I love my iPod. I love it all the time, but rarely as much as on the morning commute, as the Tube trundles from one station to the next, carrying with it a heaving mass of humanity, each of us taking comfort in community while craving solitude at the same time. 

I love my iPod; because without it, I would end up listening to one half of telephone conversations and therefore know more than I need to about Maureen’s surgery, and Jason’s dodgy knee, and how the chicken in most burgers isn’t chicken. 

These things are interesting, to a degree. But most of the time, I prefer Bob Dylan and every time I ask my iPod for him, it politely and willingly obliges. No questions asked; no judgements passed.

New Country

our life should be magic 
we should live in a new and ever- 
changing world there should 
be wonders 
mountains 
unexplored villages 
with small golden people 
our clothing simple 
a foreign language 
which we speak 
and just understand.
      
-- Richard Donnelly

Bullets and Stars

We have felled the final forests, 
and picked the last few flowers; 
We’ve run blades across our bodies, 
and marvelled at the scars; 
We've sold our souls for pennies,
maxed out our credit cards, 
The guns will soon be going off, 
we’re just counting down the hours. 

But for every bullet that is fired, 
there are still a thousand stars. 
For every bullet that is fired, 
there are still a thousand stars. 

We’ve made heroes of our monsters, 
and put justice behind bars; 
We’re heading towards the precipice, 
in new self-driving cars, 
We’ve constructed a bloody future, 
with the hollow bones of our past; 
And when the wars on earth have ended, 
we will move our guns to Mars. 

But still for every bullet that is fired, 
there will be a thousand stars. 
For every bullet that is fired, 
there are still a thousand stars.

Mountain Man

You're only given a little spark of madness. You mustn't lose it- Robin Williams 

Released in August 2015, Manjhi tells the incredible story of Dashrath Manhji, a labourer who used just a hammer and a chisel to forge a path through a hillock that blocked access from his village to the nearest town. Nawazuddin Siddiqui plays the titular role and he takes to the task with the same gusto with which Manjhi took to the mountain. 

The inherent appeal of Mountain Man, like that other remarkable ‘maverick’, Menstrual Man, lies in the fact that he is an everyman; someone who is extraordinary precisely because he doesn’t regard what he’s doing as extraordinary. For Manjhi, breaking down the mountain he held solely responsible for a personal tragedy (no spoilers!) was just a normal thing to do, and he seems genuinely baffled when people don’t agree with him. 

He is portrayed as somewhat of an oddball even before he takes on this ‘little’ project, but is soon suspected of having even more serious mental issues, long before the sheer physical and mental strain takes him to the very edge of sanity. Still Manjhi perseveres for 22 years and carves a path 365 feet long, eventually reducing a 55 km journey to just 15 km. 

For me, the story has shades of Shawshank Redemption (in terms of the near-impossibility of the task at hand), and also of Forrest Gump- particularly the one sequence in which he sets off on foot from his village to the national capital, Delhi, cultivating both impressive facial hair and a small crew of followers along the way. 

Mostly, though, it seems like a metaphor for the lives of millions of common men and women of our great land. Every day, they pick up whatever tools they have to hand, and go up against a system that’s at best indifferent, and at worst, oppressive. The odds must seem insurmountable, but there they are, standing in the shadow of the mountain, hammering away in the hope that one day, just maybe, a glimmer of light will shine through. 

Here’s to the renegades.

The process of losing a grandparent is a strange and mystifying experience. On the one hand you grow up with the inevitability of their passing; and yet, when the time finally approaches, it leaves you reeling. 

It is a unique bond, the one between a child and a grandparent. Time and circumstances can sometimes combine to make it a very special relationship, one in which - oddly, given the invariable age difference- you are in a sort of kinship with each other. Perhaps the one-generation gap affords some unexpected common ground; or maybe it is to do with the fact that if life is a circle, then children and their grandparents both exist on the same minor arc: one at the start of their journey, the other approaching the end. This was brought home to me in poignant fashion every July for the past several years, when Ammachy and I would cut the same cake for birthdays that were three days apart. 

Ammachy's was certainly a life well lived. Uprooted from happy, familiar surroundings in Kerala and arriving in the alien land of Singapore, bringing up five children in the post-war years while barely out of her teens herself, then moving to England and starting up all over again, battling and overcoming the odds, caring for her beloved ‘pappa' after he was struck down by a stroke; this is the sort of thing some of us in my generation read about in books or see in films, with no awareness that such everyday heroes are in our own families. We walk around with the confidence of youth, forgetting that we stand on the shoulders of giants. 

