Monday, December 16, 2013

"You know, I used to say, my daughter is the engine of the family. All of us were like bogies [carriages] yoked to the engine." 

The words of a broken father trying to make sense of his only daughter's death; the result of a brutal gang rape that shook India exactly one year ago. The full, heart-breaking article can be read here.

'Nirbhaya' -the name given to the victim by the media- literally translates from Hindi as 'without fear'. Personally, I prefer the other (similar but not the same) translation: the one who is brave. There is much in the world to be fearful of, and to attempt to be fearless in the face of it is not only dangerous, but pretty much impossible. Fear can sometimes keep us alive. To be brave despite your fear- that is what Nirbhaya was, both on that fateful day and throughout the nightmarish aftermath. 

One year on, she is more than just a loss her parents will never quite come to terms with. She lives on as our daughter, our sister and our friend. Far from being a day to forget, December 16 is a day we must always remember.
In every leaf of every tree,
there is a story. 
In every wave in every sea, 
there is a story. 

In every song of every bird, 
there is a story. 
In every word that's ever heard, 
there is a story. 

In every ray of every light,
There is a story.
In every shadow in the night,
there is a story.

In every hour of every day, 
there is a story. 
In every step along the way, 
there is a story. 

Every life is a story. Every story is life.
I got tickets the other day to see The Nutcracker. 
Wasn't quite what I expected.

Friday, December 13, 2013

Christmas Night

The true king-sized bed,
is not the one on which I lay my head 
tonight,
but the one in the cold cowshed 
on Christmas night.

The true gift for both you and me,
is not the one under the tree 
tonight, 
but the one that was given free
on Christmas night. 

The true star that shines from on high,
is unlike any I can hope to buy
tonight, 
but the one that illuminated the sky 
on Christmas night. 

The true joy for all the earth,
is not in the merriment and mirth 
tonight, 
but rather in a baby's birth 
on Christmas night.

Movember- Final Update for 2013

And so, Movember has come and gone. (as they say- hair today, gone tomorrow)
Despite all the drama and mild discomfort, it's safe to say the effort has not been in vain. I'm also pleased to report I was awarded the cup (literally) for Mo-st Money Raised. I hope you will allow me a couple of minutes to hold this cup to my lips and ejoy the sweet taste of victory...aaah. 


At this point, I would like to thank my agent... (whoops, sorry wrong speech). 
On a serious note, thank you to everyone who donated generously. Every penny is precious in the fight against prostate cancer. Also, big thanks to my colleagues at work and fellow Mo-bros around the world. Big up yourselves. 
Until next year.

Thursday, December 12, 2013


So much has been written about Nelson Mandela in the past few days since his passing, that it seems almost gratuitous to attempt to add to it. 

I can almost hear you asking why that same logic didn't stop me from sitting up long into the night and writing pages and pages on a certain cricketer by the name of Sachin Tendulkar. You might even argue that Mandela is a far worthier subject; someone who stood steadfastly for justice and equality against seemingly insurmountable odds. A man who without question left the world a slightly better place than he found it. And you might add to this the fact that he is now departed, while Sachin has merely stopped playing competitive cricket. So, you might conclude (with righteous anger slowly rising up inside you) that if anything is gratuitous, it is the tributes to the Little Master and not the heartfelt eulogies for a giant of our times. 

Tendulkar, as I have written about before, occupied a small but constant space in the changing landscape of my life- from the playful green fields of my childhood through to the more rugged terrain of the mid-thirties where I find myself now. It is difficult to overstate the importance of the familiar during times when things seem to change so quickly and without warning. Friends, school, college, jobs, all these are amazing and yet all these are new and scary, at least to begin with. Finally, one day when you wake up and find that your journey has brought you to that scariest of all places- Adulthood, these little intangible links to your childhood become even more precious. 

I read somewhere that it was somewhat ironic that Tendulkar’s last match started on the 14th of November, which is celebrated as Children's day in India. (Other countries have it on other days; in India it coincides with the birthday of the country's popular first Prime Minister, Jawaharlal Nehru). Watching Tendulkar play was to feel like Peter Pan, if only for a little while. When he walked away for the last time, something within us went with him.

Millions of people, both in South Africa and around the world, are most likely feeling greatly amplified versions of the emotions I felt when the curtains finally came down on Tendulkar’s career. Emotions they may even struggle to make sense of. For me, Nelson Mandela was a more distant figure than Tendulkar, someone whose battles were fought and won in a place and time that seemed, at least back then, far removed from my own reality. 

Of course I knew of him; this man with the kind face and the wide smile. A man who spent 27 years- equal to the entire lifetimes of people such as Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, and Jimi Hendrix- locked in a prison cell, and yet when he emerged, it was not with a lust for power or revenge, but an even stronger resolve to realise his vision of a united South Africa. A politician who actually willingly stepped down after one term as President. 

Whatever one's feelings are about him, most people will agree that ‘Madiba’ was special. He transcended boundaries of race, religion and nationality and made us believe that in the end, however twisted the road, we can still arrive at a place of goodness. For that reason alone, he will live long in the memory. 

PS: Whenever I think of Mandela, I think of this poem by William Henley, said to be one of his favourites. It was featured in the 2009 movie Invictus. Slightly theologically flawed perhaps, but inspiring nevertheless.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Movember Update- Day 26

We have now entered the home stretch of Movember. A mere five days lie between now and cool, clean-shaven elation. Despite the free burgers and the many kind donations that have poured in for this important cause, I will admit that the end cannot come soon enough. 

It has been an interesting three weeks so far. The physical transformation has been more radical than anything I imagined, such is the ineffable power of facial hair. That, combined with a hat (and, occasionally, thick rimmed glasses) has made for a such a complete metamorphosis that close friends no longer recognise me on the street. It is as if I am a stranger to them; perhaps even to myself. 

