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.

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.