While her tough life made her tough, her heart was forever seeking out opportunities to show kindness. This kindness and generosity of spirit characterised her 88 years, and there are countless stories of how she has touched the lives of complete strangers, many of whom are now part of our extended family.

In my own life, I have been a constant beneficiary of this kindness. Although I was born on the other side of the world, Ammachy nevertheless features in some of my earliest memories. There we were, my cousin and I, conspiring to wreak some fresh havoc in her living room or back garden, an exercise that invariably ended up with one of us getting hurt and both of us re-acquainting ourselves with the wooden spoon. As I grew older, I was fortunate to be able to spend more time with her, first by way of occasional summer visits (during which I occupied the famous box room), and then eventually moving to within a few minutes' drive away. 

Sometimes when she had not seen or heard from me for a few days, she would call on the phone and the conversation would almost always begin with her asking "nee evide aada, ninte annakum onnum illalo." (Where have you been, I haven’t heard from you in a while.) I would proceed to offer up some feeble excuse for not visiting her and she would listen patiently, eventually saying "Sherri. Njan orthu nee enne marannu poyi ennu" (Ok. I thought you forgot about me) 

In recent months, with Ammachy increasingly home-bound, I had become used to walking in to her always-warm house, and seeing the top of her head sticking out above her chair as she sat watching the tv or reading a book. As soon as she saw me, she would stop whatever she was doing and smile. She would ask me how I was, and the next question was usually "have you eaten?" at which point I would always say no, even if I had eaten just a short while ago. Anyone who has tasted Ammachy’s chicken will understand.

We would then talk about her health, the latest developments in Kerala politics, and the private lives of the birds she had been watching through her window. But the overriding themes were what she considered the two most important things in life: faith and family. For as long as I live, I will treasure these conversations and the wisdom she imparted through them. 

Ammachy’s was an all-encompassing love; she cared as much for people’s emotional and spiritual well-being as for their physical. In between spoonfuls of chicken, she would ask if I was praying and reading my Bible, and give me advice on how to be strong when dealing with difficult situations. Even now, if she could, she would be telling me to keep it together. But this was what made Ammachy the special person she was- her genuine love and selfless concern for everyone she came into contact with, even her consultant at the hospital. 

Now, as she lies in a side room of West Middlesex hospital, on the verge of departing to a place to which I don’t have my own key and where I can no longer visit anytime I want, I find myself replaying some of these memories over and over again in my head as a defence against the waves of sadness. 

I will sorely miss Ammachy but I believe that if there is a heaven she will be there, with a full head of hair and a twinkle in her eye. And I will live the rest of my days in the hope that one day I will be able to go there too, and watch as she stops doing whatever she was doing and smiles at me. And when she asks “Where were you; I thought you forgot me?” I will finally be able to say - Never, Ammachy. I never forgot you.

Update: Ammachy breathed her last on Monday 8th Feb at 10:15 am.

Conversations with a stranger

Fear 

They say there is nothing to fear but fear itself, but of course this is not true. There are many things in life to be fearful of. I have been fearful of most of them for as long as I can remember and increasingly I am finding more things to add to the list. I cannot remember the last time I went a whole night without at least one little shiver going down my spine; sometimes in my dreams, and sometimes when I was still lying awake waiting for the brief respite that sleep brings. 

Fear begins by attaching itself to a specific thing, but so often it has a way of uncoupling itself from the thing and becoming a separate entity, orbiting like a satellite around the blurred edges your consciousness. It does not help that being seen as a Coward is to risk being an outcast by a society that glorifies the Fearless and the Brave. 

There is an evolutionary element to Fear, and it can sometimes save your life. But when does it stop being useful and start being debilitating? 
I couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid.
I smiled at the hint of a joke, but her face was as impassive as ever. 

Family 

I often think of family as a carpet, she said. 
What do you mean?, I asked. 

When a carpet is new, it feels soft and comfortable. You grow up with the warmth and security of it; it is a protection against the inevitable bumps and scratches that life throws at you along the way. You imagine it will always remain this way. 

In time, though, parts of the carpet feel like they’re being trampled on. It starts to fray at the seams; little holes start appearing in the fabric. It is no longer as soft as it used to be, instead it becomes slippery and a false step here or there could mean you lose your footing. You try and patch things together but you can still see where the tear was. 

Eventually, things fall apart completely under the weight of obligation, but still the carpet needs to stick together. And so things get brushed under it, rugs get thrown over it. Appearances are maintained, because the carpet cannot be changed. But, underneath, things continue to fray until finally nothing remains except a faint pattern or a vague memory. 