A few days ago, I had to take a passport photo and I almost returned it thinking it must have been a mistake. But of course, there was no mistake. It was, after all, a photo booth. Soon that photo will be printed in a visa or some other official document, destined to be inspected closely over the course of the coming months by some over-eager official either at Border Control or my local Cineworld. They say everyone gets 15 minutes of fame. Infamy, however, tends to last a little bit longer. 

I can see it now, the photo hinting at a mysterious, almost criminal, past, bearing no similarity whatsoever to the shiny-smooth live specimen. And then the confusion, mixed with incredulity, spreading slowly over the hapless official's face. Perhaps finally I can use the Bob Dylan line I've always wanted to but never quite found the right moment for- You see, officer, I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now. 
And it will all be worth it. 

PS: Please donate while you still can. Movember page, replete with stunning high-quality photographs, is here.
"We all have a little part of our brains that Tendulkar owns. Maybe that’s a much bigger accomplishment than owning the 22 yards of the cricket pitch."
Please read the full article on Sachin by my friend Sevanand here.

On a related note, it's nearly two weeks, and still can't quite watch the video below without a lump forming in the throat. And no, it's not an inflamed tonsil.

It is 5 pm in Green Park. But of course there is nothing green about it. For a few hours between 7 am and 2 pm there may have been something of a faint autumnal brown to it, but now it is just black. The sun has long gone; trees stand like mute sentinels along the edges of what just a few short months ago was a verdant lawn. To walk through Green Park at this time of day is not unlike drifting through outer space; an endless black nothingness save for the glow of a distant, soon-to-be-dead, star. The streetlights emit something but it would be a stretch to call it light, it appears to emanate from an indeterminate source in a neighbouring solar system. In fact, in the time it takes for the light to travel through the mist and fog and reach Green Park, the streetlight itself has probably disappeared; such is the mind-bending reality in which he finds himself. 

It is also cold. It is the sort of cold that seems to seep in through the pores of your skin and take up permanent residence in your bones. The ground beneath his feet, once a firm path occasionally strewn with poetic, wind-swept leaves, is now implacably treacherous; when the light does occasionally hit it, it is revealed to be not dissimilar to satellite images of the Sea of Tranquillity, but without the tranquillity because each step makes a loud squelch; an almost celebratory coming together of wet mud, leaves and traces of dog shit. To travel fast is to risk potentially fatal injury and embarrassment, to tread slowly is to allow ice particles to form in your eye lashes and deep-freeze a femur in mid-stride. It is, obviously, not much of a choice. 

It seemed to happen - somewhat ironically, given the darkness - in a flash. One moment he was marching very confidently towards his destination, the next moment he was lying very meekly on his face. Up close, the smell of freshly-squelched mulch is overpowering. He tries for a few seconds to isolate the smells of mud, leaves and shit, but he gives up and holds his breath. His heart beats in sync with the sound of passing feet. The numbness in his limbs has not protected him from the pain of impact; it has merely postponed it to a later time. Tomorrow, perhaps, when he awakes in instalments, he will relive this moment in his mind. For now, there in the still air of the mid-winter evening, he turns his head towards the stars, and longs for home.
And the King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ Matthew 25:40

If true love really is to look beyond the imperfect body and into the soul of another human being, then this is one of the most enduring images of that love I have seen in a while. 
In an interview following his encounter with Pope Francis, Vinicio Riva, who suffers from a rare genetic condition, said that being embraced by the Pope made his heart beat so fast he thought he 'would die'. No words were spoken. Words are often over-rated anyway.

Friday, November 15, 2013

Dear Sachin

'The work is done,' grown old he thought,
'According to my boyish plan;
Let the fools rage, I swerved in naught,
Something to perfection brought';
But louder sang that ghost, 'What then?'


-William Butler Yeats

Dear Sachin,
There comes a time in everyone's life where the end of a road is reached. Sometimes you arrive at that point at a time and manner of your own choosing; other times, the end comes to you instead- forced perhaps by circumstance and other factors over which one has little control.


In your case, you've probably had a sense that the end of this particular road was approaching for some time. I suspect you would have gone through a process of acceptance, followed by meticulous planning and preparation. That seems to be your style. Fans the world over have felt obliged to weigh in with their own opinions, but in a few days’ time, once the cacophony around your last international game has died down, you may well feel the timing was spot-on. And so, here we are, at the cusp of the end of an era.

It's a funny thing, this reaching-the-end-of-the-road business. Your entire journey is played back, dissected and analysed. Highlight reels are prepared. Words like 'legacy' get thrown about. For most people, this happens privately; at the most shared between close friends and family. But you are not most people. You are, arguably, the most famous Indian alive. And so, your end-of-the-road moment is being played out by an entire country. It is a collaborative effort. It has become, like your journey itself, a national pastime.

Which brings us to the inevitable question- what next? What happens when you wake up on the morning of the 19th of November and your profession changes from Cricketer to MP? The fact that you have chosen to make a seamless transition into public service suggests a life of solitude is not what you are after.  Quiet or noisy, what shape will the next innings take?

Gymnasts might start before they can barely walk and golfers might play on until they can barely walk, but these are exceptions. For the most part, the primary currency of professional sport is youth, and youth has a funny way of vanishing like the morning mist. And so you retire with your whole life ahead of you. At 40 you may be the elder statesman of international cricket, but in almost any other profession this would be the age when you finally find your feet. It is, in a sense, the 'sweet spot'- that age when you have just enough experience to filter your dreams, and just enough time to turn them into reality.

This most likely already occurred to you when you walked in to the Upper House of Parliament for the first time and discovered you were one of the youngest members there.  This is the amazing thing- despite your remarkable achievements over such a long period, you have so much more to offer. And offer you must, not because you haven’t given enough already or because you owe it to your fellow Indians, but because you are uniquely placed to make a difference. With your profile and the resources at your disposal, you can make things can happen. When you speak, people listen. It is a privilege granted to the very few.

