The John Lewis Christmas Ad has, in recent years, become a bit of a tradition. Every year, vast amounts of money are spent on creating a super-slick production that seeks to capture the true spirit of the Christmas season. A couple of weeks ago we were delivered the latest instalment; another visual treat that was (literally) out of this world.



I will admit to being taken in by some of their early ads, but it is now getting harder to see through the expensive gloss and figure out exactly what any of it has to do with Christmas. It could just as easily be any holiday, anywhere. 

Perhaps, in a politically correct world, that is the point. Every year, these well-intentioned and meticulously crafted films predictably deliver a little rush of feel-good, a song that will jump up the charts via the sudden exposure, and a physical product that goes on to be a bestseller. Which I guess is job done as far as the people in suits down in Marketing are concerned. Just as predictably, there is no reference whatsoever to the real mystery, meaning and miracle that is Christmas. 

Which it is why it is pretty cool that this year, this happened. 

 

Have a blessed Advent season.

The unfolding tragedy that is the Congress Party

So the other night I was sitting up late, various random thoughts competing as usual for my attention such as which part of Chotta Rajan was actually chotta and how the great state of Bihar was slowly but surely ensuring every member of Laloo Prasad Yadav's family spent some time as either Chief or Dep. Chief Minister (3 down, 8 to go) 

As is often the case with this sort of late-night rumination, I felt emotions ranging from solid indifference to existential despair and everything in between. In the end, however, I mostly cast aside anything too strong in favour of a cold shower and warm bed. 

Not tonight, though. 

Tonight I appear to be reflecting and I realised that over the past year, I have been pissed off at a lot of things. The list includes the steady overcrowding on the morning commute, people who play their music too loud through their headphones, Donald Trump, every single Indian news anchor, and Justin Beiber. 

But, and this one took me somewhat by surprise, the one thing that has consistently infuriated me over the past twelve months is India’s Congress Party. 

Let’s set last year's election results to one side. Let’s even put it down to anti-incumbency and the electorate's appetite for a change. I’m no expert, but I know that’s normal in politics. The Congress was pretty much wiped out, but let’s not dwell on that fact either. They were up against a PR machine; a fiery and charismatic leader with an abnormally large chest measurement, and it turned out to be a no-contest. 

We could mull over the reasons for such a colossal defeat, but again I don’t think we would come up with anything that hasn’t been mentioned before. There was the hubris, the astounding lack of remorse for a spectacularly corrupt second term, an arrogance in the face of a resurgent Opposition, and a nauseating sense of entitlement - of having some sort of divine right to govern. The outcome was really no surprise. 

We can look closer at the campaign itself - and all the ironies along the way. We had a spokesperson of this so-called pro-poor party actually the use the word ‘chaiwala’ or 'tea-boy' as a derogatory term (a stunning demonstration of how to effectively alienate your base), an incumbent Prime Minister of supposedly impeccable honesty and integrity presiding over epic financial impropriety, a Grand Old Party that extolled the virtues of social democracy but was run by one woman as a personal fiefdom, and to top it all off we had some of their esteemed leaders label their main challenger ‘power-hungry’ and ‘dictatorial’. The pot called the kettle black so many times it was charged with inciting racial hatred. 

And what of their candidate itself? Ah, yes, Rahul Gandhi. Affectionately known as RaGa to some, and Pappu to others. Although never officially the candidate, he was also never officially NOT the candidate, which, given his lineage and last name, sort of made him the candidate. There was the car-crash televised interview (preserved on YouTube for posterity), the Jupiter-escape-velocity science lesson, and an assortment of other gems along the way. It was as if the Congress Party thought we were all idiots. 

The thing is, most people don’t think he should be leader of any organisation comprised entirely of adults. I suspect a large number of his party members feel the same. He himself doesn’t seem like the fizziest drink in the fridge, but I get the feeling even he feels this way. So who does believe he can be party leader and future Prime Minister? His mother? Is this really what one of the world’s oldest democratically run political parties has come to? Highly educated, intelligent men and women genuflecting before one woman who happened to be waitressing at the right restaurant at the right time? It’s bordering on the occult, and it’s gone on far too long. 

Even last week, after the latest round of Twitter trolling following an appearance at a college in Bangalore, Mr Gandhi is trying to put on a brave face. He is either cluelessly in denial, or unstable. Worryingly, he could well be both. Amidst all of the comedy that passed for his speech, however, there was a hint of an insight: "In 10 years, there was some fatigue with the Congress. There were some things we did wrong...and we lost the elections. We need to give a new face and image to the Congress." 

New face? New image? Last time I checked, it was the same face and the same image. Face + palm= facepalm. Rahul Gandhi is past the point where he has become a caricature of himself. He seems like a nice enough guy, but by persisting with him, the Congress is proving it is so far removed from reality, they might as well be trying to win elections on Mars in 2020. 

This is a new India. While there is affection and a benign sort of nostalgia for the role that the Congress Party played in India’s journey, there is also a fierce sense that we can and should do better than a political dynasty. Sonia Gandhi seemed to realise that fact when she placed Manmohan Singh at the helm in 2004, but that same nous appears to have deserted her now. 

And what of the party's behaviour since the debacle of 2014? If anyone thought it would be a chastening experience, an opportunity perhaps to be contrite, introspect and attempt to return with humility and renewed vigour, well, you were wrong. They have collectively, and almost without exception, acted like a petulant child whose rattle has been wrested from them. 

A quick roundup: 
Brazenly holding up parliamentary proceedings (quite a feat when you consider there might be more security guards than Congress MPs in the Lok Sabha at the moment), resorting to constant personal attacks rather than meaningful debate, flip-flopping on key legislation, and finding time in between to get obliterated in Delhi assembly elections as well. The fact that they were exulting at their part in the Bihar results where one of the most corrupt politicians of recent times returned to the corridors of power demonstrates how low this once-great party has fallen. To be shameless is one thing, but to seem unaware of shame as a metaphysical concept is something else entirely. 

