Wednesday, October 17, 2018

The road through the forest stretches out seemingly into infinity. Each step takes you closer to the end and simultaneously further from home. 

Perhaps this is the beautiful contradiction of running; it's liberating and debilitating all at once. You run TOWARDS but you also run AWAY. 

From what? Fear? Regret? Perhaps also the fleeting transience of it all; a sense that a day will come, sooner than you think, when you finally run out of road? 

****

The sun streams through the tops of trees, each shaft creating a pool of light where it makes contact with the ground. At one point along the way, from a small makeshift hut in a clearing, there is always the smell of burning wood; and I'm instantly transported to another time and place: A very specific place from my childhood, where a grandmother busies herself around a wood burning stove. 

Amazing how just a smell can drag out specific scenes from long-forgotten vaults full of uncomplicated memories.

 ****

Perhaps it all starts as a search for a story. But sometimes the search itself becomes a story. Maybe it is always the greatest story of all; the quest for meaning. The greatest reward lies in the struggle to understand. 

**** 

Regardless of the route, the mind always encounters people, places and sounds it loves. It's no different for me; even though music streams through my headphones, the real soundtrack consists of other more familiar sounds: a son's innocent laughter, a wife's gentle encouragement, a mother's comforting voice. 

These are the sounds I live for, the ones I will always return to. Long after the sun sets for the final time and the stars are swallowed up by the sky. 

**** 

"What's the matter?", the voice asks. "I can't find a story", I say. "Ah, you've come to the right place. Every tree and blade of grass here has a story; it's just a matter of listening." 

The birds sing their evening songs as the sun drops like a stone. My body longs for my bed, and my heart longs for home. But even when the body sleeps; the mind stays awake and tells itself stories. 

***

"How about this one", the voice says, as we stop by a tree lying on it's side, its stump sticking out of the ground in the shape of a cross. It's as if the tree's last act before it died was to mark its own grave. 

The shadows lengthen as dusk approaches, and in the distance a couple of deer dance in the long grass. 

"Or maybe this one?", says the voice as we look at a flower with a dozen colours, peeking out of a rock. 

**** 

My feet keep pace with the beat of my heart. Or maybe it's other way around. Or maybe both my feet and my heart are both just in step with the gentle rhythm of the universe. Is this what it feels like to feel truly alive? 

Everything in sync. The natural order of things. 

There might be a simpler explanation for why I feel the way I feel. It's the predictability. The knowledge that despite all the choas and uncertainty of life on this beautiful, broken planet, all I need to do is take one step at a time and I can keep moving forward. One step at a time. 

**** 

I reach the end of my journey for now. It is time to head home. 

"I'll be back soon", I say. "I will bring my son and show him this tree, and those deer, and that flower. I'll remind him that marvels lurk in every nook and cranny. I'll teach him to never lose his sense of wonder; that look in his eyes when he points at a plane leaving trails in the sky and calls it a rocket." 

"Ok. I'll be right here, waiting", says the forest, softly.

Friday, June 22, 2018

#FirstMarathon Teaser

So yesterday was the 21st of June which as you all know is the longest day of the year. What you may not know is that it was also exactly four months to October 21st. What a nonsense bit of trivia, you must be thinking. But wait! 21st October is no ordinary day, it is the day of the Amsterdam Marathon. And this year, for the first time, lining up alongside hundreds of far fitter, well-prepared and generally more sensible people will be yours truly* 

Which is why I thought I would mark the longest day of the year by telling you about what is likely to be longest day of my life. 

I'd like to open by saying that training for this heroic / foolhardy mission began the day I was born, but of course this idea is so laughable that I cannot even comple… 
Basically I have 16 weeks. 
And Monday of the coming week will be Day 1 of the First-Time Finisher Plan that I have downloaded, printed, read first page of, started sweating, and then then set aside. 

But in between I have also done some solid online research, investigated a range of quality running shoes to replace my current pair, and acquired a shiny new activity tracker (more on this later). It of course remains to be seen what will be finished with this Finisher plan- the race or me? 

People say ‘if at first you don’t succeed, maybe sky-diving isn’t for you’ and they could quite easily replace sky-diving with ‘marathon running’ and it would still ring true. 

