The Enigma of the Cosmic Kite

“Maradona has the ball, two mark him, Maradona touches the ball, the genius of world soccer dashes to the right and leaves the third and is going to pass to Burruchaga. It’s still Maradona! Genius! Genius! Genius! Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta. Goooooaaaal! Gooooooaaaaal! I want to cry! Dear God! Long live soccer! Gooooooaaaaalllllll! Diegoal! Maradona! It’s enough to make you cry, forgive me. Maradona, in an unforgettable run, in the play of all time. Cosmic kite! What planet are you from, to leave in your wake so many Englishmen? So that the whole country is a clenched fist shouting for Argentina? Argentina 2 England 0. Diegoal! Diegoal! Diego Armando Maradona. Thank you God, for soccer, for Maradona, for these tears, for this Argentina 2 England 0.”

- Translation of the live commentary by Victor Hugo Morales for Argentinian radio during their game against England in the 1986 FIFA World Cup.

Diego Armando Maradona was the most diminutive of giants of the most beautiful game on earth.

In telling the whole story of his 60 years [and who could possibly do that?] what's more interesting than what is said is of course the things left unsaid or hinted at, particularly in some of the more esteemed sections of the English press.

Everything invariably begins with the Hand of God, that great affront to the Establishment, the one incident that has seemingly cemented his legacy as a Cheat. It's almost as if Maradona himself knew they were going to use that against him for as long as he lived [and he couldn't care less], but nevertheless decided, four minutes later in that same game, to say- you think you've figured me out? Well, figure this one out, lads.

It's always curious, the line that divides the Loveable Rogue from The Cheat. It's also important to note that acts of cheating are not so noteworthy in themselves, it's always more about who was the cheated.

So if the Hand of God was against lowly opposition from Africa or South America, it would have been laughed off as some exotic trickery; perhaps even celebrated. But when a street kid of mixed race humiliates the mighty English on the biggest stage of all and then has the audacity to claim there was divinity involved- that, my friends, is not just poor form, it's an unforgivable act of treachery.

Ironically, the ones most bitter about it are the same Englishmen who believed they had a divine right to win every time they played a game they apparently invented [little realizing that the game played in the schoolyards of Cambridge and Oxford has almost no resemblance to the one played in the slums of Buenos Aires and Rio.]

The sense of entitlement [and outrage when things don't follow the script] is all the more pronounced when pitted against the Great Unwashed whom the right to lord over was granted by God himself, who everyone knows is English and sits at the right hand of the Queen.

Think of Thierry Henry, whose handball against Ireland will be no more than a footnote in his obituary. Even Zinadene Zidane, romanticized as some sort of footballing Van Gogh, will be [if not already] forgiven for his 'moment of madness' which to many was fair retribution in the face of extreme provocation.

But El Diego of course is afforded no such graces; he was too crass, too unpredictable, too incandescent to warrant admiration and so we must focus instead on the shortcomings that should rightly define the man.

Never mind that he was arguably the most roughed-up and violated player in the history of the game.

Never mind that after each bone-crunching tackle he would rise from the muddied turf and soldier on.

Never mind that the cocaine was used initially as a painkiller, offering more protection than any referee ever did.

Never mind the glorious, poetic genius that held the world in thrall; what really matters is that he once handled the ball, that he violated the spirit of the game and broke the holy unwritten rules of fair play and decency that his opponents in that one game in 1986 were the unblemished embodiment of.

What's that you say? Bodyline? Never heard of it.

But of course, there's a reason the famous spot-fixing scandal involving the Pakistani players (one of whom a prodigiously talented kid who was never the same since) was such a big story in the cricketing world. It wasn't the fixing itself- which was rife at that point. No; it was the fact that these men from the former colonies had the temerity to come to the Home of Cricket and besmirch their hallowed halls with such unspeakable acts.

Off with their heads! More tea, sire? Jolly good; carry on.

The point to all this is that Diego Armando Maradona was just a normal human being, no more damaged than most of us, but with a gift never seen before or since. We can argue about his demons and we can deconstruct his flaws. We can reflect over how the beautiful game he gave his life to ultimately let him down. We can talk about his choices, his vices, and his pain.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, detracts from the fact that for a brief while he shone brighter than the Mexican sun. 

