A 21st Century Christmas

Away in a manger, 
No crib for his bed; 
The little Lord Jesus, 
Senses danger ahead. 

Missiles in the night sky, 
Rain down where he lay; 
The rebels are gaining, but- 
He decides to stay. 

The cattle are glowing, 
From eating toxic waste; 
But the little Lord Jesus, 
No crying he makes. 

I love thee Lord Jesus, 
Look down from the sky, 
And be my protection, 
Till the firing subsides. 

Bless all the dear children, 
Orphaned and lost; 
As we fight futile battles, 
Oblivious of the cost. 

Away in a manger, 
But here in our pain; 
Our Lord Jesus came- 
And will come again. 

May the Prince of Peace be your hope this Christmas time.

Christmas advert round-up

The festive season is now well and truly upon us, and this is reflected in the plethora of advertisements currently playing out across our television screens. Below are three of my favourites from this year (and a bonus one from three years ago), collected together in one place for your enjoyment.

I am thinking of starting up my own version of the Golden Lion awards which I plan to judge by a combination of public voting and my own internal festive-o-meter. And so, these are also the official entries for the inaugural Golden Reindeer awards. Voting is open! 

Merry Christmas, ho! ho! ho!, and all that...

An Ode to Procrastination Seizing the Moment 

One day, I promise you we'll wake up near the sea, 
We'll catch the sun together and then we'll set it free, 
For every kiss you give me, I'll give you roughly three, 
If not today, then tomorrow when? 

One day, I promise you we will smile and shout and sing, 
I will learn to appreciate even the smallest thing, 
We will wait, together, to see what the new dawn brings, 
If not today, then tomorrow when? 

One day, I promise we'll be back where we belong, 
There'll be so much right, we won't care about the wrong, 
I'll write a few stories, maybe even compose a song, 
If not today, then tomorrow when? 

One day, I promise this will all be in the past, 
We'll make the bad times vanish and the good times last, 
Every minute will be a party and every day will be a blast, 
If not today, then tomorrow when? 

One day, I promise we'll be grinning from ear to ear, 
The sky will be baby blue and the road ahead will be clear, 
We'll chase Passion with a vengeance, and stick a tongue out at Fear, 
If not today, then tomorrow when? If not today, then tomorrow when?

And the single most important question is this: Do you know Him? 

Men, 
they humiliate themselves on a daily basis. 
Sometimes, in little, private ways- 
like when they extend 
an arm in greeting, 
with no intention of making 
an honest connection. 
At other times, in bigger, more public ways- 
like when they raise 
an arm in aggression. 
And every once in a while, 
in unforgivable ways- 
like when their arms hang limply 
by their sides, 
and they cower 
in between comfortable folds 
of silence.

Flight of the Concorde

Over the past few weeks, with the days gradually getting colder and shorter, it has been proving more difficult than usual to haul my creaking body outdoors to keep up with my running. Despite constant reminders of the ultimate goal, the prospect of stepping out first thing on a wet morning has been enough to test even my strongest resolve. 

It was while I was in the midst of this autumnal languor, sliding dangerously down the slope towards complete decrepitude, that I first saw it. I had been always been aware of its presence, and even caught fleeting glimpses of it from out of the car window while driving to the airport, but I had never really seen it, or stopped for long enough to fully take it in. So, when I finally saw it (or is it her?) properly the other day, I was filled with a sense of awe and admiration. There it was, seemingly glowing in what was left of the late afternoon sun- a Concorde. 

Most people know the story of Concorde; the world's first aircraft to transport passengers at supersonic speeds. Only 20 of these planes were manufactured, and for 27 years they flew proudly across the skies before being retired from service in 2003. My own memories of Concorde stretch back to when I was about three years old, when I mainly scurried into the house in a somewhat panic-stricken fashion every time one of these magnificent machines flew by on its way to touch-down in Heathrow. The classic, unmistakeable curves and the full-blooded roar of the engines are still lodged somewhere in the cracks and crevices of the mind. 

As I looked at it now, silent but still just as majestic, I was reminded of what is possible when ambition and hard work intersect. This was a plane that many thought would never get off the ground, yet today it stands proud as testament to human endeavour; a reminder that greatness is always within reach if you strive hard enough to get there. 

Most other days, I might have just cast an admiring glance at it and kept going; but that day, for the first time it became a symbol of something much bigger. With winter just around the corner, I'll take all the inspiration I can get.

Sometimes I feel too heavy.
I keep piling things into myself; thoughts, secrets, observations, until I think I might be close to bursting.

I’ve never burst.

Instead I just push them down further, try to compact them, make some room for new things to enter. But you can’t keep piling strings of secrets together without them getting tangled, and there’s so many knots inside me now that removing even just one thread will pull the rest of them along for the ride. I’ll be the clown at the carnival, pulling handkerchief tied to handkerchief out of my coat pocket, a smirk on my face."You didn’t think I could hold all of this inside of me did you?"

Well trust me,
I can.

PS: Thank you to Erin Hanson for sending me this. You can read more of her beautiful work here.

The fish that swam upside-down

There was once a fish in my grandma's tank, 

who always swam upside-down; 

For a while, if I'm completely frank, 

I thought he was trying to be a clown. 

But then with each passing week, 

I watched him struggle to stay up straight; 

I imagined him feeling like a freak, 

In his little corner, far from his mates. 

Over time, it seemed he'd accepted his lot, 

And did his best to not feel bereft; 

He would swim valiantly to the feeding pot, 

But there was often nothing left. 

Then, little fish, he grew weak and tired, 

And his little heart beat towards its end; 

But still it looped and bobbed as required, 

without a hope, or chance, or friend. 