The real tragedy of course is that it is not just the party’s fortunes that have taken a nose-dive. They may yet recover and at some point in our lifetimes, find a way back to relevance. But what of the present? In the meantime, they have essentially gifted absolute power to a man whose greatest fantasy is absolute power. They have emboldened lunatic cow-huggers and other riffraff operating at the outer fringes of sanity; people who have no business being anywhere near any democratic machinery because their mere presence will short-circuit it. At a time of increasing international instability, if India could not have a sensible party of government, the very least we needed is a mature Opposition. The Great Indian Congress Party has proved it cannot be either. 

And so, we plod on. Swachh Bharat, it now appears, was merely a clever PR buzzword for some old-school ethnic cleansing, a refinement of earlier experiments but this time on a national scale. Make in India only works for you if you were originally Made in India. It is a sorry and increasingly scary state of affairs. 

There was once a dream that was India. Today, the reality seems like a bad dream. Of course, India will survive. To suggest otherwise is to ascribe too much power to one man. He may alter the narrative slightly but will not fundamentally change it. No one person can. Nevertheless, it is infuriating that we find ourselves in this situation. And the fact that the Congress party, with all the tools at its disposal, pretty much allowed it to happen; well, that makes it just that much worse. 

Party's over, folks. Nothing more to see here.

 

About four months ago,
I watched from my window 
as a newly-married couple 
posed in its shade. 
I remember smiling to myself 
as they smiled for the camera,
embracing in its embrace; 
sunlight dancing through 
the branches, 
on which new leaves were sprouting; 
a celebration of spring 
and new beginnings. 

A mere two weeks ago, 
it was resplendent in yellow; 
some leaves swayed 
in the noticeably crisper breeze 
while others fell to the ground 
without a sound 
like autumnal snow. 

And yet now, 
a stump is all that remains; 
the only reminder of what once was. 
The sun shines on it still, 
but there is no more shade;
no hint of a shadow. 

How easily we destroy 
what we didn't even create. 
How we teach the heart to forget 
the things we used to know, 
and leave them- dusty, 
stripped of meaning,
like unwanted items 
on the shelves of shops that no-one visits.

Finding the pace

Exactly one week ago, most of my Sunday morning was spent running around Richmond for my first ever half-marathon. Why did I do this? Well, why not? After the twin 10k runs last year, 21k/13.1 miles seemed the next logical step (even though it was in fact hundreds of very painful steps). Besides, autumn is the perfect time of year for some otam (Sorry, silly Malayalam joke). 

The experience was actually rather enjoyable, and despite the morning-after being every bit as painful as I had expected, overall the signs were encouraging enough for me to entertain the hitherto ridiculous possibility of doing the full 42 km at some point in the not-too-distant future. 

One thing I did learn, and want to share, was the importance of pacing yourself. Since I hadn't done anywhere near a 21k run in training, I didn't really have a time-target. The only goals were to finish without stopping, and not keep my wife waiting too long at the finish line. Happily, I managed both, but not without the invaluable (and inadvertent) help of two gentlemen I came across along the way. 

After the first 2 or 3 k, the challenge was to try and keep a steady pace for the remainder of the run, while saving just enough in the tank for a little surge at the end. Because I wasn't really into the split-times or anything else remotely technical, I figured the best option was to find someone running a good pace and stick with them. The first few candidates I zeroed in on were either too fast or too slow (but mostly too fast) and I eventually ended up behind two runners running in tandem. 

My guess is that both these men were between 55 and 60, and each had a half-marathon finisher t-shirt on, so had done this at least once before. (One of the tees actually proclaimed '13.1 is my lucky number' which, personally, I thought was just showing off) Most importantly, they were going at what seemed like a steady, reasonable pace, and so I settled in just behind them and tagged along for the next 12-13 k. 

With about 5k to go, I thought I would try and pull ahead because, I naively thought, surely I could do better than a couple of 60 year olds. Pfft. Let this be a warning to you all: Pride comes before a Wall. In running terms, the Wall is the point at which near-total depletion of glycogen stores in the liver and muscles occurs, causing sudden fatigue and loss of energy. (I call it the Wailing Wall) 

I promptly slowed up, repositioned myself just behind them for the remainder of the run, and all went well until the last mile, when the two of them basically took off with the quiet confidence of runners who had been there, done this, and were wearing the t-shirts. 

So for the last mile, it fell to me to drag myself towards the finish, which I did, albeit in more jellyfish fashion than human. (13.1 was definitely not my lucky number, but then neither was 12, 11, 10, 9...) 

Still, I guess I made it in one piece and for this some thanks are in order. So- even though you don't have a clue who I am, and will most likely never read this, thank you, kind sirs. I couldn't have done it without you. I guess in a half-marathon, just as in life, who you're running with is just as important as what you're running for. 

Onwards/

Without getting too specific about my age, I estimated the other day that I've slept roughly 12,500 nights in a warm, comfortable bed (not counting those 10 nights when I bedded down on what felt like wet concrete during army camp at school). 12,500 nights, and I don't think I've really ever thanked God for a single one of those. 

I've always thought that no matter what sort of day you've had, getting into a warm bed at the end of it somehow makes it all seem at least bearable. A little rest, a little respite, before heading back out into the madness. I have found this to be true just as much in adulthood as in my childhood; indeed, there is something about sleeping that makes us all little children for a few hours (and not just if you sleep in the foetal position like I do).

And yet, for the past few weeks, as I've seen image after image of migrants, both kids and adults alike, sleeping in the streets, on railway tracks, in car parks and toilets, it occurred to me that some of them have probably never had a single night in a proper bed. 