And the world was all the better for it.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS

This is what happens

when we give fascists political legitimacy,

and let dictators dictate terms and frame policy.

This is what happens

when we couch our outrage in diplomacy,

and use parliamentary language to describe thuggery.

This is what happens

when we use euphemisms like 'social’ organization,

and refer to demagogues as statesmen,

and normalise stigmatization.

This is what happens

when we give repeat offenders the benefit of doubt,

when patterns emerge and we don't call it out,

when we don't raise our voice because we think it's rude to shout.

This is what happens

when we say they're not all like that it's the work of the fringe,

most of them are stable only a few are unhinged,

the city is not burning it's only been singed.

This is what happens

when we let them tinker with our institutions,

and then look on in horror when they come for the constitution.

This is what happens

when we set off a chain of events then pretend there won't be a logical conclusion. 

This is what happens

when we think it's just about meat and who can and cannot eat it,

when we see bigotry unfold and all we do is tweet it,

when we don't learn from the past and we are doomed to repeat it.

This is what happens.

This is what happens.

This is what happens.

We need to talk about: Kabir Singh

I have a confession to make. When I first saw the trailer for Kabir Singh a couple of months ago, a part of me was looking forward to watching it. It looked gritty; had a tortured, self-obsessed character as the main protagonist, and it was being played by Shahid Kapoor- an actor whose body of work has not been as lame as that of your average Bollywood star. 

And then I watched it. 

I was first horrified by it, and then nauseated by the actor and director's attempts to justify it. Nothing they say in its defense can take away from the fact that to my mind this film is (spoiler alert!) unmitigated trash. 

Never mind the fact that it is entirely superfluous (it's common knowledge by now that the film is a frame by frame replica of the original Telugu version); what's truly devastating about it is that if someone were to hypothetically set out to intentionally make the worst possible film for women in our country at this point in our history- Kabir Singh might be it. 

That might sound needlessly hyperbolic, but let's be clear: India in 2019 is not exactly one of the best places for a woman to be. We seemingly reached a nadir in 2012 with Nirbhaya, and last year we topped a global ranking of most dangerous countries for women. Just this month, the Supreme Court of India refused to entertain a plea to make marital rape grounds for divorce. 

On the other hand, in 2018 the #MeToo movement arrived in India and took some powerful men at least a few notches down if not all the way; in Kerala, millions of women stood in solidarity for gender equality forming a “women’s wall” in the wake of the controversy at Sabirimala. There was/is still a long, long way to go, but things appeared to be slowly inching in the right direction. 

And then came Kabir Singh. 

In Indian cinema in general the hero / villain is very much a binary without much room for nuance. Given this, and the fact that the lines between reel and real are notoriously blurry, and the fact that we have a dearth of male role models, and the fact that Shahid is a popular and relatable star, was this film really necessary? 

The answer from those responsible for this monstrosity will be a resounding yes; the film after all has made 300 crores and counting. What may be less easy to count, however, is the number of times the misogyny, delinquency and toxic masculinity being normalised in this film will play a part in everyday acts of violence against women. 

And then there's Shahid Kapoor himself. I always thought that as most artists got older, they made artistic choices that reflected their own growth as individuals. I also, perhaps naively, thought the better ones among them would make art that was a response of some kind to the state of the world around them. 

If Kabir Singh is such a response, it is entirely the wrong one. As a young father to a little girl, would Kapoor be happy for her to be wooed in a few years' time by the kind of man he's immortalized with such panache? I dare say he's significantly increased the odds. 

Bollywood is - and always will be - a source of magic and comfort, and even this year there are plenty of other movies which tell the stories of ordinary men and women- stories that will fill your heart with pride and hope and optimism. India is full of everyday heroes, and Anand Kumar in Super 30 is just one of them.  
But Kabir Singh is one hero India didn't ask for and shouldn't have got.