And then one day there it lay, 

sideways in the golden sand; 

I found myself blinking tears away, 

As we scooped it in our hand. 

I sometimes think of that little fish, 

upside-down, whether by choice or circumstance; 

and when I do, I can't help but wish- 

that somewhere he's smiling and doing a dance. 

Being seen as 'different' can often hurt, 

It can be a blessing but is often a curse; 

But when I picture that fish, there in the dirt- 

I know that being alone is so much worse.

It was, in a sense, an end of innocence. A severing of admittedly tenuous ties; a snapping of invisible threads. When the threads are invisible to start with, how do you even know when they break? He didn't know. All he knew was something had changed. And now everything was different. 

In some ways, it felt like an implacable darkness had descended. In other ways, like a door had been left open (either by accident or design), and through that door, a shaft of light had shot in like an iridescent arrow. He couldn't quite make out the source of the light, but it illuminated the room in a glow that was both warm and chilling at the same time. Thoughts long suspected but never quite articulated; barely discernible, shape-shifting shadows, these had now emerged into sharp focus. Truth, like light, can never be contained for too long. 

Now that he had seen it, he could not unsee it, could not un-know it. He wondered whether it would have been preferable to not have known (what you don't know can't hurt you), but surely this sort of reasoning was for the intellectually stunted- people who willingly chose ignorance, the ones that shunned the light and preferred to make their way through life in a comfortable cocoon of oblivion; never quite making it out, never evolving, never sprouting wings and taking flight. 

But he didn't seek it out, either, this thing. It came looking for him, an unwelcome intruder into an otherwise thoroughly unremarkable existence. It angered him, the casual impunity with which it arrived, without as much as a heads-up. But what really infuriated him was that it now demanded a response. It was like being dragged out of bed and placed in front of a chessboard, with your opponent having just made a move. Your turn, he says smugly, fingers tapping the table in a mixture of impatience and perverse glee. Tap, tap, tap... what's your move? Tap, tap, tap... you rub your eyes and hope it's a dream but it's not. This time it's for real. Tap, tap, tap... 

For a while, he stands there- quietly surveying the newly-altered landscape of his adulthood. Change (of the capital 'C' variety), so often something he ran away from, actively tried to avoid, had now arrived at his front door. Not just for a brief visit, but- judging by the amount of baggage it brought along- to take up permanent residence. He could refuse to let it in, but of course that wouldn't mean it would go away. Having it stand by the door, with you looking at it through the keyhole, is the same as having it in your living room. For a few heart-wrenching moments, he glimpses the future and simultaneously longs for the past. 

He walks out into the street, seeking solace amidst strangers. He looks at the things that didn't seem to change- the streetlight with the dent in its side, the man behind the Sri Lankan takeaway counter. He wants to believe that some things could stay the same, defiantly repelling alteration. Tears start to stream down his face as he walks down the road into the setting sun. 

And what do you do, when the people you love let you down? What do you do, when the things you took for granted, the things you considered sacred, are now soiled with the dirt of human frailty? What do you do when you're dragged to the chessboard; when you're faced with Change knocking incessantly at your door? What do you do? 

You cling to Him. 
You cling to Him with everything you have, until your knuckles go white, and the blood drains from your face. 
You cling to Him because the alternative is to drop like a stone into the abyss. 
You cling to Him, because you don't have the answers; you don't even understand the questions. 
You cling to Him because it is quite simply the only thing you can do. 

And what happens then? 
He reaches down, He lifts you up, and He takes you home.

A leap of faith

Every time I am in an airplane, taxiing down the runway in preparation for take-off, a battle is raging within. In the red corner is Dread, growling like a caged animal waiting for mealtime. In the blue corner is Anticipation- slightly under-weight but glancing around with hopeful eyes. 

As we begin to gather pace, and the engines start to roar from under the seats, my own Rumble In the Jungle threatens to become a very one-sided contest. Every strange sound and vibrating rivet is like a solid uppercut to the head; at this point Dread clearly has the advantage. 

Anticipation, however, fights gamely on, because it knows from experience that once the initial flurry of blows have subsided, Dread's deadly grip is gradually loosened. And then, it happens- the plane has suddenly reached cruising altitude, the vibrating sounds stop, the seatbelt lights go off. Bruised and bloodied though it may be, Anticipation is unbowed and ultimately victorious. 

It seems to me that anything truly meaningful that is worth doing with all your heart and spirit, would (and should) produce a similar battle within yourself. This is because it requires a leap; of faith, and of imagination. There is always an element of fear when setting off to an unfamiliar place; particularly when the journey involves putting a bit of yourself out into the wild where critics, cynics, trolls and other dream-eating creatures lie in wait for their next prey. 

Just like when you're on a plane, though, with no control over what's going on in the cockpit ahead of you, I guess the only option is to sit back, enjoy the fight/flight as best you can, and know that if you see this thing through, there is going to be only one winner. The fear is always scary (it wouldn't be fear otherwise), but put your money on the little guy in the blue corner and you will be quids in every time. 

Sometimes, maybe even all the time, you need to believe that no matter how painful it seems, the journey will be worth it, and the place you arrive at will be better than the one you are leaving behind. That might just make all the difference. 

PS: I recently took a somewhat more literal leap of faith; but more on that later...

Of cross-breezes

Anyone who has ever been in an oppressively hot car will know that opening one window is never quite enough. You need to open two, one on each side, to create a cross-breeze that flows through the car. Of course, this applies for wherever you need a cool burst of air (like your home) but also, it seems to me, to life in general. 