Is this why they say you always hurt the ones who love you most? 
Perhaps. 
But you are also obliged to love the ones who hurt you the most.

Friendship 

Why is friendship so precious, I asked? 
Because there is no obligation. 
You mean like with families? 
Perhaps. 

There is also no expectation. When nothing is expected, everything is unexpected and that is the beauty of friendship. It is like watering a plant thinking it will produce only leaves but suddenly one morning you go outside and it is covered in beautiful flowers. 

Or like talking to a bird never expecting it to say anything back and then suddenly it squawks back it’s name at you? I asked. 

Family is like a legally binding contract, but friendship is a gentleman’s agreement. You can come to a mutual agreement when you want to call time on a friendship but you can’t wake up one morning and decide you’re not going to be a father anymore. Friendships endure because it is assumed they have an expiry date, while family ties often unravel precisely because they’re expected to last forever. Forever is sometimes a long time. 

Sadness 

Sadness at the loss of a toy is a temporary, fleeting sadness. Children are able to overcome sadness in ways that adults are never quite able to. The Sadness of a broken relationship or a lingering regret; the sort of sadness that draws from a bottomless pool of sorrow- this is Adult Sadness. 

It seeps in, invisible at first, like moisture in a poorly ventilated room, but it is only a matter of time before the once-pristine walls of your early childhood are covered in melancholic mildew. And though it enters through many different places, it always seem to find its way to your eyes. 

Your eyes are where Sadness goes to look out at the world from. 

Pondering over Lego

I have often thought that words are like lego bricks. Use them well, and you can make tons of cool stuff. 

Interesting fact 1: Six eight-stud lego bricks can apparently be combined in 915,103,765 different ways. The possibilities are almost endless. 

Interesting fact 2: There are now so many pieces of lego in the world that if they were divided up amongst every person on the planet, we’d each have 86 pieces. 

Tomorrow, chances are we’ll have even more. In much the same way, we’re each given an ever-increasing set of words to play with. Any time we like, we can open up this little box that we carry around in our heads, and start clicking the little pieces into place. We might use them in different ways, languages, styles or forms, but the ‘universal system’ which ensures that every lego brick ever made will lock with another is, in some ways, just as true for our words. 

Just like lego, words also have the power to both inspire and hurt. Anyone who has stepped on a stray piece and howled like a wounded hyena (maybe that’s just me) will recognise the parallel. A casual word tossed around without much thought always somehow causes more pain than you might expect. 

A final thought: The name LEGO is made from the first two letters of the Danish words LEG GODT, meaning 'play well'. A pretty good mantra for these troubled times. So, what are you going to make?

i will always love you, Ammachy, until the end of days. 
i will always love you, Ammachy, until the end of 
i will always love you, Ammachy, until the end 
i will always love you, Ammachy, until the 
i will always love you, Ammachy, until 
i will always love you, Ammachy 
i will always love you 
i will always love
i will always
i will
i 

Recurring Dreams (Part 1)

It was a blood-curdling, toe-curling, gut-wrenching scream. The sort of scream that seems to go on long after it had actually stopped. In the seconds that followed, the air around us seemed to be still and everything was quiet; like the eerie aftermath of a particularly violent thunderstorm. My mind was racing, but my feet were rooted to the spot. So I could only stand and watch as my brother leapt from the couch and headed for the stairs. 

I have always thought my younger brother would be much better than me in an emergency; he seemed the sort of guy who had the right amount of smarts and empathy to instinctively know exactly what to do. And here, unfolding before me, was the clearest possible evidence of this. As he passed me, I noticed a hint of panic flash across his face, but it was quickly replaced by a steely determination. No time for messin’, time was a-pressin’. 

Meanwhile, I kept standing there, soaking in a mix of utter uselessness and deep gratitude. Gratitude for a brother who would, if required, go to the very ends of the earth to help someone he loved. Somewhere beyond that gratitude lay a sparkling pool of unconditional love. I wished for nothing else but to play in those waters again. 

But, back to the present. Or the past. Whatever this was. I couldn’t be sure. After what seemed like an eternity, the signal from my brain to my feet was finally received. I took one step forward and nearly fell over. I could hear my brother still bounding up the stairs (how long was that staircase?), each step sending little tremors across the floorboards below, like the aftershocks of an earthquake. 

Taking my next step was more of an effort than I expected; it was like I had forgotten how to walk, let alone run. It took a few more steps to feel steady, then a few more to hit my stride. Finally, with the blood once again coursing through my veins, I began my own ascent, skipping first one stair with each step, then two, and finally taking four in one go until the summit was scaled. 