We need to talk about: Kane Williamson

So much has been written about the New Zealand cricket captain in the aftermath of one of the most dramatic cup finals the sport has ever produced. He's been praised for his calmness under pressure, his grace in defeat and for basically being a near-perfect specimen of homo sapien. 

All of which makes me wonder what might have happened had he walked when he nicked the ball to the keeper in a crucial game against South Africa? Surely then he would have been elevated to the pantheon of the cricketing gods, seated on the left side of Bradman (Sachin’s on the right, obvs) with his blue eyes, immaculate beard and beatific smile? 

But Williamson didn’t walk, and instead went on to score a century and win a key game. And this is probably a very good thing, because it proves he is as human as the rest of us. 

There's no doubt he's a fine leader; and the way he goes about his business, both on the field and off it, suggests that he's a thoroughly decent man. But when he spoke about fine margins that led to their loss in the finals, did he also recall the extra fielder outside the circle when Dhoni was on strike in the semi? 

Admittedly, the manner of their finals defeat (if indeed it can be called defeat) was desperately unlucky. But given their overall performance throughout the tournament, Williamson will likely admit that they were also pretty lucky to have been in the final at all. 

This was a world cup of so many twists of fate - those pesky fine margins again - Brathwaite going for six with a run required just as he did three years ago but this time falling short; Stokes putting those demons of three years ago behind him and finally winning a cup; Guptill breaking India’s hearts by running out Dhoni in the semis only to be run out himself in the final; Dhoni trying valiantly to recreate the glory of 2011 but finding only mortality instead. 

And in the middle of the melee on that singularly dramatic summer evening at Lord's, Williamson stood alone. He looked shell-shocked, but writ across his face was also an acceptance that in sport, just as in life, you win some and you lose some. 

Professional sportsmen and women know this better than most, but it’s a lesson all of us would do well to remember.

A few years ago I was driving on a highway at night in pouring rain when I realised that one of my indicator lamps had blown. Since the driving conditions were pretty poor, I pulled up into the hard shoulder and called roadside assistance. 

About 20 mins later, there was a knock on my window from a mechanic in the familiar high-vis jacket. By this time, the rain had intensified and I could barely make out his face until I stepped out of the car. My only protection against the rain was a light jacket which was clearly not up to the task, so before saying anything else he ran into his van and got an extra jacket. He then handed it to me, shook my hand and said with a smile- Hi, I’m Carl. let's get your indicator fixed, shall we? 

After a few minutes of checking the fuses and wires, he'd figured out the fault but a new bulb was needed. Luckily, he had one. A few more minutes of opening up the casing, fiddling with screws, etc etc, and then he called me over to where he was standing and asked me to hold on to the bulb. 

"Let's do this together!", he said excitedly, and so as he held the casing over the socket to prevent it getting wet, I pushed the bulb in while simultaneously thinking that nobody should be this upbeat when getting soaked by the side of the road at 11 pm. 

“You see!” he exclaimed, as the bulb sparked to life and illuminated the drops of water on his glasses. 
“More hands make light work.”

Even though I haven't made any specific new year's resolutions to curb my smartphone addiction, the other day I had a vision of what life could be like if I did. 

It started out with what I thought was going to be a 10 min trip to the bike shop for a minor repair. Unfortunately, while it was only a few minutes worth of work, there were a few people ahead of me in the queue and it would be about 30 minutes before I could come back and pick it up. 

As I wandered around, I suddenly and unexpectedly found myself in McDonalds ordering chicken nuggets and apple pie (no idea how that happened). I printed out my receipt from the self-service machine and walked up to the counter to join the queue for collection, and while doing so I found myself involuntarily reaching into my jacket pocket for my phone. 

Firstly, I was surprised by how disappointed I was to find out it wasn't there. Secondly, I didn't know what to do with myself. 

After about 2-3 minutes of staring at the screen for my number to appear, I looked around the restaurant. It was a Saturday morning and the place was teeming with people of all ages. A little boy was running between the tables chasing a balloon, while people in their seats playfully punched it just out of his reach. A supervisor was accompanying a new employee out of the kitchen to one of the tills so she could order a meal to eat on her break. The young girl held up her new staff card and pointed up at the menu screen as she made her selection, all the while doing a little dance out of the sheer excitement of it all. 