Yes, you need to keep yourself open to receive: new ideas, experiences, and all the beauty and magic that life has to offer. It's also important though to keep another part of yourself open to give: to add to the beauty and the magic, to share, to reach out and connect. Of course, selfishness is always an option, but try and imagine how much worse off we'd all be if everyone exercised it. 

So, if you've ever wondered how to make the world a better place, this is as good a place as any to start. Share yourself with the world (and we all have something to share), if only because everything you are is a direct result of things others have shared. Always keep both windows open, so everyone (the passengers in your car, or your co-travellers through life) has a much more enjoyable ride. 

A final thought: As soon as you open the second window, you will find that breeze will find your way into your car somehow, even on what seems like the stillest day. It needs to know there's a way out, before it decides to come in. From the point of view of the creative process, both the metaphor and its implications are too significant to ignore.

Peace.

Last cricket-related post for foreseeable future (promise)

And so, to celebrate the end of a series that started with the euphoria of Lords, plunged the depths at the Oval, and ended in anti-climactic defeat at Edgbaston, let's remind ourselves of an event that went by largely unnoticed at the time. 

It was the day before the start of the final shambolic test and we found ourselves in a shooting-range. Although official reports suggest it was just Mahendra 'No-singles-please-we-are-Indians' Dhoni who went to get some target practice, the imagined scenario that most of the team had accompanied him there was too tempting to dismiss. 

And so below is a report filed at the time, and released now in the wider public interest. 

9:20 am 
Dhoni is already a few rounds in. He started with trying to aim for a single target, but then, in keeping with his no-singles policy, quickly moved to the double-trap. A few minutes later, Gautam Gambhir walks in. He has no idea where he is, why everyone is holding guns, and why he is wearing a Team India shirt. He simply assumes it is a re-hash of the recurring nightmare he has been having for a few years now which he now affectionately calls, 'The end of my career'. 

9:27 am 
Cheteshwar Pujara arrives, studies the gun for a couple of hours, reads the manual, researches the correct posture, and stares at the target for about 30 minutes. He then pulls out his photo of Rahul Dravid that he always carries for good luck and kisses it a few times. [As of 12:30 pm he had yet to fire a shot.]  

9:35 am
There is frenzy as a young kid in a sports car drives up. Of course, it is Virat Kohli. He steps out like from the pages of a fashion magazine and picks up the nearest rifle. He fires off ten shots in succession, and hits the target about nine times. It is then that he spots a certain Bollywood actress watching in the stands. Suddenly, he doesn't know what range he's at, what to aim for, or indeed where the gun is. He starts to cry. 

After all this intensity, in walks Ajinkya Rahane, who seems like he's floating on a lotus leaf in the middle of a very still lake. He hits the target five times in five attempts and then walks over to the target to apologise to it. Next up is Bhuvaneshwar Kumar. All his shots appear to be on target before inexplicably swerving away to the left at the last moment.

Mohammed Shami and Ishant Sharma are all using special rifles with extra long handles and get some on target here and there (Ishant has to stop every once in a while to get his hair out of the way) before Sir Ravindra Jadeja arrives. He grabs the nearest rifle, blows the place apart, and stands in the middle of the range - eyes glinting with just the faintest hint of insanity - singing 'Ooooh, Aaaah, Ravi Jadejaaa' at the top of his voice. 

And just like that, it is 4 pm. It is time to leave.

Maria Sharapova and the National Anthem

Before we begin, let's remind ourselves of an incident that took place a few weeks ago. It was the second week of Wimbledon, and Maria Sharapova, in response to a journalist's question, was on record saying she had no idea who Sachin Tendulkar was. 

Cue outrage. 

Within hours, #whoismariasharapova was trending (allegedly) worldwide, while her Facebook wall was splattered with abuse from Indians who saw her statement as an inexcusable affront to a national icon and therefore, by extension, an insult to all of India. 

It is difficult to try and deconstruct what was going on, but given that Sharapova is a Russian tennis star who grew up in Florida, she may not have watched cricket matches growing up or – dare I say it – even at all. Expecting her to know who Sachin is is like asking an Indian whether they know who Wayne Gretzky is. I'm happy to be proven wrong, but I'd say about 9 in 10, assuming they've never lived in Canada, wouldn't have a clue. (The only reason I've heard of the ice-hockey legend is because I had a Canadian friend at university who basically thought Gretzky was a re-incarnation of Jesus. True story.) 

In berating Sharapova for her lack of knowledge about Sachin, we were in fact displaying our own ignorance of her and the global market for tennis as a sport (as compared to cricket). I believe this is called Irony. However, this was conveniently set aside in the orgy of nationalistic sentiment that played out for days after the event. 

A few days prior to this, in the middle of another major sporting event, the FIFA World Cup, I remember having a discussion with a friend about how one particular team resolutely refrained from singing their national anthem before the game. Not a single one of them sang it, pretty much without exception. On the other hand, their opponents appeared to be loudly singing theirs; the tears flowed as they meekly surrendered to the emotion of the moment. 

There seemed to be two (and only two) explanations for this: 

1. The first lot did not know the words. 
2. They knew the words but were choosing not to sing. 

As someone who grew up singing the Indian national anthem (in school, college, even the occasional movie theatre) I found myself thinking this was a bit strange. How do you not know your own national anthem? And even more inexplicably, how could you know it and choose NOT to proudly sing it, on a global stage, at what was surely the pinnacle of your professional career? 

