maavi, who still considers me young enough to buy presents for (hint, hint)
and Shantamama, who gamely endured me every summer for many years,
when my brother and I would descend on Karikattoor,
and then proceed to soak the chicken feed in kerosene,
and break her hanging flower pots
(while making sure to fling the incriminating evidence into the nearby field).

I am Bobbycha, who made the first cricket bat I ever owned,
and Jobycha, who meticulously painted and varnished it.
I am Babuchayan, who repaired everything I broke or tore,
(but couldn't do much about the flowerpots).

I am Anil, who drove a white toy police car across Ammachy's lawn,
and Sunil, who drove a slightly more imaginary one in Pune,
(mainly by carrying around a large rubber washer and making engine sounds).

I am every single individual separately, and all of them together, all at once.

I am who I am because of everyone.

Sachin's Dilemma

So the wait is over, the ton of tons has finally arrived. It is a staggering milestone, a cricketing Everest that may never be scaled, on par with Don Bradman's 99.94 average. Or maybe it will, who is to say? It may well be conquered just by virtue of its presence- it is now a target, an opportunity to dream the impossible dream, and on another day, another man may flirt with immortality. But until then, it will stand there, gloriously out of reach, a reminder of a time when giants mingled with men on a cricket field.

So now what? At what cost has the quest reached its conclusion? Does Sachin walk away now and prove beyond doubt this was his sole motivation to keep hauling himself out onto the field of play after that glorious April evening in Mumbai when he held the World Cup aloft? Or does he persist despite the lengthening shadows, raging against the fading of the light, ignoring not just his creaking body but an increasingly disenchanted public? At what point does the Master start to overstay his welcome? And who will tell the Emperor he's not wearing any cricket whites?

The photo encapsulates his dilemma. While the one fan stands with folded hands in awe and reverence, waiting expectantly for another miracle, the other looks like he just wants the noise to stop. Both must be voices in Sachin's head, both louder now than they've ever been.

Which one will he listen to?

Every three or four days a week, i take my place alongside other bleary-eyed commuters on the eastbound Picadilly line heading into Central London.

I flick through the morning paper and wait for the inevitable announcement that begins with the words 'We apologise for the delay, but...'

But most days, i also think.

I think about how much more attractive people seem the moment they smile.
I think about whether my shoes are too red and whether they're sending out the right message about me.
I think about where I've been and where I'm headed (apart from eastbound on the Picadilly line)

Most of the time, however, my mind is occupied with one single recurring thought-

Is it worth it?

When I was a child, i thought the Snooze button on my alarm clock actually paused time.

Now as a slightly older child, i no longer think this. But at approximately 7 o'clock every morning, i wish more than ever it was true.

So after a week of lying flat on my back, drifting between delirium and despair, and puking my guts out- I'm back in the land of the living. But only just.

Miss me?

Dear M25

I love you, but please sort your life out.

Life is short enough without my having to sit for hours on end in my car, staring at the number plate of the car in front and imagining I am on Countdown (it's a really lame version of the game, and I can never get words longer than three letters) I mean, come on- I’ve seen cars move quicker on a production line.

Also, what is up with all the cameras? I almost feel like a celebrity on a red carpet; except of course the road isn't red, and, (no offense) not nearly as smooth as a carpet.

I know it's not all bad. Perhaps I'm being a bit harsh. For instance, it's great that you're getting wider. It appears to be a slow and painful process, but the last thing we need is for you to start downsizing like everything (and everyone) else these days. Also, you have a sense of humor. for e.g., every time I see this message on one of your screens: JUNCTION 15, 16 MILES, 18 MIN, it makes me laugh so hard that sometimes I spill my coffee all over myself because it almost always takes me about 500 MIN to get anywhere near JUNCTION 15. Also, that bit where you have a 50 mph average speed limit on the one section of the road where people can actually move faster than 30 mph? That’s hilarious, really.

And then there are those times, every once in a while, when you- with sparkling streetlamps hanging around you like a necklace- seem to almost glow in the pale light of the setting sun. Those are the times when everything seems right with the world, the road seems to rise up to meet my little car, and, for a few glorious moments, it feels like just you and me.

I think we'll be ok, the two of us. I'm not really looking for a long-term relationship at this point, but we could definitely get along and maybe see where the road leads? I'm just worried that if we don't work out our little issues, we could end up going round in circles. Or one big circle.

See you tomorrow.

If you're reading this, that means you're alive.

Whatever your circumstances, whatever else is going through your head right now, that is the single most important fact of your present situation.

These precious moments- make them count.

Despite death being the only certainty in life, why do we still insist on living like we're going to be around for ever?

Another gem from Seth Godin:

Once the water is deep enough that you must swim to stay afloat, does it really matter how deep the pool is?

Dear NY Times

Thank you for your letter stating that you are rejecting the poem I sent for inclusion in the Arts section of your esteemed publication.

I regret to inform you, however, that after careful consideration, I have decided that I will not be taking your rejection personally and my enthusiasm for writing is in no way diminished by this latest development.

Your letter has been retained for my records and will, in compliance with my own personal policy on this sort of thing, be destroyed in 6-8 weeks, or when I next clear my desk, whichever occurs earlier.

Once again, I wish to thank you for taking the time to write to me and I wish you good luck for all future rejection of my work.

With best wishes.

My Medium-sized Resolution

So on day 2 of the New Year i learned that i am no longer a Medium shirt size. I am now, at least according to the label on the Hollister shirt, a Large Dude. (steady, ladies) Things were further complicated by the fact that i was a Small at NEXT. (I’m going to have to treat that as an aberration)

So, having initially decided that i was not making any resolutions, i have now resolved to strive to become a Medium Dude. And just to show that i mean business, i actually bought the Medium shirt which, at some point this year, will fit like a glove. Don't hold your breath, though. I'll be the one doing that. (chances are, that's the only way it will fit)

Tip for the month: If you’re trying to squeeze into a shirt, buttons are not your friends.

Tip for the year: The quest to be Medium is not to be confused with the quest to be Average. That’s a mistake I’ve often made.

Happy New Year.