Meanwhile, my order number finally appeared and I walked to the counter, only to be told the nuggets would be another 10 mins. So back I went to my corner, and watched as a grandfather and grandson collected their trays and shuffled slowly together to a corner booth where the grandmother was waiting with a big smile on her face. 

As I stood there, I realised if I had my phone I may have learned more more about Trump's government shutdown, the latest chapter in the ongoing Brexit saga, and Samsung’s latest folding screen, but I wouldn't have noticed any of the things actually happening around me. Had I really become of one of those people- chasing dopamine hits from notifications, alerts and viral ephemera while the magic of everyday life unfolded quietly around me? 

In the end, I got my nuggets and pie and both were worth the wait. As an added bonus, I got a couple of extra nuggets: officially because I had to wait, but I suspect the fact that I was just standing there, phoneless and looking like a lost puppy, might have had something to do with it... 

Nuggets or no nuggets, maybe it’s time for me to get smarter and my phone to get dumber?

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

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

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

****

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

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

 ****

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

**** 

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

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

**** 

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

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

***

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

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

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

**** 

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

Everything in sync. The natural order of things. 

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

**** 

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

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

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

#FirstMarathon Teaser

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Imaginary Speech Series #2 : Roger Federer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Imaginary Speech Series #1 : Rahul Gandhi

Dear friends, my fellow Indians, brothers and sisters, 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you and Jai Hind.

Back to the Future

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

To witness a sunrise from the inside of a plane is like having a ringside seat for a magic show in slow motion. 

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

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

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

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

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

Magic. The world practically abounds with it.

Pear-shaped Memories

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, yeah, pears. Just wanted to share.

Notes to Sparty #13

Dear Sparty, 

Today you are ONE year old! Time, my sweet little boy, has flown by. (you will probably hear this phrase a lot throughout your life and it’s true. Life can seem long but it is also maddeningly fleeting). It seems like just yesterday we were holding you in the west wing of the OLVG West hospital in the west of Amsterdam and yet, here we are, a whole 365 days since that amazing December morning. 

So much has happened in the meantime. For starters, you’ve grown taller and bigger and you’re almost talking now. A few months ago, you said your first word, and these days you have entire conversations with us using that one word. Soon, the rest of the words will come and then you can finally tell us exactly what it was you wanted on those occasions when you sat bolt upright in bed at 1 am and then refused to go back to sleep. I know it must be frustrating to have these two people just stare at you with no idea what you’re saying, but don’t worry- it’s not going to be a problem for much longer. 

What else have you been up to? Well, in the past few weeks you’ve also grown teeth which we now brush every morning and night. Please make sure you’re always doing this; teeth are really important and eating is not much fun if they’re either hurting or missing altogether (and your dad knows a little about both).  

And! you’re now crawling all over the floor at top-speed and you’ve also learned to stand on your own. You’re trying to walk too, but that’s going to take a little more practice. Then there’s the little dances you do when you play your keyboard, the clapping hands when your favourite song comes on, and the laughs and giggles that you leave in your wake as you move from one terribly important task to the next. 

We’ve also been in planes, boats, trains and cars together. We’ve climbed to the top of cathedrals and dipped your toes in the sea. All in all, it’s been an amazing year. Sure, there’s been a few little bumps in the road (and a couple on your head) but all that’s just part of growing up. There’s been some tears too, but if my rough maths is correct, the smiles have outnumbered the tears by 100-1. In this coming year, we’re going to try and improve that ratio even more. 

You’re fast asleep right now, but when you wake up we’re going to sing you ‘Happy birthday!’ and after your breakfast you’ll be off to nursery to see your friends. Your mum has made little gift bags for them, there’ll be a special crown for you to wear, and there’ll probably be more singing there too. Then once you’re home we’re going to have a little party with a few slightly more grown-up friends, all of whom can’t wait to see you. It’s going to be a lot of fun. 

You won’t remember any of it (don’t worry- we’ll have plenty of photos for you to go through when you’re older) but if there’s one thing you must remember, it is this: You have enriched our lives in more ways than you will ever know. I can’t wait for what lies ahead. 