The outpouring of love from all corners of the world over the past few weeks is proof, if any more was needed, of how highly you are held in the public’s affections. You represent so many things to so many people, to the point where it stopped being about cricket a long time ago. You have become- even if against your own wishes- an icon, an emblem, a hero for these troubled times. You are in that small club of public figures that have emerged from the battlefield unscathed, with pride and dignity mostly still intact. There’s probably no President who has been as well known, and no Prime Minister as popular. The adulation often defies logic, but that does not diminish your capacity to bring about change.

What is this change? How does it come about? I am sure you are well aware that the right sort of intervention, at the right time, can more often than not be transformational. Families and communities can be impacted by a single act of giving, sometimes even a few words of encouragement.  Not just sportspersons, but people in all walks of life can continue to be inspired by you, a young boy who dared to dream. Who took on the world and won. Maybe in time, more of us will be shaken from our slumber, our indifference, and our chronic commitment to mediocrity. We may begin to think differently, and share a vision for a different reality. It could happen.

Many different roads now lie ahead of you, but it is more or less certain that a life of anonymity will not be one of them, not while your name is Tendulkar and cricket is still played in India. Someone once said ‘A man spends half his life trying to be special, and the other half trying to be like everyone else'. Perhaps that will be your challenge. But even in the unlikely event that your name does eventually fade from the memory, there may well be another cricketer with the name Tendulkar on the back of his shirt soon, and you will be thrust into the spotlight again. What then?

I apologise if this is in poor taste. Maybe it’s none of my, or anybody else’s, business. This is, after all, your life we are talking about. You have earned the right to do with it as you please, and no-one will fault you for it. Still, the possibility that you might read this was enough reason for me to write it. With the comfort of financial security, and shorn of the relentless expectation of cricketing perfection, you can now take fresh guard. Whichever new road you end up going down, I hope it’s not one that leads directly into the sunset. The crowds in the stadium may not cheer for much longer, but outside, far from the bright lights of the Sachin Tendulkar stand, lies an incredible opportunity.

A nation awaits.


Note: This piece previously appeared in The National with the title 'An open letter to Sachin Tendulkar'. You can visit the page here.
The rumours are true- I am indeed mentioned in a Bob Dylan song. The song in question is 'You gotta serve somebody' from the gospel album Slow Train Coming. The (unofficial) video is below. If you would rather skip straight to the magical point- it is at 4 minutes and 17 seconds. 

It has to be said, Bob Dylan pronounces my name better than most people I know.

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Movember Update

I am now a third of the way in to my Movember Challenge. My number one fear when I started was that my moustache would grow straight outwards from my face, to the point where it would enter a room before the rest of me did. I am pleased to confirm that this particular fear has (so far) not materialised. But with 20 days still to go, we're not out of the woods just yet. 

It's not all bad, though- there have been a number of positives already; the main one of course being that I have raised £60 to date, with assurances of more to come. Thank you to everyone who has donated so generously and for those who haven't- I hope you take a good hard look at yourselves. 

In addition: 
As a reward for exceeding £25 in donations, I now have a voucher for a free hamburger every day between the 8th and 17th of Nov. This has been an altogether unexpected, but enthusiastically welcomed, development. So now I can continue with the important task of changing the face of men's health, and stuff my own face with meat while I am doing it. 

On a side note- I did wonder why the free burgers were only for 10 days while the challenge lasts a month, but I suppose ten days worth of burgers is probably the most one can consume before running at least a slight risk of turning into a cow. 

The final fringe benefit of my slightly disconcerting appearance is that fellow passengers now recoil just a tiny bit when I board the train after work (that's right, step away from the Mo!). These few extra millimetres are crucial as they allow me to commute with both my feet on the floor rather than in some yoga pose. My normal clean-shaven self will miss the luxury of personal space when it's gone, but for now my hairy-monster self is cartwheeling for joy. (Interesting mental image, no?) 

That’s all for now. It’s time to go scare myself in the mirror.

Friday, November 01, 2013

If you are at a loose end in London on Saturday 16th Nov, please consider coming along to a charity fundraiser for the Kerala Christian Fellowship (KCF). It promises to be a fun evening, and is in support of a great cause.
You can find out more on the website here or on the Facebook page.


Three things I AM looking forward to:

1. Android KitKat (rumoured arrival- any time now)
No, this is not some new chocolate-covered robot I’ve stumbled across on my latest travels through cyberspace, but Google's latest operating system for mobile devices. Formerly known as Key Lime Pie, it replaces Jelly Bean. Yep, sweet. My thoughts exactly.

2. Starbucks Red Cups (rumoured arrival- Nov 1)
I'm not a year-round fan of this ubiquitous coffee chain, but- this time of year, every time I pass a shop those blasted festive flavours have a way making my credit card spontaneously climb out of my wallet, insert itself into the card reader, and wait expectantly for me to enter the pin number.

3. Christmas (rumoured date- Dec 25; in supermarkets three months earlier)
Celebration of the greatest event in human history. What's not to like?

Three things I AM NOT looking forward to:

1. Sunset at 2 pm (assuming there is a sun in the first place) 

Yes, this is that time of year when every shift feels like a night shift. Will take more than a few red cups just to maintain the sanity.

2. Potentially looking like a creep for 'Movember' (ongoing)
This year, for the first time ever, I will be growing (sorry, rephrase: attempting to grow) a moustache for a whole month. On the plus side, I will be playing my part in a global campaign to help fight prostate cancer - the most common cancer amongst men. So, while my physical appearance may be dubious, the cause is most certainly not. If you are able to donate even a small amount, it would be much appreciated. My 'Mo Space' is here.

Special note to my Malayali friends- this is a humble request. Please avoid the 'Meesha Madhavan' jokes. If you do notice a passing resemblance to Mohanlal, however, it is ok for you to mention this. Valarey thanks.

3. Sachin Tendulkar's retirement (14-18 Nov)
I have already rambled on about this. (please refer to previous post below). My adult self will probably try to be all cool and unaffected by it. My 16-year-old self, on the other hand...