Upon reflection, I realised I was making a somewhat simplistic connection between singing the anthem and possessing a sense of patriotism/affection for your country. There were, in fact, many other possible reasons why those footballers were choosing not to sing – perhaps they were singing loudly in their heads (it's been known to happen), perhaps they were trying to keep their focus on the game, or perhaps they just couldn't sing (which is why they decided to be footballers instead). Whatever the reason, it was their choice, and I was wrong to judge them. 

It struck me that both these incidents (and the discussions that followed) really both boil down to the same thing – that complex, ineffable beast – Identity. 

In the first case, some of my fellow Indians appeared to think their ‘Indian-ness’ was being trampled on by an apparently clueless tennis player. In the second, I was questioning a football team's patriotism for not singing their anthem aloud. 

Both reactions are, of course, absurd. I might know the national anthem, but to claim it makes me more Indian than someone who doesn't is inane. If knowing facts or 'things' about your country is the criteria, what's the minimum number of answers required to pass, and who decides what questions to ask? How many princely states did India have? Who are the Chief Ministers? Governors? How about all the past Prime Ministers? (extra points for the right sequence). Anyone? 

 As someone who was born in one part of India, grew up in another, went to college in a third part, and has now a spent a third of his life entirely outside it, identity is something I have always grappled with, in some form or another. When I was younger, I felt like the constant movement had left me rootless; adrift in international waters, with no sense of home to clutch onto and no familiar shore to swim towards. Today, I know I am all the places I have ever been in, and all the people I have had the privilege to meet and know. And for the most part, I am incredibly grateful. 

I also know that I am by no means alone in feeling this way. Modern travel and technology have enabled people to move without limits, constantly evolving and re-inventing themselves in a manner that would have been considered witchcraft just two generations ago. More people are living and working outside of their home country than at any other point in history. 'Global village' and 'Citizen of the world' are the new mantras, and most people tend not to think of identity merely through the prisms of nationality, language, or even race. 

This doesn't mean the search within each individual does not continue, and that feelings don't manifest every once in a while in myriad, unexpected ways. The 'Who Am I?' question is probably as old as humanity itself. All I can hope for is that the next time I have a conversation about it, I can have it with a bit more understanding, and a great deal more grace. Without those, I'm as bad as the #whoismariasharapova brigade.

Since this is one of the last posts I will be putting up before both my second fund-raising run and my birthday, I thought I would take the opportunity to get this important message in. 

If by any chance you were going to get me a gift this year (even those of you planning to buy me hand cream- you know who you are), can I suggest that you direct a cash equivalent here instead: http://www.justgiving.com/user/47235534 
Anything at all will be very much appreciated and will make my 21st birthday even more special than usual. 

Of course, if you have already donated, there is no compulsion to donate again and you will still be invited to my happy birthday party on the 14th when we can all get together and travel back to the year 1994 when I last had one. What I will say is that it will be lots of fun; I was way cute back then. 

In other news, I am fairly certain my calf muscles are going to gather up some of the other nearby muscles and give me another surprise gift of excruciating post-run pain for my birthday (they think this is funny for some reason) But! little do they know that this time I will be better prepared and fully intend to foil their evil little plans, with a little help from my new friend Deep Heat. (You may meet him at the party, he smells a bit funny but has a great personality) 

Like George Bush Jr once said and I quote: There's an old saying in Tennessee — I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee — that says, fool me once, shame on, umm..shame on you. Fool me, umm.. you can't fool me again. 

2 days until raceday! Wish me luck. Thanking you and good night.

I've often marvelled at that ineffable feeling of euphoria I feel when I've just watched a particularly inspiring film, read an uplifting novel, or listened to a remarkable sermon or piece of music. Perhaps you have experienced this yourself. For a few minutes following any of the above, I feel like I'm floating a few feet off the ground. The sky seems bluer, the air seems cleaner and life seems altogether more special. And yet, after those first few minutes have passed, I lapse once more into a sort of routine normalcy. I am, for the most part, fully aware of this transition from the lofty to the mundane; and yet I am powerless to stop it. 

What is it that makes us indifferent to the magic of the present moment? All around us are miracles recently performed, wishes that have already come true; people and places and all manner of things that ought to inspire awe and wonder.Why then are we often aware of these only in orchestrated moments of heightened awareness? 

I remember a friend once telling me that when he was preparing to leave a city he had always felt ambivalent towards, he suddenly began to notice the things he would miss when he left. It seems to me that this could just as easily become how life is lived as well; its fleeting, heart-breaking beauty becoming fully apparent only when it's too late to enjoy it. 

Imagine, then. Imagine you could take those beautiful moments, so few and far between now, and stretch them until they're the norm. Imagine if you truly believed, both in yourself and in people around you. Imagine if you thought of each dream as a self-fulfilling prophesy. Imagine if you lived like it could all be gone tomorrow. Try and imagine all that, and then imagine what today would be like. It's worth doing, I think.

Greetings, people. For the benefit of all you fellow runners out there, I thought I'd take a few minutes out of my World Cup-watching schedule to share some things I learned from my first 10k run last month. If you are signed up to do a run in the next few months, I hope you will take a few minutes out of your World Cup-watching schedule to read them. 

While these aren't intended to be 'pro tips', and are therefore unlikely to have any significant impact on your overall performance, the hope is that they will help make your first run a more enjoyable experience. I am also hoping that by putting these in writing a month before my next run, I will be more likely to bear them in mind myself. If you are someone who has never tried running before, maybe this will even encourage you to give it a try. 

For more practical advice, you are strongly urged to read articles and blogs by people who actually know what they are talking about. Also, always consult your race pack. 

So, here they are, in no particular order: 

You may struggle to get to sleep the night before your first run, but force yourself to do so. All the preparation that's gone beforehand will come to nothing if you're not well rested. 