With lots of love on this special day and always. 

Your dad.

Around 20 years ago (which is my new favourite way to introduce an event from the past without betraying my age), I was spending time with my grandparents while on holiday. I was officially staying with my uncle and aunt, but during the day or in the evenings I would make the short trip over to my grandparent's house and hang out with them before my uncle or someone else came along to pick me up. 

This worked out pretty well until one evening when it was time to leave and I started to say goodbye. I hugged my grandmother before turning around to my grandfather to let him know I was heading off. I think I said ‘see you tomorrow?’ (framed as a question) or something to that effect, at which point he looked up, considered it for a second or two, before shaking his head and making a sound that basically said ‘No’. 

It’s worth mentioning here that my grandfather, who I’ve been told was a fairly quiet man his whole life, had by this time suffered a double-stroke that had left him unable to speak altogether. And so for as long as I knew him (which was nowhere near long enough) his modes of communication were sounds, smiles and twinkles in his eyes. We knew when he was saying yes, but this was a firm No; i.e- I don’t want you to leave. 

I asked him again, thinking maybe he hadn’t heard me properly the first time, and added some extra details like the fact that it was nearly dinner time and I should really get going. But again, it was the same shake of the head plus the sound. At this point, my grandmother stepped in to inform (rather than ask) him that I was leaving. Different phrasing, but still the same reaction. After a few more minutes of trying to make a case for my departure, it was clear my grandfather had come to something of a binding decision in his mind: I was to stay the night at their house. 

‘Is that what it is?’ asked my grandmother, seemingly incredulous that this otherwise somewhat aloof man was suddenly fixated on his grandson’s sleeping arrangements. This time the answer was a vigorous shake of the head and the sound for ‘Yes’. It was done. The man had spoken, in a manner of speaking. 

All these years later, I can still remember sitting back down in my chair and looking over at him as a little smile flashed across his kind face. And I remember feeling a special sort of feeling that I’ve only felt a handful of times since. 

One of those times was a few nights ago when I walked into the room where my son lay sleeping next to his mum. I was there to pick up something and head back out, but before that I leaned in to give the little man a mini-hug. As I did that, his little hand came out from under his own head and made its way around my neck. I could tell he was fast asleep, and yet, the more I pulled away, the tighter his grip got. Finally, as I tried in the dark to pry his hand off, he made a sound that reminded of that same sound all those years ago. Softer, and not quite the same timbre, but similar nonetheless. 

My grandfather had lost his words before I was old enough to talk to him, and my little boy hasn’t found his words just yet. But to be loved and wanted even without words- is there a better feeling than that?

Right Now

Right now, I have a choice. 
I can choose to tell my nihilistic friend where to stick it. 
I can tell cynicism to get his lazy ass off my couch. And then look up my old friend hope and ask if she wants to grab a drink. 
I can stop asking whether an article is genuine, and start being the genuine article. 
Accountable. Consistent. Morally obliged. 
Right now, I can keep dissecting race, or embrace the reality that even though we might look different, we’re all in the same race against time to avoid oblivion. 
It is no longer a problem for future generations. It is a problem for my generation. 
I can keep hating against the press, or keep pressing against the hate, the prejudice and the not-so-normal normal. 
I can keep reading about the latest X, Y, Z-gate or I can instigate my own little scandal. I could call it ‘Today-I started-giving-a-shit-gate’ 
Right now, I can keep talking about ‘them’ and ‘they’ or I can shift the narrative to the first person 
that needs to change- Me. 
I can acknowledge my indifference. 
I can watch from the sidelines or get some skin in the game. 
Right now, I can choose to make my voice heard. Or zone out and go along with the herd. 
I can keep speculating, pontificating and abdicating responsibility, or I can do something. 
Even a small thing. 
Because Small Things Matter. 
And the Ripple Effect is a thing. 
Right now, I can be steered by fear into a corner, or steer clear of the naysayers, the merchants of misery and the prophets of doom. 
I can sit back and watch the livestream of bile and vitriol gush past me or I can try and dam it, goddammit. 
Preferably before it flows into that ocean of negativity, the one where the levels rise higher with Every. Passing. Day. 
Right now, I can keep counting down to some imaginary moment in some utopian future. 
Or I can make this present, actual moment count. 
Because you see, at this precise moment all I have is this precise moment. 
So I can either choose to make a choice, or keep pretending I don’t have one. 
My life depends on it.