If you are looking for a Sachin fix, are curious about the great man's legacy, or in the extremely unlikely (and frankly preposterous) event that that you've never heard of him before, please head to Cricinfo's 'Farewell Tendulkar' site here. It is, figuratively speaking, a soothing balm for the troubled soul.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

Goodbye, Sachin

One day between the 14th and 18th of November, depending on the match situation, a certain cricketer by the name of Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar will walk off the field for one final time. I am not certain yet whether I will wear only black on the day or perform some other mourning ritual, but given that I have no recollection of watching Indian cricket without ‘Tendlya’ in the team, the significance of the moment will not be lost on me.

Much has been said about the timing of his retirement, by both pundits and general fans alike. Opinion has ranged from 'he left it too late' to 'he had one last great series left in him' and everything in between. I myself have gone from hoping he would retire while he was still at the top of his game, to silently goading him on- to rage, if you like, against the fading of the light. There was something heroic about his stubborn refusal to give in and disappear into the sunset.

Even now, as Mumbai prepares to lay on a farewell party for its favourite cricketing son, the debate rages on. Inevitably, it is along the lines of ‘no-one is bigger than the game', 'the opposition has been picked for his benefit’, 'what is all the fuss about?' or all of the above. Of course, this only proves that you can't please everybody all the time. Over the course of a 25-year career, Sachin Tendulkar probably knows this better than most.

For what it's worth- here are my thoughts. We can all make our best guesses, but only Tendulkar knows what kept him going for so long- whether it was records, advertising revenue, or some other inner Olympus. And he alone could have known when, finally, enough was enough. The fact is, for the best part of 20 years, he was one of greatest batsmen the game had ever seen. Here was someone who realised he had a gift, worked tirelessly to hone it, and reaped the rewards.

Along the way he amassed wealth and fame beyond the wildest dreams of all but a handful of his countrymen, but he also represented his country with understated grace and dignity, both increasingly rare commodities in modern sport. Young cricketers revered him, his peers respected him, and old-timers unapologetically fawned over this precocious kid who made it big.

Tendulkar wore the India flag on his helmet with pride; he cared passionately about winning, and was determined to be the best. I would even go as far as to say that this sort of sustained excellence by one individual is unprecedented in the history of Indian sport. What better role model for a country so often content with mediocrity?

That’s not to say there were no detractors or voices of dissent. In a culture where success is often envied more than celebrated, Tendulkar has copped more than his fair share of criticism. The most common complaint has been that he was a selfish player, someone who was part of a team but played largely for himself. Statistics were produced by people who sought to sum up a man in numbers. His talent may never have been questioned, but his motives and goals often were.

Even so, aside from the fact that selfishness can sometimes be a virtue- particularly when your pursuit of excellence spurns those around you on, I believe Indian cricket owes much of its current status to Tendulkar. He defined and transcended the game, and played a key role in keeping it relevant through the barren 1990s when Indian cricket seemed in danger of going the same way as hockey. Our once-world-beating team had inexplicably turned distinctly average, but in Tendulkar we still had a genuinely world-class player, or ‘prized asset,’ as marketing executives might say.

In the new millennium, as the team’s fortunes changed, Tendulkar continued to be the talisman, its most recognisable (and therefore marketable) face. The game, now fuelled by corporate sponsorship and lapped up by a booming middle class, weathered the storm and is now bigger than it has ever been. While it might be stretching the point to say that Tendulkar single-handedly saved Indian cricket from oblivion, I doubt this narrative would have played out in quite the same way without him in the lead role.

For me, and a generation of fans, Indian cricket was inextricably linked with this one man. In our minds, they were one and the same. He grew up with us, and we grew up with him. He was special, and yet one of us. Throughout my life, whenever and wherever I’ve had a conversation with someone about cricket, Tendulkar's name has always been invoked. When people from other countries, especially England, the ‘spiritual home’ of cricket, have raved about the ‘Little Master’, I’ve felt more than a twinge of satisfaction, even pride.

Tendulkar was embedded in our collective consciousness, part of the lexicon. He was the common language that everyone who cared about the sport understood. The thought of surveying a cricketing landscape bereft of him will be to chart new and unfamiliar territory. This man was meant to be around for the ages; the human equivalent of the Taj Mahal.

And so, as the date approaches, I am steeling myself. Maybe it's the time of the day, or maybe it's the time of my life, but when I imagine this cricketing colossus departing the arena one final time to the chants of 'Sacchiiin, Sachinnnn', the only thing I can think about is the closing scene from the movie Gladiator, the one in which the Emperor’s daughter stands beside a fallen Maximus and makes one short, simple exhortation to the masses: He was a soldier of Rome. Honour him.

Note: This piece was published in it's entirety by ESPNcricinfo with the title 'As the curtains come down'. Please visit the page here and leave a comment, if you are that way inclined. Thanks :)

Craft is Graft

craft (kraft) noun- meaning skill, dexterity 
graft (gra:ft) noun- British slang for hard work or labour 

I have long held the view that these two things were incompatible, and there was nothing in common between them except a similar spelling. Craft, I reasoned, was like art; something you enjoyed; a skill or ability that comes naturally and is therefore, by definition, almost effortless. Having to work at it, putting it next to words like 'hard' and 'labour' in the same sentence, by definition takes away from the enjoyment that practicing a craft should bring. Graft was for the less endowed, the ones trying to get to their destination with only half a tank. It could be a virtue, but it was definitely not fun. 

I now realise this was not only arrogant, but profoundly flawed. Craft and Graft are actually not strangers, they are not even just identical conjoined twins, they are in fact the same thing. The graft is what transforms something illusory into something that's held up for the world to see. Graft takes the talent that lurks in the shadows and drags it, sometimes kicking and screaming, into the unforgiving light of the sun. Graft is the voice that says- 'Here, I MADE this.' If it wasn't hard or scary, it probably wasn't worth it to begin with. 

This new belief was reinforced by something I read recently. In a certain part of the world, according to the locals, water used to be found at 150 feet below the ground and now you have to drill down to 1500 feet to get to it. This seemed an apt metaphor for how sometimes the things that once used to be easy - back in the heady days when youth and time seemed infinite - inexplicably becomes harder. There can be many reasons for this, and it’s tempting to treat each reason like one more brick in the protective wall you build around yourself. But it is more important than ever to try. Like that water, if you know in your heart the thing you want exists, the ONLY way is to keep digging till you find it. 