I was out of breath, but my eyes scanned the floor, seeking some hint of movement. There was none. And then, at the end of corridor: a shadow. I followed it, seemingly on some form of auto-pilot, hoping my fear would somehow guide rather than paralyse me. The shadow disappeared into the room at the end. Her room. Or was it? No, it couldn't be. My heart began to pound again; it felt like this time my feet were going to keep going but my mind was about to blank. I blinked back tears; my mouth went dry. Darkness slowly descended from the ceiling like a sheet. 

I remember trying to estimate how close I was to the door. I imagined I was in a 100m race, but the finish line kept moving. Like the horizon, the closer I got the farther away it seemed. What was going on? Where was I? Where was my brother? I tried to call for him, but my voice was still at the bottom of the stairs- all I managed was a half-cough, half-whisper. help. help. sniff. splutter. 

And then… that sound. My god, that terrible sound. I had heard it before. But where? It came in short bursts, slicing the air like it was a piece of fruit. The closer I got, the louder it seemed to get, until finally it sounded exactly like that scream I had heard just a short while before. I looked up and I realised I was mere steps from the door. It was swinging gently, not from the wind, but from someone having opened it just seconds ago. The sound, that awful sound; make it stop… 

I stopped. My eyes involuntarily closed in anticipation of what lay behind the door, as I stretched my hand into the darkness… 
and hit Snooze. 
Five more minutes.

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. (1 Cor 13:11) 

I remember smiling to myself when I heard this being read in church recently. For no other reason than the simple fact that if there was anyone who hadn’t quite put the ways of childhood behind them, it was me. The new year has come and I have done the math. Age might be just a number but some numbers are bigger than others; and my age is, by all yardsticks, a very adult number. And yet… 

The challenge is always to try and be a responsible adult whilst having just enough of the child inside, is it not? The child who takes pleasure in the simple things; who gets excited by a jar of Nutella or a free doughnut. The child who believes that dreams are not just a disruption to your sleep but the clues to a game or a piece of the puzzle. The child who still wonders at the world around them, and lives and laughs and loves all in the same beautiful moment. 

I don’t think that adults are necessarily averse to wonderment per se, but there are most certainly things considered inappropriate when you go through that door marked Adulthood. You must speak in a certain way. You definitely don’t laugh too loud and/or too often, and if you do, you risk carrying a faint hint of mental illness around with you. And while there are lots of fun things about being an adult that I wouldn’t want to give up, tell me you haven’t once looked back at that door, and wished you could go back just for a while? I know I have.

So for 2016, my little quest is to walk the tightrope between maturity and mischief, between worry and wonder, and between being carefree and calculated. And if I fall off that tightrope at some point in the year, I’m going to do the only logical thing you can do in those circumstances: giggle like a baby.

I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing cool about cool aloofness. There was a time when I envied those whom I saw as being distant; the calm ones, detached and seemingly disaffected. The ones who existed on a different plane; who sailed through life with the majestic indifference of a yacht, oblivious to the crude chaos of the dinghy boats beneath and around them. 

But surely this is no way to live. Life is messy, human relationships are messier still. And the ones who are put off by the grime and misery of humanity, who resolutely refuse to get down and dirty, well, I think they are missing out. If you’re going to be in, go all in. Heartache and disappointment are guaranteed. But so is glorious adventure. Bring it on.

It is that time of year 
when time seems to both lurch forward 
and stand still at the same time. 
A new year has slipped 
through the door, 
but I don’t have the weapons for war; 
I can’t shake the feeling 
that I’ve been here before. 

Helplessness. 
A planet in turmoil. 
The coalition of the good in retreat, 
seemingly no match 
for the footsteps that swell to a drumbeat 
as they come ever closer. 

This is us. This is our home 
which we don’t even own and yet, 
we are hollowing it out 
even as we shout 
Happy New Year to anyone who cares to listen. 

*****

Meanwhile, 
on the fridge, 
magnets remind me 
of the places I have been. 
Bookmarks in the pages of 2015. 

But the real reminder is ourselves. 
We are the places we have been,
We are the sunrises we have seen,  
We are all the moments we have laughed and cried 
and everything in between. 

What is a life well lived? 
A life that gives; 
that lovingly tends 
to the little flicker of hope 
in the hope that it will burst 
one day into glorious flame. 
A life that loves. 
A life that refuses to be defined 
by ever-present fear. 
A life that says Happy New Year 
and then never stops striving 
to make it so.

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.