At the start line, with just a few minutes to go before the run begins, most people find themselves being swept up by a strange sense of euphoria and sudden feelings of meaning and purpose. As a result, many are happy to have a chat or at least wish you good luck for the challenge you are about to collectively undertake. Some, however, will be staring very intently either at their shoes or far into the distance. These people are either trying to get themselves into their 'zone' by mapping out every inch of the track as part of their latest assault on their Personal Best, or they are wondering what they did with their house keys. Either way, it's best not to talk to them. 

Along the route, you may notice paramedic/ first-aid staff with their arms outstretched and with some sort of white substance on their palm. You may think it is some sort of refreshing gel, but it is in fact paraffin to prevent chafing. If you would like to amuse yourself buy attempting to grab some of this while running past, by all means do so. Be aware, though, that rubbing this all over your arms and body will make you resemble an otter in the middle of an oil slick. On the plus side, you may not need to use any sort of cream on your body for weeks after the race. Seriously, you can moisturise rhinoceroses with that stuff. 

Do not, under any circumstances, give in to the temptation to spit while running. 

Smile and wave at, or at the very least acknowledge with a nod of the head, people who cheer specifically for you. The only time you are exempt from doing this if you are in the leading pack of runners and on track for a new world record, and even then it's a little bit rude. 

When you start to show the first visible signs of fatigue (involuntarily clutching at your sides, shoulders dropping, knees buckling) fellow runners may come up from behind and yell something motivational at you. This is normal. Try not to panic. 

Constantly try to envision the finish line as being just 20-30 metres away. This way, the crushing disappointment you feel when you realise that it is not in fact 20-30 metres away will hopefully be countered by the fact that you are now 20-30 metres closer to the actual finish. Repeat this throughout the run. Your brain will hate you for mercilessly messing with it, but your body will be grateful in the end. 

Pouring water down your head is good. Drinking some of it before pouring it down your head is even better. 

Finally, for the last tip (this may be the most obvious, but might be the most important): Whether you are running for charity or just for fun, enjoy every step of the run. It is likely that while you are running, all manner of thoughts will waft in and out of your mind. Reflect on them; allow the miracle of your existence to wash over you like the cool breeze blowing across your face. Relish the feeling of euphoria when you catch your first glimpse of the finish line, bearing in mind that while the line signals the end of the race, it is also the point at which real life resumes. That is where you must resolve to re-focus your energy, so that in the final reckoning you can say, like the Apostle Paul, 'I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing.' 

That, regardless of the size of your finisher's medal, is the greatest prize of all.

Godspeed.

On Leaving

I've always thought it's a good thing they don't weigh your heart at check-in counters at airports. If they did, mine would almost always be over the limit. Arriving at a new, potentially better, place necessitates a departure from the old, but so often this doesn't make the leaving any easier. 

I do apologise - the efficient but indifferent person at the counter will say in brusque tones - but that is much too heavy, you will need to take some items out. But I can't, I will plead; these are all important things and I must take them all. Yes, sir, they will respond; I do understand (even though they don't), but we cannot allow it. Airline policy, I'm afraid (even though they have nothing to be afraid of). 

Still I protest- Where do you start when it comes to emptying out the heart, I ask. Indeed, the more you try to leave behind, the heavier it gets. Can you not just put a 'Heavy' tag on it and send it on its way? Oh, and while you're at it, could you stick a 'Fragile' one on as well? 

It’s my heart, you see. It’s the only one I’ve got.

Rahul’s Mona Lisa Smile

Is Rahul Gandhi secretly relieved he didn't get picked for a job he didn't want in the first place? 

                                                                                          ©Getty Images 

Blackbird singing in the dead of night,
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see,
All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free... 
               - The Beatles, Blackbird (1968) 

Psychologists and behavioural analysts are likely to find Rahul Gandhi a singularly compelling subject. Many have already attempted to deconstruct the person behind the persona; commenting on his inability to make eye-contact, possible attention deficit disorder, and a generally nervous, stand-offish disposition. 

I am not an expert and therefore don't have a professional opinion. However, going purely by what I've seen on TV (obviously not the best way to judge anyone), coupled with my wife’s empathetic insight, it's hard not to feel that if there's one thing that characterises Rahul Gandhi, it is that he seems trapped. Not just trapped in the sense of being a child trapped in a man's body; but trapped within his own circumstances, a situation he was born into and is ultimately unable to escape from (with or without Jupiter's escape velocity). 

It is impossible for any of us to imagine being Rahul, or any Gandhi for that matter. 'Normal' might be a relative term, but with the sort of relatives Rahul has, there's probably been no such thing for him. Much newsprint is devoted to the aspects of entitlement and privilege, but there is another side to being part of the 'dynasty' that we often ignore. For all its supposed benefits, is it the sort of life any of us would choose for ourselves? Does all the security in the world make you feel safe when your grandmother was gunned down by her own guards? 

History attests to the fact that Jawaharlal Nehru was as canny as they come; Indira Gandhi was his natural political heir. But Rajiv (the diffident, stand-offish one) was neither suited nor primed for politics. The mind wanders now into hypothetical territory- how different would Rahul's life had been if his uncle Sanjay had not been killed in a flying accident in 1980 and his father had never been subsequently coerced into entering the fray? 

Rajiv Gandhi was parachuted in to rescue a party teetering on the brink; within four years he was Prime Minister. Rahul Gandhi has been a Member of Parliament for ten years; after the 2009 elections he steadfastly rejected calls to be part of the cabinet of the UPA government, choosing to stick with his self-appointed role of mobilising the Youth Congress. It may have been the only political decision he made of his own volition. 

