"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.

Christmas Night

image ©Jeff Weese/Flickr /CC-BY-SA-3.0

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.

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.