PS 1: Obviously this is not a revolutionary thought. And I’m aware that coming to this realisation so late in my life makes me look even more foolish than I actually am. 

PS 2: Like most of the posts on this blog, all of the above can be summarised in one line- anything worth doing, is worth doing with your heart and soul. 

PS 3: It is late now. I am going to bed.
Two videos- one for the head, the other for the heart. 
I'll let you decide which is which.



Saturday, July 13, 2013

Laxminarayan Hotel (and why Michelin stars are meaningless)

For a period of about ten years, (approximately between the ages of 5 and 15), Laxminarayan Hotel was for me the finest eating establishment in all the world. Even at the time, I was probably vaguely aware that it was a distinctly unremarkable little restaurant in a tiny corner of a small town, but this did nothing to diminish its appeal.

And so, almost every time we had guests over, I remember hoping that at some point we would make a trip to Laxminarayan. Almost inevitably, we did. And, with what now seems like alarming predictability, we would end up ordering the same food- but when all the malai koftas, mutter paneers, navratan kormas and naans arrived, I remember being so much happier than I thought vegetarian food would ever make me. It was the stuff my culinary dreams were made of.

Maybe it was because of the novelty factor of eating out, (which has obviously since worn off), but very few restaurants I've been to since then have had the same effect. While the memory of eating in a Michelin-starred restaurant may remind me of an exquisite meal, Laxminarayan Hotel will always remind me of a childhood.

Just to prove that this blog is as committed to meaningful journalism as it is to the finer details of toilet bowls (see previous post), I would like to mention that I ran into the Indian shooting team on their way home from the shooting World Cup in Spain. They were extremely friendly, and happy to stop and chat, even though it seemed like they were on the most roundabout route back to India imaginable. They were also excited that one of their team had won a silver medal.

After chatting for a few minutes, they headed off to catch their flight while I stood and watched these unsung journeymen in their blue 'India Shooting' shirts, far away from the glare of the media, with only their dreams and rifles for company.

Munich Airport, 9:30 am

All the toilets seem to have a single fly painted on them. Not sure why - perhaps a target to aim at? Or a reminder to unzip your fly before you let fly? Despite the inherent risk of dragging the standard of this blog slowly and steadily down the drain, here are some photos of the aforementioned fly.

(forgive the quality- when you’re brandishing a camera in an airport toilet, composition is not your main priority)


You know how sometimes you're stuck on a song so much that it seems to be following you around? That song is this song- a perfect soundtrack to the English summer that has now well and truly arrived.

Saturday, July 06, 2013

July, as always, seems to be a month of both celebration and contemplation. Perhaps the two go hand in hand, the one inevitably giving rise to the other. Pausing to mark another personal landmark is often just what's needed for reflection about life's larger realities. 

And so today, my thoughts turn to a brother and a sister, separated by time and distance, but united by illness and age. While my grand-mother deals with her latest ailment with characteristic fortitude, her brother lies in Intensive Care in another corner of the world. I will always remember Baby Appacha (a name that encapsulates all of human existence- from infancy to old age) as an uncomplicated man. Simple, quiet and contented. These are qualities I have always admired in him and others of his generation. I have strived to be all of these things myself with varying, but ultimately disappointing, degrees of success. 

It is almost impossible to fully explain the intangible impact any one individual has on your life. And so the mind often picks out one or two snapshots that serve as pegs to hang your memory of them off. I will never forget the time Appacha, having heard of my now-legendary love of jackfruit, arranged to have one delivered to the house just for me. He then proceeded to meticulously splice it and place those yellow-honey pods onto a plate, each one gleaming in the mid-day sun. I remember sitting alongside him, in near-total silence, working our way through them and feeling completely and utterly happy. I suppose when you are twelve, it doesn't take a lot to feel that way. But when you look back at memories like those as an adult, you marvel both at how special they are, and how difficult those feelings are to recreate. 

And then there was the time when I was a lot older (but still obsessed with jackfruit- some things never change) that he heard I was in another part of Kerala and was not able to travel to meet him. While most older relatives would be at least mildly offended if you were to leave without paying them a visit, Appacha got on a bus and travelled nearly two hours to see me instead. In a bag, there were some snacks for me from the shop he owned, things he knew I enjoyed. He spent an afternoon with me and my aunt and uncle before needing to head home. Just before he left, I remember him inviting me to go back with him and I did my best to politely refuse, saying I was leaving the next day. He smiled a kind smile by way of acknowledgement, and then walked away. That will be my enduring memory of him; this kind, contented man, shuffling off into the evening sun. 

There are many people, and Appacha is top of that list, whose generosity I will never be able to directly reciprocate. A part of me knows this is how things are, and that the gifts of kindness we receive are often only fully repaid when we give to others instead. But when I think of Baby Appacha, in the twilight of his life, it makes me sad that I was never able to make him as feel as happy, or special, as he made me feel. In the ledger of life, I will forever be his debtor.

Friday, June 28, 2013

Earlier this month, I wrote a piece about the current state of the official sport of my heart, Cricket. Unless you have just arrived on Earth on a tourist visa from Mars, you would have heard that things are not going so well with this once-beautiful game. Intrigued? Then please read on... 

The article was published, in it's entirety, in a very respectable publication called The National for which my very respectable friend (and fantastic sports writer) CB currently works. It would be great if you could take a few minutes to visit the site by clicking here and reading. If you feel the sudden and uncontrollable urge to leave a comment, that would be great too. 

A big shout-out to the many people around the world who have already read and shared, tweeted, e-mailed, facebooked, googleplussed, pinterested, and whatever else the kids are doing these days. 