For now, however, my plan is to document the training process by doing one post a week for the 16 weeks, and then depending on the outcome I will either compile them into a Collected Series of ‘How to Boss your First Marathon’ or ‘How to Love Yourself Despite Abject Failure.’ I hope you will join me for the ride. 

*Note: ticket has not yet been purchased. But now that both readers of this blog know this is happening, surely I cannot back out. It’s a prestige issue.

The Imaginary Speech Series #2 : Roger Federer


As we gear up for Wimbledon in a mere 10 days time, it’s a good time to cast our minds back to last year when Federer passed Sampras as winner of the most number of titles on the hallowed grass. Yes, it was his eighth(!) time being champion there, as the t-shirt tells you in a very not-so-subtle fashion. 

And just in case you thought winning that many times might have made him a little bored or slightly humble, you can perish that thought because of course he was neither. (in case you haven’t guessed already, I’m in the Rafa camp. And while we’re at it, I think Jordan in his pomp was better than LeBron, I rate Messi just a little bit higher than Ronaldo, and I’ll put my hand up (ha ha) and say that Maradona was the best ever. Yes, controversial, I know, especially that last one. I like stirring things up.) 

Anyway, back to the Fed. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great champion, and watching him play turns many a hardened journalist into teenage William Wordsworth for good reason, but as I was listening to him at the post-match press conference, his face shining brighter than the trophy itself, all I could hear was somewhat along the lines of this: 

I am King Federer. You people are fortunate to just be breathing the same air as me. Everyone else wearing Nike is trying to just do it. I’m the only one who just did it. And I didn’t even sweat and still smell amazing. 

Some people say i’m a bit smug, but humility is for people with tiny accomplishments. I’ve earned my arrogance. 

Some people also say its a bit presumptuous to print a shirt with a clever pun weeks before a tournament has even started. I call it planning. I even had a version printed at the last minute for Cilic. It said ‘L0ser’. The 0 obviously signifies the number of times he’s won Wimbledon. 

Man, i love this shirt almost as much as I love myself. 

You might think i’m contractually obliged to wear this, but in fact I came up with the concept myself. My first choice was actually “I’m the Gr-8-est of all time”, or ‘GO8T’ but even Nike thought that might be a bit much and also it didn’t read that well. 

It’s true though; no point denying it. I’m the GOAT and everyone here at Wimbledon are just sheep. They all agree that I’m the King. Prince William even told me that himself. 

So get in line, kiss the ring, and touch the hem. Do it while you can, for I will soon be ascending into the upper echelons of my own sense of self-importance. 

PS: This press release is available in six other languages. I wrote them all myself.

When he bursts into the room at the crack of dawn, 
When every moment is a new world waiting to be born, 
When just one smile 
lifts the gloom 
and lights up a room, 
If that doesn’t make the poetry come, what will? 

When he stands out on the balcony and waves and laughs, 
When his smiling face fills a thousand photographs, 
When he gets down 
on one knee 
to pull my shoelaces free, 
If that doesn’t make my heart sing, what will? 

When this ravaged world for a while seems pure, 
When unbridled joy is momentarily the cure, 
When he finally climbs into bed, 
humming and brimming with words unsaid, 
If that doesn’t still this weary heart, what will?

The Imaginary Speech Series #1 : Rahul Gandhi

Dear friends, my fellow Indians, brothers and sisters, 

It is my distinct privilege to be able to address you as the President of one of the world’s oldest political parties. Four years ago, in the heat of the campaign for the 16th Lok Sabha, when we argued that the very Idea of India was at stake, many people laughed and considered it hyperbole. It was just another election, they said. Friends, as I travel across our country in and speak to those very same people, I can tell you they’re not laughing anymore. 

They have seen and witnessed first-hand what happens when a divisive agenda is pushed relentlessly and eventually takes hold. They have seen their communities being divided, neighbours living under a siege mentality, and livelihoods being taken away, purely because of people’s religion, caste, or class. This is not some dystopian parallel-universe; this is the reality in many places across the length and breadth of our country. 

Some people say our Prime Minister is a man of action. Someone who gets things done. But there is such a thing as misguided action. You may recall that the Congress party, and indeed independent India, was shaped by people like Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru, Vallabhai Patel, Annie Besant, Sarojini Naidu and so many others. 