So much to be grateful for. But tonight, I'm going to start with a warm bed.

It is possible that when I go out running tomorrow, a car will drive over a piece of stray debris which will come flying off the road and leave me blinded in one eye. 
Unlikely; but entirely possible. 

One of these days, all this music I'm piping through these snugly-fitting earphones will end giving me tinnitus, and every moment of quiet from then on will end up being a little battle against an ever-looming cloud of complete insanity. 
Far-fetched; but entirely possible. 

I could wake up in the middle of tonight in a cold sweat, think I'm having indigestion, but actually have a stroke that will render me a hollow shell. 
Dramatic; but entirely possible. 

If any of these were to happen, will everything I have done up until 2200 hrs GMT on the 3rd of September 2015 be enough to keep regret at bay for however long I have left on this beautiful planet? 

Your life is a window of opportunity. And it's smaller than you think.

For APJ

Today the nation mourns a man 
who, when thwarted in his attempts to fly a jet, 
aimed for outer space instead. 
And for 83 years, lived a life less ordinary. 

A visionary. 
A man who believed in the power of dreams 
to light a spark of imagination and ignite our minds. 
A man who defied categorisation, 
and the usual norms of style and convention. 
Whose casual demeanour 
belied a staggering intellect, 
and yet, was helpful, thoughtful, and kind. 
A man who loved his country, 
and its people. 
Who knew that greatness lay within, 
and made it is his mission 
to help us be better than ourselves. 

A good man. 
Who rated purity of intention 
on par with scientific invention. 
A man of beautiful, oft-quoted words, 
but also of action and interaction. 
Who always looked back, 
never forgetting from whence he came, 
while still soaring, like a missile, 
out into the future, 
self-propelled and precision-guided, 
towards a target we thought was out of reach. 

A humble man. 
A man who like the poet said, 
filled the unforgiving minute 
with sixty seconds worth of distance run; 
who talked with crowds but kept his virtue, 
and walked with kings but didn't lose the common touch. 

A selfless man. 
Who gave of himself until the end. 
Words of encouragement still stuck in his throat, 
as he breathed his last. 

We are poorer today for having lost him, 
but so much richer for having had him at all. 

For he was one of us, 
and he showed us it was possible. 

Salaam, APJ Abdul Kalam

Another day, and news of another life snuffed out in cruel, unexpected circumstances. This time a friend of the family, someone with whom I had limited interaction myself, but remember well. And so, it was another sobering morning spent reflecting once more on the fragility of life and the capriciousness of fate. 

Lots of questions, but very few answers. Ultimately, I think we must confront the reality that so much of our lives is out of our hands. And yet, so much of it is. Which is which and what is what? And why haven't I got a copy of the manual? I look for signs and try to discern patterns, switching intermittently between hope and despair. 

Are you living today like it's your last day on earth? I was thinking about this and came up with a few reasons why I should, and also why I shouldn't. Scrambled thoughts, on an increasingly scrambled day. 

Obviously, treasure each moment. Never be oblivious to the magic that is all around you, the miracle of existence, the devastating beauty of the here and now. And yes, make the most of it. Fill each unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run and all that, but also make sure you're not ruled by a sense of urgency. 

There was a time when I was hung up on the 'Art is long but Time is fleeting' mantra and the tragic implications of that. Taken to its extreme, it meant that every minute not spent crafting a piece of art was an unforgivable waste of time; another round lost in a fight you were never going to win. 

There is a point up to which this is useful; beyond that, it is cripplingly counter-productive. There must always be a place for calm and solitude. For walking when you can run. Yes, there's a middle ground somewhere, but it might as well be Middle Earth to me because I am still trying to pull it from the realms of fantasy into my own reality. 

Someone once said "Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you were to live forever". Again, I can see there is something to be said about coming to terms with your mortality. 

As the late Steve Jobs once famously said: "Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure — these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart." 

And yet, I think it is equally important to pay heed to the future. To look forward, with hope, to a time that has not yet come. To consider the long-term implications of your actions in the present. When you do this, you realise there are often real, important things that you stand to lose. And, without wanting to sound too self-important, there may well be others in your life who stand to lose from your absence too. 

So it is right to improve your chances of sticking around longer by looking after both body and mind, so that when you reach the point where time (and it's been known to happen) seems to stretch out before you like a vast ocean, you will still have something to fill the unforgiving minutes with. Besides, a part of you does live forever, does it not? Even if it's just in the memories of those who never stop loving you. 

So, sure, come to terms with mortality, but ask immortality to the dance. It will be short, but what a dance it could be; what a beautiful life. 

Scrambled, scrambled, scrambled. But I guess I've never been a sunny-side-up kind of guy.

Plough the land

These were the only three words a writer I once met said to me when I asked him for some writing advice. I tried to press him for details but he repeated the same three words- plough the land. 

Every so often I think about that brief encounter and why he chose those precise words- perhaps he knew I came from a country where agriculture makes up a large proportion of the GDP, and would therefore get a farming reference? Perhaps he was a farmer himself? 

(I then have to stop myself because I am obviously over-thinking it. It is a terrible habit and I sometimes wonder whether it has something to do with this one time when I was twelve and...aaaagh! Must stop.)

Anyway, the point of this post is to say that I thought about it again today and have decided that what he meant was essentially this: Do the work. The dull, repetitive, unglamorous, hard graft type of work. The reading, relentless research, the note-making. Confronting the daily tyranny of the blank page. 

Because if you're a writer, the one thing you might have in common with a farmer is this: you need to prepare the ground. 

Just so that, hopefully, at some beautiful moment in the indeterminate future when the stars seemingly align and a seed of inspiration arrives unbidden like rain, it falls on the fertile soil of your imagination, takes root, and turns into a magic beanstalk that keeps growing till it kisses the clouds. 