On a more serious note, thank you. It means a lot. Hopefully this will be just the start, with many more to come.
Just over four years ago, I wrote this post as part of a longer reflection on life in general. What I didn't/couldn't know at the time is that I was writing about this May, and this June. (I have to be careful, I've started to quote myself...) 

"In May, I may get the call I've been waiting for. In May, I may be spontaneous, and renew my old friendship with impulse. In May, I may stop kidding myself, take off my rose-tinted glasses and squint at the blindingly obvious. In May, I may wake in one city and go to sleep in another. All these things may happen in May. But even if they don't, at least it will soon be June." 

As someone once said, life can be lived only forwards, but understood only backwards. And so we head into July, with a strange feeling that's perilously close to being contentment.

Monday, June 17, 2013

PB strikes back!

When I was little, like most boys I wished I had my own secret superpower. Mine would be the ability to create fire; that most beautiful and unpredictable of all the elements. I wished I could summon it at will, have it dance at the tips of my fingers or spin like a glowing top between cupped palms. I even had a name for myself- FlameBoy. 

In my childish naivete, I thought the power of spontaneous combustion was the one I could use most efficiently to save the world, while looking indescribably cool (or hot) while doing it. (Excuse me, Sir, do you have a light? Yes, ma'am, here you are- whoosh! O my God, it's FlameBoy! *swoon*

Obviously, things didn't really work out that way, and FlameBoy was ultimately destined to exist only in my imagination. Until today. 

Nevermind that the FlameBoy of my dreams was meant to live forever, while this morning I woke up feeling the full force of my own mortality.The fact remains that today I have come the closest I have ever been to realising that wish I first wished so long ago. 

Today, I am PhlegmBoy.

PS: Like all my previous colds, this one too appears to be life-threatening. Your support is appreciated at this difficult time. Thank you.

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Now is a good time

A wise fool once said- kinda out of the blue,
that life's like a dream that's already come true...

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Here I Am

Here I am, 
with a small stone and a long shot, 
trying to slay the giant of apathy
who lives inside of me. 
I'll need a little help, 
I'm a little out of step, 
and my aim's not what it used to be. 

Here I am, 
in the den with lions, 
and angry wildebeest 
who are roaming wild and free. 
I can see them quietly prowling, 
I can hear their stomachs growling, 
and I have a sudden urge to pee. 

Here I am, 
with five loaves and two fish, 
trying to drive away the hunger 
that burns inside of me. 
I know it's not a lot, 
but it's all I've got, 
please make it last for eternity. 

Here I am, 
picking through the debris, 
when I pray I know you listen, 
and things dont seem so crazy. 
People say that's nonsense, 
and put it down to coincidence, 
but I'm not sure I agree. 

So, here I am, 
like David, Daniel, 
and that packed-lunch kid, 
on my own little journey. 
The road is hard and narrow, 
but I know you watch the sparrow, 
and I pray you'll look out for me.

The Solitary Mango

When we were growing up in India, there was a mango tree in our backyard that produced one single mango per year. I have no idea how or why it did this, it just did. Around March or April, it would be nearly covered in white flowers, and it would seem like at least some of them would make the obligatory transformation into fruit. And yet, in a matter of weeks, all the flowers would disappear and by the summer, there would be just the one mango dangling bravely from a little branch somewhere. While most people would be disappointed with this dismal output from an otherwise normal-looking tree, we knew better. Experience had taught us that the single mango would be the sweetest, juiciest mango any of us had ever tasted. (Even now, all these years later, I can recreate the taste in my head).

So, from the moment the tiny fruit was first spotted, it became an annual tradition to tend to it. This involved making extra sure the tree was watered regularly, and - once it was a certain size - covering our little mango with clear plastic to make sure it was protected from birds. Finally, after watching it grow to about the size of a (small) baby's head, and turn from green to a sort of yellowish-red, we would pluck it. It was always a special moment, holding the fruit of that tree's labour, knowing it was going to be full of A-grade mangoness. And it was. Together, we savoured the flavour of that solitary mango, and waited until the following year.

What I learned from that mango tree was this- if being prolific is not your style, being a perfectionist definitely should be. Also, if people recognise what you produce is good - however small or limited it may be - they will usually help make it great.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Good times are on the way

I'm tired
of being tired
but wary of being weary,
I'm hard-wired,
permanently anxious,
never unhurried,
somewhere in my stomach,
a giant butterfly sleeps,
I sit still cos I'm worried I'll wake it;
I don't crack a smile
cos I'm worried I'll break it,
if my face was a screen
it would scream 'Please wait...
preparing to hibernate'.
My battery's running low,
my system's a bit slow,
and probably needs an update.
The birds sing but it's not yet spring,
it's only winter on repeat,
and then there's the rain,
the slow drip, drip, drip of pain,
making the misery complete...

But-
despite the wind and the sleet,
the word on the street,
is that good times are on the way;
And so I pray,
for people both home and away,
knowing that in spite of the night,
somewhere else it is day.
How easily I forget to remember
that age, like a mortgage,
is just a number;
our frost-bitten dreams in December,
are still resolutely undead,
so finally I rest my head,
a pauper on a king-sized bed,
knowing good times are ahead,
some good times are ahead.

Friday, February 15, 2013

This morning on the way in to work, there were the usual garden-variety traffic jams, road blocks, diversions, invisible Men at Work (you can see the signs, but never the men. The only explanation is they're invisible. Personally, I would change the signs to Goblins at Work). Cars and their drivers were both frosty. Halfway into February, the sun still had its Out Of Office on, but there was the faintest whiff of spring in the air. It was either that or the air freshener in my car. (Long story but the essence is that this now works because my heating vents now work -hooray!-but then these probably work because the fans have unfrozen and that must mean that spring is indeed on the way.) Come on, Sun, stop slacking off and get to work!

Anyway, there I was, about ten miles in to my commute, singing along to Van Morrison and settling into auto-pilot when the dreaded flashing lights appeared in the distance... It meant only one thing. Major Accident. In my mind, I started the now familiar process of resigning myself to spending most of the morning in the car (hooray again for heating vents) when I noticed the lights were actually flashing on the other side of the road and it was the oncoming flow of traffic that was blocked, not ours. In a situation like this, I would normally just count my lucky stars (it's usually just the one star so it doesn't take too long to count) and then turn my focus back to covering as much distance as possible until the next incident on the road. This time, however, was slightly different. ..

