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?