Five years later, in 2014, he found himself as the 'unofficial' Prime Ministerial candidate, despite never having actually said so himself. Whether or not he truly wanted the job we may never know; but to his credit, he at least seemed to want to provide a half-decent CV for consideration. 

Somewhere along the way, you feel as though Rahul Gandhi felt compelled to take his rightful place in the tangled web that was his life, like Simba taking up Mufasa's mantle in the Lion King because this is the only purpose for Simba’s existence. (It’s a somewhat facetious analogy, but it does the job, I think). He doesn’t really believe the future of the pride land hinges on him, but anyone who means anything to him does. The question is, is there a really a choice? Is he duty-bound to fulfil both his own destiny and the destiny of those around him or could he walk away and risk seeing everything fall apart? Can someone who has already seen so much fall apart legitimately make that choice? 

I would like to think that at some point, even if only in a remote corner of his mind, Rahul realised that victory in this election was simply impossible. I would also like to think that he understood that his presence at the front and centre of the campaign was doing more than harm than good to the party. I would like to think, I really would, that he tried to tell his partymen this, but they didn't believe him; the fools. And even now, I would like to think that he is really just a sad, slightly damaged man-child, chasing a normalcy that we take for granted but he has never known himself. 

The Gandhi brand is to the Congress party what Hindutva is to the BJP; each is both a calling-card and a crutch. Neither party has had a vision (at least until now) that truly extends beyond these core identities. As a result, many found it strange when Rahul himself seemed to undermine the dynasty; questioning its relevance and underplaying its significance. It was roundly dismissed as empty rhetoric. 

But a niggling doubt, long suppressed, now bubbles up to the surface- was he on to something? Was this his way of saying that he was in fact the wrong guy, that we were making a mistake? At several points in what we now know was an utterly ill-fated campaign, he seemed to take a sledgehammer not just to himself, but to the office of the Prime Minister and the party as a whole. We decided he was either a charlatan or a moron. We jeered at the cheesy sloganeering, derided the prime-time interview debacle. 

And yet, and yet, the mind still wonders...could it be? This might have been the only way to prove what he knew all along: the days of The Family were long gone. A new India needed a new vision, a new direction, and he was not the one to provide it. The Congress party needed to reform itself to stay relevant; the crutch had to go for it to grow stronger in the long run. Perhaps a Congress minus the Gandhis might even eventually result in a BJP minus the Hindutva because, in a sense, the latter exists as a counter to the former. 

Fast-forward to the 16th of May when he appears in front of the clamouring press to cap off what has been the party's worst-ever election performance; and another thought crosses your mind, just for the briefest moment. While the vast majority appeared to celebrate India’s freedom from the Gandhi family, was Rahul celebrating a freedom (however small) of his own? You look for signs in the rueful smile; you wonder whether even in the face of staggering defeat, he realises there could have been one thing that was even worse- he could have won. 

But no, this is crazy talk. It involves attributing qualities like intelligence and political nous to someone who possesses these in very limited quantities, if at all. This is simply your mind playing tricks on you, lost as it is in a hazy, post-election fog. It is an attempt to justify, defend, and rationalise the past. And so you switch instead to the future- to what lies ahead. 

In the UK, when a leader of a political party fails to secure an election victory, it is more or less a given he or she will not lead the party again. This means if you are unsuccessful in your first attempt to become Prime Minister, you don't have a second attempt. It is done. 

We are talking about India, however; the land of seemingly endless re-incarnation and re-invention, where some things are always changing and other things stay the same. We are also talking about a Gandhi, and a grand old party that’s on its knees. 

When all the Modi-fication is over and done with, what becomes of Rahul and the Congress? Will lessons be learned, or will we be saying the same things about a different Gandhi five years from now? We can only wait and see.

10 (yikes!) days to go...

Why, hello there. It's been a while, hasn't it? I'd like to explain the silence by saying I've been training like a beast, completely cut off from all technology and other distractions of modern life, all in preparation for this most physically demanding challenge of my adult life. But, of course this would be mostly (ok, fine, completely) untrue. 

In reality, I have been so busy recovering from a flu whilst simultaneously tweeting about the Indian elections that I haven't even noticed that we are already half-way through May. (yikes!)  And so, for a quick update: 

The offical London 10k race-pack has now arrived in the post, just as my six-pack has disappeared. (All that post-Lent meat has not helped; it swiftly took up residence around my waist- seemingly on a long-term contract.) 

Just when I thought things couldn't worse, the situation took an ominous turn when I came across this line in aforementioned race-pack: 

'Please remember that is very foolish to run if you have had any sort of virus or fever in the past four weeks...' 

So now I must weigh up my desire to complete this epic run against my equally strong desire to keep living. (I realise this is slightly dramatic on my part- but this side of me should come as no surprise to anyone who has read more than one post on this blog) 

Having taken the wise counsel of my family on board, we have now decided that I will do a trial run in the next day or two, and if I have not started frothing at the mouth after a few minutes, I will gradually build it up towards 10k until raceday- 25th May. (yikes!) 

In the meantime, if you haven't yet donated to one of the two very worthy causes I will be representing, please would you take a few minutes to do so now. Come on now, we're talking life-and-death stuff here. And not just my own. Link to donate is here.

Thank you so much if you already have donated. See you all on the other side.

The story of the little dot

There was once a little dot. 
“I'm no ordinary dot”, it said. 
“I will not stand in one spot, 
I am going to try and get ahead.” 

Its friends called as they saw it go,
“Come, come and join us they said.” 
“What? And be an ellipsis? No,no! 
I am going it alone instead.” 