 There. I am certain that is what he meant.

I sometimes have a dream about the afterlife which involves somebody up there asking me if I want to see a magic trick, and I'll go "sure", and he'll proceed to play my whole life back to me and then, like every classic magic trick I've seen before, he'll go "pick a moment, any moment", and the real magic will be that every minute will be as magical as the next. 

A lifetime of magical moments. What better dream is there?

Never abandon/underestimate/ignore your dreams, for in them lie the keys to your passion, your destiny, but most importantly- your best chance of glorifying your Maker. 
And what could be more important for a fallen, broken humanity than a shot at glorious redemption?

So the other day I was travelling home on the Tube from work. The carriage was less crowded than usual which meant I had the luxury of a seat. My ears were semi-sealed with earphones; my nose was buried in a book. I was twenty minutes from my stop in West London but my head was in the south of Sri Lanka, where this particular book was based. (more on that one later). When I did shift my gaze away from the page, it was only to watch the late evening sun cast its rays across the grey linoleum floor, briefly lending it the appearance of freshly laid concrete. 

All of this might explain why I was only vaguely aware that the seat next to me had been vacated a few minutes earlier, and that a guy who was previously standing in the corner of the carriage was now gravitating towards it. As he sat down, his bag brushed against the side of my book. He quickly apologised, an apology I heard despite the music still coursing through my reasonably-priced earphones. (Given that I can't recall what song it was, it must have been both mellow and unremarkable. I really must update the trusty iPod). I responded with a polite 'it's ok' and actually meant it, before returning to southern Sri Lanka. 

At this point, my new neighbour leaned forward and asked me what book I was reading. I probably should mention that although I have trawled my memory to try and attempt an accurate recollection of events, I cannot recall whether I actually heard the words 'What book are you reading?' or whether I somehow inferred this via a combination of on-the-spot body language analysis and lip-reading. (the latter is not as implausible as you might think- I am borderline MENSA) 

Either way, I found myself unplugging my right ear just as he was finishing his question. Convinced he was asking about the book, I give him a little blurb. I wasn't prepared for a follow-up question but it came anyway. Over the next few minutes, I was somehow given all sorts of details regarding his job, the area he lived in and the part of India he was from. I listened with one earphone still in my ear, and one finger still between the pages. 

Eventually, I took the second earphone out and closed the book. Probably seeing the slightly disappointed look on my face, he apologised for the intrusion but I assured him it was fine and half-meant it. I had resigned myself to engaging in conversation for the remainder of the journey but was not expecting what happened next. 

'Hey, we should keep in touch, can I have your number?', is a question you'd think would be slightly awkward in most social contexts, let alone when it's directed at someone you've just met on public transport. But that is exactly what he said. The funny thing was, it wasn't awkward at all. It seemed genuine, friendly, and, amazingly, like the most natural thing in the world. 

And yet... 
For some unfathomable reason, I did the thing which I've heard about before but had never actually done - I gave him my number with one wrong digit. 

I regretted this almost as soon as I finished saying it. I pictured my younger, more trusting self, standing in the corner of the carriage and casting me a disappointed look. I looked away as the guy tried to call the number so I would have his. (there was no network, so he sent a text instead) 

For the next few minutes, he carried on chatting cheerfully with me about his family, his parents who were visiting for the first time from India, and what a nice change it was to talk to someone on the Tube, before he finally stood up and said his stop was next. He then extended his hand, said goodbye, and walked to the door. A few seconds later as the doors slid open, he called out 'Bye, Ajay', smiled another big, happy smile, and then he was gone. It occurred to me that I didn't even remember his name.

As the train pulled away, I sat hunched in my seat and stared at the floor as I tried to figure out why I had done what I had done. I could come up with no good reason for not giving my number to this seemingly kind, genuine person who had walked over from a corner of the carriage to sit down next to me with no agenda other than to make a connection; a normal, human connection, in an otherwise soulless Tube made of steel. 

I continued staring at the floor and noticed the colour had changed a bit. Perhaps the concrete had set- both on the floor and somewhere within as well. My heart sank with the setting sun. 

I have a feeling I will always remember that day and that little incident, maybe even more than I might have done if I'd given him my real number. It was the day suspicion won. And something precious was lost.

For Ammachy

 

Three weeks ago, 
a great oak was felled; 
and those of us who had rested 
comfortably in its shade 
all these years, 
considered, for the first time, 
the crushing emptiness; 
the gaping vacuum 
left behind, 
that memories 
could never quite fill. 

We blinked away tears, 
and dealt with it as best we could- 
for Life Goes On. 

And yet, 
perhaps we did not see, 
that no tree ever truly dies, 
its leaves 
are never really bereaved. 
For even out of the 
scorched earth, new life 
is always birthed- and the oak, 
it still lives 
and grows in us, 
its seeds sown in us,
without our knowledge; 
its roots nourish and 
renew us, branches 
still shelter us. 

And on every new leaf,
there is a trace 
of the very same pattern 
that ran all the way up 
from the soles of weathered feet, 
to the softest, kindest face.

Right now 
A baby is being born
A child is taking a first step
saying their first word 
losing their first tooth 
A couple is taking their vows 
A little girl is proving her parents wrong 
A little boy is finding his passion 
A grandmother is being missed 
A brother is learning to forgive 
A stranger is helping another 
A smile is being smiled 
A hug is being hugged
A kind word is being said 
A meal is being shared 
Today is someone's best day ever 
All this is happening 
Right now

Here's a thought: 
Right now is all you've got.

