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.

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.

Run FatBoy Run

A couple of weeks ago, in a fit of uncharacteristic spontaneity, I signed up for not one but two competitive runs. Since then, I have spent a considerable amount of time thinking about exactly what it was I was thinking when I did this. 

One possible explanation is the running gene that supposedly runs (ha!) through my family. I have been reliably informed by my grandmother that my father started running almost as soon as he could stand unaided, and usually took off like a shot the moment he had the tiniest inkling it was bath time. The aversion to baths may have reduced as he got older, but the running continued all the way to the Kerala state record books for the 800 metres. 

My own short running career, while far less stellar, did have a few significant moments; notably the half-marathon at age 23 when I was all set for a silver medal until I took a wrong turn a couple of hundred metres from the end and was duly disqualified (there's a metaphor for my life in there somewhere, but we will save it for another day) 

Since then, both age and apathy have taken its toll and the only running I have been doing of late is running off with my imagination, running away from responsibility, and running after a train or bus when I am late (which is all the time). None of which actually counts as any sort of preparation for an actual run. So, come May and then July this year, I fear that any remnants of my youth will most likely lie scattered amongst the rubbish along the route in central London, waiting to be sucked up by a slow-moving motorised street-cleaner, which itself may overtake me around the half-way mark. 

The first run, on the 25th of May, is the BUPA London 10K, an event which has been won by reigning Olympic champion Mo Farah for the last five years. To be honest, there's a good chance I will be so Farah from him that he will probably be getting ready to start the Rome 10k just as I am completing London. 

All of which suggests that the outlook is decidedly bleak. Still, the most important thing in all of this is that it is all for a good cause. In the larger scheme of things, my personal and near-certain humiliation is a small price to pay in the pursuit of the greater good. I will be in touch shortly with links where you can donate to the very worthy causes I will be running for. Please give what you can. Both charities, and my bruised and battered ego, will be extremely grateful. Thank you and good night.

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

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

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