“I can't be stuck being one of three, 
because I’m no ordinary dot. 
I was born to be wiiild and freeee, 
so i'll be off now, thanks a lot.” 

Its friends were sad, but didn't say a lot, 
they'd all been there before- 
Alone though they were only little dots, 
They knew together they were so much more. 

So off they went, chasing unfinished thoughts, 
and other stories that lay in wait; 
the possibilities were oh so endless, 
they were masters of their fate. 

As for the little dot, it was in a spot, 
for little did it know, 
Alone it was just a dot; full stop. 
And there was nowhere left to go. 

...

This was how the little dot clocked, 
that things weren't quite as they seemed- 
Punctuation, like life, only really works, 
if you're one part of a team. 

So off it went, in search of friends, 
colons, commas, and question marks too! 
With so much work and so little time, 
being a solitary dot just wouldn't do. 

At last, the dot had found its spot, 
in the larger scheme of things; 
and so one story comes to an end, 
while another one begins...

The strange case of Shanthakumaran Sreesanth: Part 2

A friend of mine recently asked me what I thought would be a good caption for the photo below. 

I thought of a few, but narrowed it down to two: 
It's all about me. 
It went to my head. 

I'm not sure whether either really works as a caption, but that's beside the point. Thinking about the captions made me think about the cricketer, hence this piece. 

The intention is not to pretend to know the mind of someone I've never met, or even to kick a man when he's down. Indeed, some might say we should all just leave him in peace and let him enjoy a relatively normal, (newly-married) life away from the spotlight. 

The reason I’m writing this anyway, is not just because it makes for an interesting character study of a complex personality. The story of Sreesanth is a cautionary tale; a parable for this topsy-turvy modern world we live in. 

Shantakumaran Sreesanth was born on February 6th 1983, which makes him (at the time of writing) 31 years and 91 days old. After a rapid rise through the domestic circuit, he made his senior team debut in October 2005, a few months shy of his 23rd birthday. With a boyhood dream fulfilled while still barely out his teens, Sreesanth appeared poised at the start of a long, glittering career ahead. 

What followed was a more like a train wreck in slow motion, interspersed with the all-too-rare moment of brilliance (including that ball to Jacques Kallis). The wickets still came, but so did the drama, the sledging, dancing, taunting, snarling, crying and swearing. Slowly but surely, Sreesanth was turning into a caricature of himself; he was going from occasional joker to perpetual clown. 

Injuries didn't help his cause, but his temperament always seemed the bigger concern. Eventually, after somehow managing to find the wrong side of nearly all his team-mates, selectors, and even, most memorably, 'Captain Cool' Dhoni, he found himself at the very edge of relevance, from where you felt there was nowhere left to go. 

But this is Sree we are talking about. Just as he could find a 'wonder ball' from nowhere, you could be sure he would find a way to fall even further. And so, on a night in May almost exactly one year ago, he was arrested on charges of 'spot-fixing', a charge he allegedly confessed to during the course of the police investigation. Hooded, hand-cuffed and paraded through the streets like a convicted criminal; he would have felt his world fade to black. A career that had once promised so much had finally reached its nadir. 

It is important to note here that Sreesanth has not been found guilty in a court of law; rumours of vendettas and set-ups are still dutifully doing the rounds, and the man himself has continued to maintain his innocence. 

Incidentally, over the course of his short but tumultuous career, each time he was either dropped or 'rested', he would return claiming things had changed; assuring the fans they would see a 'different' Sreesanth. In reality, however, it seemed like another mask and it would be only a matter of time before it slipped again. So, it should come as no surprise to him that most people are a little sceptical about his denials of any wrong-doing. It’s also somewhat ironic that someone who so often broke his promises to everyone around him eventually went down for keeping his promises to a bookie. 

His arrest sent shockwaves through a cricketing establishment already fairly indifferent to shocks. This was, after all, a double World Cup-winning player, with ability beyond doubt. Why, then, should he have been anywhere near being tainted even by association? In the aftermath of the event, it was a question repeated often; borne out of both puzzlement and profound disappointment at seeing such an opportunity spurned. 

In a sport with cricket’s popularity, in a country of India’s size, it doesn't take a maths whiz to work out that the chances of making it to the very top are exceedingly small. We are literally talking lottery odds. Millions of boys either dream the dream themselves or have it dreamt for them by parents. School teams, private coaching, cricket camps, junior tournaments, State, Zone, Under-19s, 21s,... the road is as long as the list of those who fall by the wayside. 

Talent alone is almost never enough; often a healthy dose of good, old-fashioned luck is required to go alongside hard work and dedication in a far-from-meritocratic system. Oh, and some connections won’t do you any harm. To make it through all this and walk on to a cricket field as one of 11 men representing Team India is to complete a journey of epic proportions. 

I’d have thought that what most people would do next (once they have fully come to terms with the position they find themselves in) is make sure they make the most of it. It is a wonderful thing to be paid (a lot of) money to do the one thing you would gladly do just for the fun of it. Add up the fringe benefits (travel, film-star status, endorsements, etc...) and it beggars belief that anyone would actively seek to jeopardise this. 

So, why do it? It is impossible to try and understand the motivations that drive these decisions without being inside the head of the one making them, but I would venture that at very least, it is a cocktail of pride, selfishness and greed; each chasing the other's tail, each of them a side of a (metaphorical) three-sided coin. It's all about me. It went to my head. 