How to never grow old (or at least slow down the process)

Last week I had the good fortune of seeing tabla maestro Ustad Zakir Hussain in concert for the second time. The first time was about 15 years ago, at an all-night Indian classical festival back in India. It's possible I might be romanticising the event a little, but I have a vivid memory of sitting transfixed as Hussain proceeded to cast a spell on the assembled audience, with his eyes closed and a big smile on his serene face. 

It was one of those occasions when time seemed both to stand still and speed up all at once. As his fingers danced over the goat-skins of the drums, the darkness seemed to retreat almost in deference- making way as the sun peeked over the distant hills and bathed everything in a sort of ethereal glow. The intervening years have done little to dim the magic of those glorious few minutes. 

But back to last week. 
We didn't have the best seats in the house, but they were close enough for me to notice two things: 

1. The smile was as big as ever. 
2. He looked like he hadn't aged a day. 

As I watched him weave another one of his musical spells, I couldn't help but think that this gift, this passion, was surely the life-force keeping him this way. (Perhaps good genes too, but we'll leave that aside for the moment) 

Watching Zakir Hussain is to watch not just one of the finest masters of the tabla at work, but also maybe one of its keenest students. The joy on his face as he regarded both the results of endless practice as well as spontaneous alchemy was as much of a pleasure to behold as the performance itself. 

Somehow, I knew he felt the same excitement he did when he performed a soundtrack to a sunrise fifteen years ago, but also maybe it goes back even further; all the way back to when he first laid eyes on these little drums and decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life tapping them with his fingers. 

I thought about other people who seemed to have the same Peter Pan-like quality. AR Rahman seemed a good example of another musician, likewise Sachin Tendulkar and Roger Federer in sports. I am sure there are so many more, but to me these are people who seemed to lose themselves in their art. They appear to derive at least as much pure, child-like joy from it as we do from watching them. 

It's a wonderful thing to know exactly what you were born to do, and then have the will and courage to completely give in to it. Watching Zakir Hussain is to get a glimpse of what it's like. 

If you don't yet know what your passion is, there's still time to try and find out. And if you do know, chase it down. Follow it to where it takes you, no matter the cost. It's worth it; and I am pretty sure it works better than all the anti-ageing cream in the world.

Sometimes, the best cure for writer's block is to remember how utterly insignificant you are. 

[Click to enlarge]

Not a Nike advert

When was the last time you felt a sense of utter devotion to your craft? 
When did you last revel in glorious failure? 
When did you last experience the thrill of the adventure; a journey started, a fear vanquished, a destiny discovered? 
When did you last hear the call of your calling, and feel the cool breeze of your life's true purpose? 
That overwhelming feeling of being smaller only by virtue of being part of something bigger? 
If you can't remember, it's time for a reminder. 
There is no better feeling, no greater satisfaction. 
Because the unknown isn't that scary in person. 
Because you are only truly free when you are what you are meant to be. 
Just do it.

Remember the Sherpas

I recently met someone who had just returned from a trip to the Himalayas where she made it up to Everest base camp. I heard her tell the story of her journey and the Sherpa who accompanied her up the mountain. She spoke of how he was kind and knowledgeable and helpful, and invited her into his little home to meet his family and share their food. 

I listened with great interest as she recalled the bond that formed between them and how she was panic-stricken when, two weeks after she returned, the earthquake struck Nepal and she lost contact with him. Thankfully, she eventually heard news and while he was safe, their house had been destroyed and many he knew had lost their lives. 

It was a thrilling story in so many ways, containing on the one hand triumph and adventure, and on the other, adversity and destruction. And, like all good stories- it stuck with me. For days after, I thought about the fragility of life but also about the Sherpa in her story. I tried to imagine what he looked like, tried to picture his home and his family. 

I have not met a Sherpa in person; the closest I have come is probably the ever-smiling Bahadur who works at my aunt's home in Delhi. Perhaps adversity is part of their lives, and they deal with it in their own way. Perhaps, despite everything, they even find a way to be happy. But I couldn't help but feel for them- these kind, knowledgeable men who live in tough, unforgiving conditions, making a living out of leading others to the top of mountains. 

I thought back to when I first read about (Sir) Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tenzing Norgay, the first men to conquer Everest. It occurred to me that in almost every reference to these two men, Hillary's name was mentioned first. The subtle implication seemed to be that Hillary was the main man, and Norgay was just the sidekick. 

The reality, however, was that Norgay had made more summit attempts than any other person alive before actually conquering the peak with Hillary. While there's no doubt Hillary deserves every recognition for his efforts (he certainly wasn't carried to the top by Norgay), it is safe to say that without Norgay's experience and expertise, they would most likely have failed like many before them. 

When they finally reached the highest point on earth, the story goes that the two men made a pact that they would not reveal who actually scaled the peak first. It was an acknowledgement of the fact that each needed the other, and it was a team effort in the truest sense. 

And yet, so often Sherpas are a small footnote in the still-unfolding story of the great Himalayas. For them, it is just a job and the people with the money, expensive equipment and the Twitter and Instagram accounts take the glory. [There's something poignant about imagining a Sherpa guide a climber to the top, take his or photo, and then guide them back down again.] 

There are plenty of stories where Sherpas have lost their lives trying to help those in their care, losing their footing while seeking out a trail or even giving up their oxygen when climbers have run out of theirs. Day in and day out they get on with their jobs of trying to tame these treacherous peaks, and then return to fragile houses that fall apart in the next tremor, flood or avalanche. 

I'm not sure I will ever scale any of the Himalayan peaks or even get as far as base camp, but I suppose I have, in my own way, encountered Sherpas in my own life- people (both men and women) who have selflessly guided and helped me along the way and then disappeared into the background when the summit was in sight. 

In the end, these are the people I ended up thinking of today; I am sure you have had them as well. So whatever peaks you end up scaling in your own lives, whether literally or figuratively, I hope you too will remember the Sherpas. Those who helped you get there. People who went before, or who came along for the ride just for the satisfaction of seeing you reach the top. 