These were men and woman of action, but equally, of principles. They were guided by a set of values, and a dream and a vision of this great country that included everyone: every caste, every religion, whether rich or poor, young or old, whether you lived in a big city or a small town or indeed one of many villages dotted across this great land; their dream of an India was one that included you. These are the principles on which this country was founded, and all of us are keepers of the flame, collectively responsible for keeping that spirit of its founders alive. 

Modern India was formed from the ashes of colonial rule that had brought our motherland to her knees. But, like all true mothers, she never gave in. She was bent, but never broken. She dared to dream. And so, with strong leadership that the Congress party helped provide, and with the blood, toil, and sacrifice of so many ordinary Indians, we cast off the yoke of foreign rule and stepped out into the light of freedom. Young children today read about these things in history books and feel like it happened in the distant past. But my friends, this was our reality just over 70 years ago; indeed many of you can probably conjure up memories of it as it were just yesterday. 

And yet, while we must always remember our past, I agree that we must not dwell on it. We must of course look to the future, a future in which our children, and children’s children, live in a country they are proud to call their home. A country that has taken it’s rightful place on the world stage, and stands tall as a beacon of democracy, fairness, and prosperity for all. This is the country we strive for, but remember that any glorious future will not come easily, and it will involve struggle in the present time. 

Make no mistake, there will be both roadblocks and pivotal moments along the way. I believe we are at another such pivotal moment. In 2014, a new government came to power promising change. Some will rightly argue that there has been no change at all. Certainly not to the farmer’s condition, the systemic corruption, or indeed the job prospects of millions of our talented young people. 

I would argue, however, that things have indeed changed, just not for the better. There has been a change in the mood in our country, in the rhetoric being used to whip up communal hatred, and there has certainly been a significant change in the bank accounts of the rich and famous who enjoy both unfettered proximity to power and, when required, protection from the long arm of the law. India, once a model of secularism, pluralism and unity in diversity is now being ripped apart at its seams for narrow political and financial gain. We are, to put it bluntly, being colonised again, only this time from within. 

Ultimately, when we speak of an over-arching vision of India, it comes down to two choices. On the one hand are those who try to put all of India, all of her customs, people, religions, traditions, her past, present and future, all of it into a box with a big orange sticker labelled BHARAT. On the other hand are those of us who say no, this country is too big and too complex and too beautiful to be contained within such a narrow worldview. We do not want a box, we refuse to be contained, we will defy convention and categorisation. Instead, we will embrace our multiculturalism, we will celebrate our differences, and we will remain steadfastly different while still being proudly Indian. 

The Congress party has always believed in the latter and nothing will shake our conviction that this is the way forward. It is the reason for our existence, it is what we have committed our careers to, and, in many cases, our lives. That is not to say we have not made mistakes; millions of our fellow citizens who have put their trust in us have a right to be both angry and disappointed when that trust is seemingly betrayed. I have reflected at length on our many failings during our long years in power, and they must never occur again. India deserves better. 

I’d like to end on a more personal note. Fifteen years ago, when I stepped into public life, I was acutely aware of the very real personal cost. As a child growing up, I had a few fleeting encounters with anonymity and normalcy, but I knew I was leaving even that behind as I fully committed to this party that has in many ways been my family. I have seen people I have loved more dearly than anything in the world give up themselves for this party and for this country they loved. It is why I wanted to be a part of it too. 

When I finally made the decision to join the party it was not out of compulsion or ambition. I joined because I made a choice to love, and to work with every ounce of my energy to serve this party, and by extension, this country. The memories of my grandmother and father continue to haunt me to this day, but they also inspire me. Because I am reminded that they too made a choice to love, deeply, until their very end. 

Over the past fifteen years I have learned a lot about myself. The rough and tumble of Indian politics is an unforgiving training ground, and there is no finishing school. Political rivals have made personal attacks, and the media has, well, been the media. I would be lying if I said it has been easy, but I have never once contemplated walking away. In fact, everything I have gone through has merely strengthened my resolve to keep going, keep working. In part, this is because I know that despite my own struggles, there are far bigger problems that this country and the world at large faces. Millions of our brothers and sisters are still lacking the very basic essentials that so many of us take for granted. And so in that sense we are still closer to the beginning of the journey than we are to the end. 