A few years ago, when my fear of flying was at its worst, I was told by more than one person that travel by road was significantly more dangerous than air-travel, in terms of the odds of being in a fatal accident. I'm sure this little fact was meant to make me feel better at the time. Only problem is that these days, at 80 miles per hour, with the car in front swerving dangerously, and a fine mist forming across my windscreen, I suddenly wish I was in a plane.

Meanwhile at Junction 4, my car was still about 20 yards from the spot of the accident but I could tell it was serious. There were about three fire engines, two police cars and an ambulance. And smoke. Most likely, there was a fatality. As our queue of traffic inched slowly forward, I wondered whether it was purely a voyeuristic instinct that made people stop and stare, or whether there was something deeper going on; a collective realisation, perhaps, that that car could so easily have been ours, the people inside could just as easily have been us. Unconsciously, maybe both man and machine were coming together in a show of respect; taking a moment to whisper a prayer before moving on.

The fact is -without wanting to sound too dramatic- sometimes taking a car onto the motorway feels like the modern-day equivalent of taking a horse into battle. At any given time, people are up against some combination of fading light, mechanical failure, snow, fog, sleet, road-rage, fatigue, and speed guns. Every so often, you flirt with your own mortality. Not everyone makes it out alive, the rest merely live to fight another day.
Dear Mr President,

Last night I had a dream and you were in it. It was a dream of two parts, but both parts played out in my head in scenes from the movie 'Gladiator'. In the first part, you were standing up in the Emperor's box of the amphitheater with your arm outstretched and your thumb sideways in the air. There was an eerie silence as your thumb quivered slightly, and then a roar as you pointed it slowly downwards. In the second part, you were down in the dust of the arena, wearing a gladiator's armor that was lightly speckled with blood. You took off your helmet, raised your head to look up at the cheering mob and screamed "Are you not entertained?", your eyes ablaze with near-incandescent rage. The crowd continued to cheer while you dropped to your knees and wept. Then everything went dark.

I woke up to the news that you have now rejected another four mercy petitions, and seven more are on the way to you. Afzal Guru, the man whose plea you rejected a week ago, is now dead, killed to satisfy the collective conscience of our great nation. For what it's worth, my own conscience does not feel satisfied; in fact, of late it has been feeling distinctly uneasy. It is unnerving, particularly as it has forced me to examine my own flaws. I suspect there are many who feel the same way, even if only somewhere deep inside their being where these types of thoughts reside. But collective conscience, I assume, is more of a metaphysical thing, something greater than the sum of our individual consciences. I can see why the concept is comforting.

Anyway, I do not want to waste too much of your time. I am sure you have better things to do than read the nocturnal ramblings of a disenchanted citizen. The truth is, I cannot claim to have any knowledge of these people's innocence or guilt, or indeed the pressures that no doubt come with your job. You are, after all, both the Emperor and the gladiator. But before I go, I just wanted to share a little bit of dialogue from another movie called 'Schindler's List' which I would highly recommend that you watch, if you ever get the chance.

Oskar Schindler: Power is when we have every justification to kill, and we don't.
Amon Goeth: You think that's power?
Oskar Schindler: That's what the Emperor said. A man steals something, he's brought in before the Emperor, he throws himself down on the ground. He begs for his life, he knows he's going to die. And the Emperor... pardons him. This seemingly worthless man, he lets him go.
Amon Goeth: I think you are drunk.
Oskar Schindler: That's power, Amon. That is power.

Thank you, Mr President.

Wednesday, February 06, 2013

"The harder you work, the luckier you get." This quote has been attributed to a lot of people, including, for some strange reason, Jon Bon Jovi. My personal theory about this is that a lot of folks mention him as a source purely because his name is fun to say out loud (you just tried it, didn't you?), and not because he is also a sage/philosopher in addition to being a musician. Of course, there may be people who will claim he is both, while others may provide compelling arguments as to why he is neither, but that is not the point of this post. (As usual, my train of thought is pulling away slowly while I'm still running along the platform.)

Anyway, to continue... most cricket fans (of a certain age) will recall the moment Brian Charles Lara pulled a Chris Lewis delivery to break a 36-year-old record for the highest individual score in Test cricket. What is less known is that when Lara rocked back to play that shot, his foot brushed against the stumps and disturbed the bails. Amazingly, those little pieces of wood did a little split-second dance and fell back into place. The difference between Lara's eventual record score of 375 and 365 (hit-wicket) was a few measly millimetres. For those who think I've just made this little story up, please refer to evidence here.

Obviously, like many obsessive cricket fans, I relate most of what happens on the field to life in general. On this occasion- the profound (non-original) truth is this- at that moment, with a young man on the verge of one of his greatest sporting achievements, the universe conspired to make it possible. Put another way- those prepared to put in the 99.9 percent will, in almost every case, get that final 0.1 percent to fall for them too (call it luck, fate, destiny, match-fixing, whatever). Without the first, you can't really complain about the lack of the second.

Heights by great men reached and kept,
were not attained by sudden flight,
but they, while their companions slept,
were toiling upward in the night.
--- HW Longfellow/ Jon Bon Jovi
Arthur Ashe, the first African-American to win Wimbledon, tragically contracted AIDS from a blood transfusion during a heart operation. As his health deteriorated, he was once asked by a reporter how he felt. Had he ever asked himself ‘Why me?'

This was his response: “If you start asking that,” Ashe said, “when do you stop? If I asked why I had a bad heart, or why I got AIDS do I also have to ask why I won Wimbledon? Or why I’ve had this kind of life? When something bad happens, people have this way of forgetting their blessings. I don’t. I’ve had a wonderful life.”
He died on this day, 20 years ago, aged 49.