Remember them, because without them there's often no story worth telling.

When they pick through the rubble, of another unexplained crash, 
They won't know I was a writer, or that I listened to The Clash,
They'll gather up what remains, and dust off all the ash,
And they will identify me by my shoes. 

Everything I'd ever done, and all that was left to do,
That brilliant unfinished novel, or that masterpiece I drew,
All those battles won and lost- they wouldn't have a clue,
They will just identify me by my shoes. 

Every so often I think, of what it really means to lose,
I consider loss and longing, and what I can and cannot choose,
And how when the end comes, and it's time to clear the dues,
The only thing that will matter, is the colour of my shoes.

An early-afternoon deconstruction of 'On Top of the World' by Imagine Dragons. Just, you know, because...

There are certain songs that enter your head and then end up staying for much longer than you expect, and when that happens it's often worth trying to understand why because it sometimes helps explain your innermost desires, the stage of life you're at, and where you fit into the larger, cosmic scheme of things. Or, of course, it might just be simply catchy. 

This song, in my opinion, does a number of things quite well, and I have listed them more or less in the order they occur (If you do notice some variation, blame it on the giddy side-effects of listening to this on loop for five-and-a-half months.) What do you mean that's insane? 

1. Opens with clapping. Clapping is always good. I am yet to hear a song with clapping in it that's anything but happy and drenched with a wide-eyed sort of optimism. For another example of a good old clap used to good effect, check out the second half of 'Here Comes the Sun' by a little-known group from Liverpool. 
2. Intersperses aforementioned clapping with some light acoustic guitar/mandolin. Casually kicks in about 30 seconds in; gets the beat going. 
3. Has a pleasant, somewhat high-pitched California-summer lead vocal, with just the faintest hint of Scandinavia. This is a tough trick to pull off vocally, but when it works, it verks. 
4. Gets a brief lull in (backing instruments stop- clapping continues) by way of build-up to rousing chorus. 
5. Has rousing chorus. 
6. Repeats one catchy, easy-to-recall, line with about 5-6 syllables (I'm on top of the world !) about 4 times in a single chorus. 
7. Includes a good, proper shout as part of the aforementioned catchy refrain. On this occasion, it's the classic 'Hey!'. This immediately elevates a good line to another dimension where you start to involuntarily say Hey! every time you hear the song (and sometimes even when you don't, but we won't go there). Some of the most popular songs of the past three years have included this small yet powerful word, whether it's in the intro (see Little Talks), bridge, or indeed the chorus, and sometimes in all three. Side note: There's also the Lumineers who nearly got to number one just by saying 'Hey!' about 35 times in the space of two-and-a-half minutes (alongside the trusty 'Ho!', thereby discovering some sort of musical yin-yang.)
8. Has some random indecipherable static/white noise about half-way through. This is good because people can go 'but what does it mean?!' The possibilities are endless. 
9. Follows immediately with the rousing chorus-bridge-chorus (repeat 8x) 
10. Cut instruments, start to fade out to just clapping. Close the circle; job done. Boom. Goodnight.

If I could do it all over again, what would I do differently? I would go through life with a lot more confidence. I WOULD BE MORE GENEROUS. I would take my chances. I would not have quit guitar lessons the first time the skin on my fingers slit open. I would smile more. I would stick my neck out and stretch my hand out, whenever and wherever I thought it was needed, even if it was rejected. I would read more, and read faster. I WOULD BELIEVE I COULD BE A GOOD WRITER. I would not have quit piano lessons simply because I thought I could impress girls easier by playing guitar. I would have kept a diary because my memory was never going to be as good as I thought it would be, and one day it would be gone altogether. I would pray more, especially the Serenity Prayer. I would not have quit running. I would have played more sports out of sheer enjoyment, rather than just for the satisfaction of winning. I would tell my parents I loved them. EVERY SINGLE DAY. I would try and be more patient. I would try and listen more. I would take every opportunity I had to travel. I would eat less sugar. I WOULD BRUSH MY TEETH MORE OFTEN. I would work on being more spontaneous. I would value each and every moment, without being too hippy about it. I would have spent more time trying to read music. I would see the good in people before anything else. I would be more encouraging. I would have worked harder at maintaining friendships. I WOULD FORGIVE MORE EASILY. I would try to be remembered for my humility. I would keep laughing loudly; even when people said it was a bit weird. I wouldn't be in a hurry to grow up. I would try harder to find my passion/s and give myself over to it/them. I WOULD TRY EVERY DAY TO BE THE BEST I COULD BE. All of this I would have done. Most of this I still can.

Return to Sender

When I was younger, I regarded growing older (and eventually dying- even though I hadn't fully comprehended the concept back then) as a gradual but very specific process. It involved going to a specific place which, at least to my very specific ten-year-old mind, was like an enormous library, and on each trip returning something. 

Every day, I imagined, the getting-older people would enter the building, approach the large reception desk behind which sat a very kindly old person of indeterminate age, and they would receive boxes of various sizes to put things in. Imagine the security check at the airport, except in my version there would never be a queue; and the items, once in the box, were never returned. There was always some nice calming music playing in the background. Nobody really spoke; it was a silent and solemn place, but not a sad place. People would just arrive in a steady stream, place their things in these boxes, and as soon as this wordless transaction was complete, they would be on their way again; a little older, a little lighter, a little bit closer to the end. 

What would go in the boxes? This was where my imagination took a slightly bizarre turn. Nothing physically went in- it was a mostly ceremonial process, almost like a rite of passage. For example: The ability to hear went in, but ears didn't. The ability to walk went in, but legs didn't. Memory went in, but the brain itself didn't. 