As I said at the start, I believe it is a tremendous honour and privilege to be President of this party, and I will continue to lead it into the election next year as we seek to build momentum for the challenge ahead. After that, I am committing to organising a fresh process to elect the next President of the Congress Party, and will work with the coalition partners to elect the leader who will be our next Prime Minister. 

Neither of these posts will be occupied by me, but I will continue to work and support in any way the Congress Working Committee deems fit. Like so many before me, I have made the choice to love, deeply, until the very end. I want to encourage all of you to do the same. 

Thank you and Jai Hind.

Back to the Future

The other day while I was driving I looked in the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of my son. His little face was focussed intently on his mother’s phone screen, but I smiled at the thought that one day he’ll be the one driving and maybe I will be in the back seat, most likely banished because i was giving him too many instructions from the front- I can definitely see that happening. Or maybe he won’t bother driving at all, he’ll just use an app to call me a driverless car while he attends a business meeting on Mars. Either way, his journey is just beginning. And for a few seconds, I was looking through the rearview mirror and seeing not the past but the future.
To witness a sunrise from the inside of a plane is like having a ringside seat for a magic show in slow motion. 

For a while all you can see is a blanket of haze, and then - through a tiny crack in the clouds way out in the distance - the first glimmer of light, which in turn appears to combine with the smog to set the stage for what is still to come. 

As the eyes adjust, they start to discern shapes and patterns, and the clouds seem to part like curtains to allow for an unobstructed view. The scene now shape-shifts and resembles a shoreline; and while you can just about make out the horizon from the tiny burning filament of light, there is no way to otherwise distinguish between land, sea and sky. 

Some clouds continue to toss and tumble across this aerial arena, while others spontaneously sprout out from the floor of the sky like pillars of steam. Meanwhile, the plane engines act like giant fog machines, heightening the drama by emitting streams of vapour onto this glorious theatre. 

Now the glowing line of light in the distance grows in intensity. Colours mix in with other colours- a bit of gold here, a dash of purple there. The whole scene looks like it’s being stirred in a pot, slowly simmering but not quite coming to a boil, with a consistency that’s simultaneously liquid and gas. It seems both real and breathtakingly fake at the same time. 

And then- without so much as a warning, it appears- the sun in all its blinding brilliance. The sheer artistic scope of it makes it feel as though it should be a rare and unusual event. And yet, twenty-four hours later, it happens again. Similar each time, but, like the best of shows, never the same. 

Magic. The world practically abounds with it.

Pear-shaped Memories

Yesterday after lunch, I was peeling a pear and chopping it up for my son, and my mind drifted to one of the many afternoons I spent in my grandmother’s house in London. The reason, funnily enough, was pears. In her later years, one thing Ammachy truly enjoyed was pears. Not just any ol’ pears. Conference pears, not too raw or too ripe, and the longer the better (short, stubby ones didn’t have the same texture). 

And so almost every time she gave me a shopping list beforehand, or if I just rang to ask if she needed anything, pears would invariably feature. I enjoyed buying them, because it was always a little challenge. I had to select just the right ones, not just mindlessly chuck a few in a bag. And then after we’d had lunch she would pick out a couple, cut them up and place them on the table. 

"This one isn’t quite ready", she would say, or "the last few times they haven’t been sweet". And once in a while she’d really enjoy one and just say "good pear" and I’d feel like I had personally fashioned it myself.  

I thought about these things yesterday mostly because I caught myself chopping the pear in exactly the same way she did, and then placing it in front of my son the way she did for me. 

I think of Ammachy often, and most times the thoughts are accompanied by a sense of sorrow at the fact that she’s not around anymore, but this time seemed different. Yes, there was still a yearning, a melancholy realisation that even though I still have her number saved in my phone she’s not going to answer anymore. But for the first time the over-riding emotion was not sadness. 

I guess this is what time does. A person is present, and then is absent, and then, in time, they are present again. And then one day you think about them when you’re peeling pears and you look at your little son relishing them and it feels like that person is still there, sitting across from you and commenting on the quality of the pear. 

Maybe this was just another reminder to me of how ingrained our parents' and our grandparents' influences are within us. And when they leave, their memories are our oxygen, their shadows are our shade. But most importantly they are, and will always be, what we are, and will be to our children. And in that cliched but beautiful circle of life, we can find a way to smile. 

So, yeah, pears. Just wanted to share.