Jose Mourinho, the master footballing tactician, is known to always outline his belief to new teams that in a collective endeavour, each individual has to subsume his personal ambition to the team mission. This requires sacrifice; a lowering of 'self' to help the team as a whole reach greater heights. It is a simple principle at the heart of every great team's success, sporting or otherwise. And yet, in an increasingly ruthless, get-rich-quick, celebrity-driven culture, it is often the hardest thing for a professional sportsman to do. Sreesanth wasn't the first, and is unlikely to be the last. 

To watch Sreesanth in full flow was to watch a thing of beauty. Classical side-on action, perfect seam position, movement in the air, and healthy pace. Each delivery was like a little symphony, a coming together of science and art; a blend of god-given talent and tireless pursuit of perfection. To hear the sound of timber at the end of it only made it that much sweeter. For a brief moment in time, he was in the top five quick bowlers in the world. But it seemed it wasn’t enough. 

As a fellow Malayali, Sreesanth's rise from a relatively small cricketing state was a source of pride too. A new generation of youngsters in Kerala grew up chasing both his speed and fame. 'Nammude Sree', in the World Cup team. Everything was possible, for him and for us. 

And yet, here we are now; resigned, like him, to watching YouTube clips of the rippers that got Sarwan and Lara in successive overs in Antigua. This is how a dream ends. Not with a bang but a whimper. 

Years from now, regardless of the outcome of legal proceedings, Sreesanth will most likely be a mere footnote in the story of Indian cricket. The tragedy is that he could have been so much more. The reality is that whatever our field, whatever our game, it could have been any one of us.

A little Thought Experiment

Step 1 

Try and recreate in your mind that precise moment (and I'm sure we've all been there) when you realise some 'thing' of value has been either lost or stolen. Your heart skips a few beats, then begins to thump like crazy. You frantically replay your most recent memories of it in your head; while simultaneously wishing so deeply, desperately, that you still had it, this thing you didn't even realise you loved so much. But it's too late, it's gone. 

Step 2 

At this point, different people react differently.You might go the textbook route and experience the five stages of grief, or you might just go and punch something. Either way, you begin to slowly imagine your new life without this 'thing'. You rationalise, convince yourself that you will somehow make it through this. You have to, it's not like you have a choice anyway. This annoys you even more, the realisation that you may have had little or no control over the chain of events that has brought you to this point. 

Step 3 

Suddenly, miraculously, the 'thing' is found. A wave of elation washes over you; a weight is lifted. Your hearts thumps again, but this time from excitement. You hold it in your hand; this beautiful thing that was once lost and is now found. You promise to make sure it is never lost again, and are determined to make the most of owning it because you've imagined your life without and it wasn't fun. Everything is possible once more, and all is right with the universe. 

Step 4 

Now, replace that valuable 'thing' with 'Time'.
Yes, you have less of it than you did a few minutes ago, but there's a good chance you may have more of it than you think. It's also possible that for now, you have that precious, fleeting thing: a choice.
So, what's your new Step 3 going to be?

I am 66 years old...

So this is a little strange... I’ve never really done this before, so I’m unsure about where to begin. I'm officially 66 years old, but in reality I’m a lot older. I'm like one of those grandparents every family has whose real age you don't really know so you just sort of pick a date and go with it. Still, 66 years. When you get to my age, you feel both like you've been around forever and like it all started yesterday. It's been an interesting ride, that's for sure. 

Back in the day, I was a bit of a celebrity, so to speak. Explorers, emperors, traders and all manner of truth-seekers wanted to see me, get to know me, find out what all the fuss was about. Even back then, I was considered both retro and modern- I guess I was a hipster before there was a word for it. I was renowned for my dance, music, multi-cultural roots, and, even if I do say so myself- my natural beauty. I was tipped for even greater things, poised on the cusp of super-stardom. 

Since then, I think most people will agree it hasn't quite gone to plan. That's not to say I've been a complete failure; I've had the occasional moment of glory. The years, however, have taken their toll. I'm a little less sure of myself, a little jaded, just a tiny bit frayed at the edges. I know it will get better- I've been around long enough to know that, but that doesn't mean I don't worry. I keep thinking there are still some things that when they break, you can't always put them back together. Not completely, anyway. 

So here I am; bruised and a little battered, but still standing, still dreaming. It’s going to be an interesting month. The significance of these elections is not lost on me, because sometimes the fate of people and nations can turn on precisely this kind of moment, and I am no different. 

At times like these, my mind often drifts to the past. I think of everyone and everything that has gone before, but I still look hopefully to the future. And to the day, no matter how distant it appears now, when I finally realise my destiny. I am 66 years old. 

My name is India.

A Prayer for Flight 370

Somewhere there is a plane. 
A real plane; 
not a blip on a radar, 
or a pinging black box; 
not a fleck on a satellite image, 
or a headline on loop. 
Not a conspiracy theory 
about structural integrity, 
or floating debris, 
or an unsolved mystery. 

Somewhere there is a plane. 
A real plane, 
once filled with real people; 
travelling to meet, to hug, 
to care for, comfort, or congratulate, 
to cry or to laugh with 
other real people, 
whose world has now slipped off its axis; 
people to whom northern arcs 
and southern arcs 
and ACARS mean nothing, 
and every new dawn brings 
hope and sadness, entwined together 
like conjoined twins. 

Somewhere there is a plane. 
A real plane; 
and somewhere a son, a mother, 
a friend or a brother, 
shakes with unspeakable pain. 
For them, 
no sea is too great; no news is too late. 
For them, 
our hearts must break,  
and our tears must mix with theirs, 
and our prayers 
must not cease, but instead 
form a ladder on which their grief can climb 
to a place beyond the stars; 
all the way to heaven’s gates, 
until they reach the ears of the One 
who charts all our paths, 
and orchestrates all our fates. 

Somewhere there is a plane.