The other thing about this process was that while some of the timing was pre-determined, everyone who turned up could actually choose to keep some of the things they had originally come in to return. This is a strange detail, I know, but it is my imagination after all. No-one really knew they could do this though, so it all came down to how badly they wanted it. 

So while there would be some who came and returned everything they had at the first time of asking, others would hold on to the things which mattered most to them. I reasoned that this was why some people seemed to change almost overnight- it was because on their first visit they'd asked for the biggest box and packed it all in. In had gone the smiles, never to be seen again, and so too empathy, imagination, sometimes even faith and hope. They had emerged from out of that library as emptied-out shells of their former selves, with nothing left to live for. 

So why am I talking about all this now? It's because my 97-year-old grandmother recently made a few more trips to this place. A few more trips, a few more things given back. A few steps closer to being fully returned. But more important than what she gave back, is what she chose to keep. Yes, she gave up her eyes a good few years ago, but she kept the child-like wonder, she gave up her teeth, but not her laugh. She gave up almost all of her strength, but not the will to live. 

Which is a very good thing, because even after all the lights go off, I will still see her face, with that unmistakable twinkle in her eye, and the kindest, most beautiful smile that no box, library or imagination could hope to contain.

Baguette Man

Just around the corner from my office, there's a sandwich shop where all baguettes unsold by 3:30 in the afternoon are reduced to one pound. As someone who regularly has a late breakfast and a run at lunchtime, this arrangement suits me perfectly because I can head down after a shower and grab one (or two) still-fresh sandwiches at less than half price. There have been very few occasions when I've reached there around that time and the 'All Baguettes 1 Pound' sign hasn't been in the window. This might be because they've either sold out already, or the owner is optimistically holding out for a few more full-price sales. (In case you're wondering- in case it's the latter, I happily pay- if only to avoid bad baguette karma. It's the worst.) 

Overall though, this seemed to be good example of something capitalism got right- the owner sells out his stock, (hopefully) makes a decent profit, I enjoy an exceedingly cheap (and relatively healthy) lunch; everybody's happy. For a few weeks everything was great, until I noticed other people had caught on, and one man in particular I started to come across on a regular basis. Probably in his mid-forties, he was always smartly dressed, and always came in soon after the sign appeared. The first couple of times, I thought he might be passing by; probably picking up some spares for a late meeting in his office. It soon became clear though - this was no drifter or chancer. His visits had gone past the point of regular and become routine. 

While I didn't mind at first, I couldn't help but get a little annoyed as time went on. It wasn't really because he was buying up the lot, because there would always be a couple more left, but because he seemed to be picking up all the baguettes with the best fillings, and regularly buying three. Three?! What kind of person eats three baguettes at three-thirty? He was always unfailingly polite to the owner, and a couple of times when I stood behind him in the queue, he turned around and smiled at me before he walked out. Despite my best attempts, he was generally hard to dislike, which annoyed me even more. 

The more I saw him, the more I fed the annoyance, and the stronger it grew. Until two days ago, when it finally disappeared once and for all. While I normally walk down the street in the same direction as that man, I don't usually look up from my newly-bought baguette. On Tuesday, I did look up. And looked straight at him. I watched as he crossed over to the other side of the road, and handed his three baguettes to three homeless people huddled together on a stone bench. 

Maybe the lesson is to look up more, look down on people less. There's almost always more than what meets the eye, isn't there? I guess I still have so much more to learn. 

As for Baguette Man, he's my new hero. Batman isn't half as cool.

Some time ago, I came across a quote that went more or less like this: 
Art is a collaboration between the artist and God, with the artist preferably doing as little as possible. 

I gleefully pounced upon this (by which I mean I shared it instantly on Twitter) as it seemed to explain, neatly and beautifully, the fundamentally metaphysical nature of all art. As far as I was concerned, 'creation'- both the process and the end-result- happened somewhere deep in the unconscious, unfathomable depths; think about it too much and it was gone. All it consisted of was more than a little divine intervention, and some willingness to let it do its thing; to pass through you, and out into the world.

While this seemed to tie in perfectly with what the quote was trying to say, my problem was that I frequently used this as a licence for laziness. I have written about 'craft/graft' earlier, and how they're essentially the same thing, but in the context of this quote, I realised there's something critical it doesn't quite spell out, but certainly implies. Or should imply. 

Because the crux of the matter is this- given that it is a collaboration (and I believe it is), and the artist must quite rightly do as little as possible (because it's not really about them)- the amount they do is relative to how much God does. 

And this makes all the difference. When the one who created the universe, flung stars into space, and made everything that ever was and ever will be; when that God, in all his infinite wisdom, is orchestrating a collaboration with you on something, anything -- exactly what are you going to bring to the table? It better be better than your very best, because that's the least He deserves. 
There's a thought for the New Year.

Man with the Sad Eyes, 
He never cries; 
Stores up burdens of his past, 
behind a wall of lies. 

Man with the Sad Eyes, 
Is easy to despise; 
Seems unspeakably clever, 
but is merely worldly-wise. 

Man with the Sad Eyes, 
Is never short of sighs; 
He's accustomed to Disappointment, 
and a stranger to Surprise. 

Man with the Sad Eyes, 
Learns to improvise; 
For the world was still so beautiful, 
Despite those tired, sad eyes.

This New Year, I don't wish for much. 
Just a few little things. 
Like freedom from fear. 
An end to despair; and to indifference. 
I wish for happiness. 
For innocence, justice, grace.
Love. 
Patience. 
Unwavering faith. 
Like I said, not much. 
Just, you know, the basics.

You know, it just occurred to me that I never wished you a happy new year. Lord knows I wished almost everyone else- and some even more than once. 