You can read more here:

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

There are times when you find yourself moving to the fringes of a certain circle. How you feel about it about depends to a great extent on whether it's happening to you, or you're making it happen. Either way, it helps if you realise that the fringe of one circle is often the epicentre of another. (Overlapping circles, you see.)
So, go ahead and be on the fringe if it works for you, but make sure you're in the centre of the ones that matter. Most importantly, pick your circles- small, big, whatever. Don't let them pick you. 


Enough. I'm starting to sound like I know what I'm talking about.

RIP Frosty


We built ourselves a snowman,
he lasted through the night;
the next day he got his head kicked in,
even though he was white.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Sometimes silence is silent.
Other times, it is a deafening wave of
sound, swirling
around inside your head,
amplifying sighs, whispers,
countless unsaid words.

Sometimes silence is a
warm blanket, to wrap around
oneself on a cold night, before slipping
into the sort of child-like, dreamless sleep
that adults often only dream of.
Other times, it uses its cold finger
to heartlessly lift your cover, smiling
benignly as thoughts escape like shadows
and linger on the wall.

Sometimes silence is like the best kind
of friend- constant,
non-judgemental, wise.
Other times, it is an awkward
guest, a pleasant surprise when
they arrive, but
then never quite leave.

Sometimes silence is fresh snow,
glistening in the late evening sun,
giving itself up to footprints.
Other times, it turns to ice,
and you must tread lightly,
feet suddenly unsteady; to talk
is to feel
like learning to walk.

Sometimes silence is the 'e'
at the end of love,
completing it, without having to say it.
Other times, it is the silent 'r'
at the end of stranger. Not quite
estranged, but always a danger.

Friday, January 18, 2013

So what's the one thing you've done today that will actually mean something five years from now? And if you've not done it already, how long are you going to let regret and discontent stop you?

Discontent is a bit like the mold currently spreading across my bathroom ceiling- once it sets in, it's tough to stem the rot. As for regret, that's going to feel a lot worse five years from now. It may not feel like it just at this moment, but life's too short. So, dance while you can still hear the music.

Do it now.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

When I was about ten years old, my Dad carried an old wooden piano that he found at a relative's house, up a hill in the rain. I watched as he grimaced under the weight of it, and then stood helplessly as he buckled and fell onto the wet ground.

Some things I will never forget, and that image of my Dad struggling to carry a piano that he hoped one day I would play, is one of them. I think it is because to me it is like a priceless artefact; tangible proof of the depth of everything good a parent invests in their child. It is the purest form of love- an unconditional love driven by nothing more than a desire to see them chase their dreams.

One day, I hope to do the same for my child- but in the meantime, that single image from my childhood reminds me that I owe it not just to myself, but also my parents, and anyone who has invested anything in me, to be spectacular; to repay belief with effort, to never settle for mediocrity. And to never, ever, forget.
Sometimes in life you manage to convince yourself there's some sort of cosmic significance attached to the fact that you and someone else are together, adrift in a particular moment in time, journeying toward an uncertain but shared destiny. 
In reality, however, they're just in it for the ride. And when the journey's over, they will walk away, pausing perhaps for a moment, but never quite looking back. 

Who's your Richard Parker?

Saturday, January 12, 2013

"And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it."

- Roald Dahl
In my opinion, this is one of the best basketball ads Nike has ever made. It is only 30 seconds long, and contains no shots of Jordan flying through the air or slam-dunking the life out of some basketball. It doesn't even have a basketball. All it has is a man, talking about how he's just a man.



On a related note, maybe Sachin Tendulkar should do a similar ad.It could go something like this:

28 times I've been dismissed in the 90s.
37 times I've made a century in a losing cause.
I have dropped 112 catches, some of them sitters.
I have failed over and over again in my life...and that is why...

I'm in the Rajya Sabha.

I'm joking, obviously. I love Sachin. And as Sachin ads go, this is one of my favourites. It also shows that Sachin can never be just a man. Too many people need him to be so much more. 

The Inmates are running the Asylum...

...is the phrase I associate most often with the situation in India in the aftermath of the gangrape and murder of the young medical student. While a city burns and a people rage, our leaders have sat and fiddled with the sort of indifference that even Emperor Nero would have been ashamed of. Elected representatives, heads of various bodies and religious leaders have all displayed the same levels of bewilderment in the face of what may yet be a significant event in the evolution of a collective conscience. As a leader, saying or doing something that is subsequently perceived by people to be the wrong thing is understandable. Ambivalence is not. 

Meanwhile, as the legal proceedings began, there was talk of denying the accused representation. This will only make a mockery of the judicial process and this terrible tragedy will be even sadder than it is now. Whether we like it or not, those men have a story which is also our story. It is imperative that we hear it.

Please God, let this man be as awesome as he seems.

My Friend for Jan is... Jan! (von Holleben)

About six years ago, I stumbled across Jan's work when I was doing some research for my Masters dissertation. I wrote to him asking if I could reproduce one of his photographs for my project named 'Dreams of Flying' which was also the title of his photo collection. Jan not only granted permission to use the photo, but sent me a high-res version of it.

Fast forward to last month, and Jan noticed copies of his limited-edition 'Dreams of Flying' books were being sold on eBay for approximately 250 euros. In comparison, my 'Dreams of Flying' poem was being sold pretty much nowhere for approximately nothing. Anyway, just for a laugh, Jan decided to give away free copies to the first 15 people who e-mailed him. I was the 15th. And so a week later, I got my copy of 'Dreams of Flying' in the post along with a signed postcard, just in time for Christmas. I then sent him a copy of my 'Dreams of Flying' poem via e-mail to complete the unlikely loop.

Jan is currently travelling in South India; last I heard he was trying to cross from Tamil Nadu to Kerala. He is a multi-award winning photographer (fact) and all-round nice guy (opinion). You can check out his work here- http://www.janvonholleben.com/

PS: If you would like to be considered for my Friend for Feb competition, please feel free to send me something exciting in the post. Unless your name is Feb, in which case you're a winner already.