It's been an interesting few years since that giddy afternoon in Feb nearly five years ago, hasn't it? All those places we've been; all those miles travelled. I know they've taken their toll. But then again, none of us is getting any younger. Those little creaks and niggles, minor irritants in our younger days, they suddenly feel a lot harder to shake off. I know what it's like, I really do. 

Still, we've come this far. I have no idea how much longer we have together but I'd just like to say I've enjoyed every minute. And despite everything, I'd like to think you have, too. I know I'm a sentimental old fool, but when I put you into fifth gear the other day, I almost felt you smile through the pain. 

So, Dylan, here's to you and me and 2015. The road awaits.

Oh no, what's this? 
A spider web and I'm caught in the middle.
So I turn to run, 
And thought of all the stupid things I'd done.

And I never meant to cause you trouble.
And I never meant to do you wrong.
And I... well if I ever caused you trouble,
Oh no, I never meant to do you harm.

-Trouble, Coldplay

It was the 7th of January, 2015, when the last of the fairy lights came down and I stopped for a few moments to survey the wreckage of my 33rd Christmas. Large parts of the festivities had by this point dissipated into the fumes that trailed 2014 as it departed; other parts stuck in the memory like one of those particularly troublesome chicken bones that get lodged in the one place the toothbrush can never quite reach. 

There we all are, sitting around the dinner table, stuffed full of secrets, wearing festive jumpers but thinking distinctly un-festive thoughts. The menu is as elaborate as ever, and there are even some new dishes making an appearance for the first time- the main course consists mainly of free-range deception, with assorted sides of lies. Revenge is in the refrigerator (to be served cold in due course). On the hob, mild resentment is simmering away, about to come to the boil. Someone is always on hand to stir things up, and soon the knives will be out. Peace on earth and goodwill to men, we sing, with all the faux goodwill we can muster. Pass the salt please, someone says, but it is usually judgement that gets passed instead. 

I must admit I am not sure whether I am imagining an actual event, a memory, or indeed a memory of a memory. Perhaps it is all the merriment playing tricks with my mind- the bright colours, the immaculately wrapped presents, the well-meaning earnestness of it all. I have to fight to not get swept up by it, to maintain the steely defence of a wartime mentality, for I am acutely aware no truce has been declared; this was just a temporary ceasefire. 

And where was I, you ask? I was at the table too, there was no escaping it. There I am, consuming chicken breast and being consumed by guilt and self-loathing. My thoughts drift- I imagine I am a Christmas tree; I am decorating myself, on the ends of each of my branches I hang one bauble at a time- there they are, glinting as they briefly catch the light. There is Pride, Envy, Anger, Low Self-Esteem, Pettiness… I am losing count. Suffice to say it is a busy tree.(No tinsel though- that's tacky. Apparently.) Lingering Fear is always the tree-topper. I think that has always been my over-riding emotion this time of year. A strange, star-shaped fear that at any moment, everything would come apart like cheap gift-wrap. That one little word would tip the whole sad charade over. Come to think of it, maybe that's what needed to happen. Now that would be a cracking Christmas. 

I am now packing away my little Nativity scene; Mary with her beatific smile, Joseph with his calm aloofness, and the little infant Jesus. I can't help but think Jesus had it a bit easy. Sure, at least three of his 33 years weren't the most comfortable of rides, and there are literally only two, maybe three, people I know on whom I would wish that sort of death, but- He didn't have to navigate Christmas. There's a bullet He most certainly dodged. Being the reason for it doesn't seem nearly half as difficult as having to celebrate the thing every year. I wondered what He would make of us now, allegedly throwing birthday parties for Him (it's His birthday but everyone else gets the gifts) but in reality merely managing, at best, mild desecration. 

I sometimes wish He'd just told us, in clear words that were not open to interpretation, how He wanted His birth remembered. That would have helped, I think. Or, even better, a list. Seems to me that lists are what keep modern civilisation from completely self-destructing. So a quick handy checklist, a sort of 10 Commandments for Christmas, would have been ideal. I'd like to go out on a limb and suggest that in such an event, the following three might well have featured: 

1. Thou shalt not be starting Christmas sales in August. This is absurd. 
2. Thou shalt not chop down trees just to hang trinkets on them because this really has nothing to do with anything. 
3. Thou shalt serve up just three dishes for any given meal because any more than that is a clear symptom of one of the seven deadly sins. Thou knowest the one. 

But He didn't. He left us to it, and with a depressing inevitability, we messed it up. Again. 

I'll say one thing about it, though- sometimes it takes the celebration of a divine birth to show us all how truly human we are. 

I am now feeling a little tired. I've packed the boxes and put them back on the shelf for another year, and they sit side-by-side now with the fake smiles and Santa hats. The words 'Happy New Year!' ring out from some dusty corner of the mind, and I smile wryly to myself. Yes, it may be a Happy New Year. Or it may not. I'm trying to keep an open mind. Ok, maybe not completely open. I've always thought the door to my mind would be one of those revolving ones, so people, places, things, could drift in and out with ease. There'd be no danger of them overstaying their welcomes, no opportunity for familiarity to breed contempt. In, Out, In, Out. 

As I close my eyes, I picture another scene- of a man swimming away from a beach towards the vast expanse of the ocean. It looks like he's swimming in the wrong direction; I feel like I need to stop him, to spin him around, direct him back to the shore where everyone else is. But I don't, I keep watching and then I go higher and can see farther out into the distance and I realise the ocean is much bigger than I imagined and the man is so much smaller, and then I go higher still, until the man is just a tiny speck, but then my eyes scan the horizon and there's another speck, and I can just about make out the shape of a little island. I realise the man is headed for that island, he is in fact escaping the shore he had just left behind and is travelling towards this place of glorious isolation. I want to see who the man is, but by this point I am so high up that I can't see his face and it makes me sad. This is the last thing I remember before everything goes black.