A few weeks ago, I remember being a little down. Things were fine on the personal front, but a few things seemed to be happening in the world that brought over a particularly strong tidal wave of negativity. 

Gauri Lankesh, a well-known journalist and activist had been murdered outside her Bangalore home in gruesome fashion. ‘President’ Trump was threatening to pull out of the Paris Agreement on climate change. North Korea was stepping up the war games. Everywhere I looked, the forces of darkness seemed to be gaining ground. 

At around the same time, I went with some work colleagues to volunteer for a day at the Movement Hotel, a project started by a group of not-for-profit organisations here in Amsterdam. Their plan was to create a pop-up hotel run by refugees and professionals together, on the site of a former prison. The goal was to empower asylum seekers through job training and give them an opportunity of a new beginning in the Netherlands. 

While painting walls (badly) and hearing more stories of the people involved, I had a niggling suspicion that the universe was sending me a message. Here I was, being part of a project that was helping to transform a place of sadness and negativity into one that was open, bright and hopeful- complete with pink walls. 

‘Fear can hold you prisoner; hope can set you free’, was the tagline of that great film, The Shawshank Redemption. Over the course of those few hours spent with some truly inspiring people, I realised this was something that I needed to tell myself more often. Every day, I could wake up and decide to stay trapped inside the Shawshank of my own mind, or I could decide to be more hopeful. And not just hopeful in a passive, lazy way, but hopeful in a get-up-and-punch-holes-into-the-darkness kind of way. 

And while it can often seem futile, in the end that beautiful verse from the Good Book puts it best. 'The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it'. 
I’ll take that for now.

I live in constant fear of my worst fears coming to pass. It is not just a mild paranoia or chronic anxiety; it is more like a profound existential dread. The source of this lies not so much in the natural world (though the threats there are by no means insignificant) but rather in the man-made realm. I think about trains, cars and planes, for example, and of elevators, cable-cars and subway systems. I think of bridges and flyovers and underpasses. I even think of boilers and heaters and nuclear reactors, of cranes and pulleys and mechanical levers, and when I think of all these, I mostly think of one thing: catastrophic failure. 

It is a strange obsession, one that I justify to myself as a means to constantly have my guard up- to be prepared at all times like a scout might. And yet, it is at the same time a crippling affliction; a state of mind so negative it is bordering on the macabre. Why does my mind fixate on such things? I’m not really sure. Of course, failure is an inevitability; all systems eventually fail. It is a random event that one plans to perhaps delay, but can never avoid altogether. Everything we make is, in a sense, both fragile and transient just like us, no matter whether it’s brick and mortar, or iron and steel. In the end, cracks appear in everything. 

To live in the midst of these without being at the very least slightly pre-occupied with their decay has always seemed to me a little naive; perhaps even reckless. Of course, to be obsessed to such a degree seems just as foolish, particularly since I can do nothing myself to prevent such eventuality. Still, I continue to spend my time (my fleeting, finite, precious time) seemingly at the edge of imminent destruction. 

My wife reminds me that there’s enough negativity in the world already, and that I should be spending my time spreading goodness, beauty and hope. And instead here I am, casually peddling unfettered panic, blithely tossing the seeds of future phobias into minds that might already be a little frayed just from the compounded exertions of our modern day-to-day existence. For this, I apologise. 

But I hope I have adequately explained my own state of mind. I am actively working on changing it, but I fear there is a core of permanence running through. Perhaps that too might crack eventually; but until then, every time someone tells me about efficiency and built-in redundancy, I remind them about human selfishness and indifference. 

How, I ask them, can we expect our creations to be somehow superior to their creators? No, they are at best merely replicas; at worst, cheap imitations with all our flaws and none of the self-awareness. I remind them also about the story of the King who asked his courtiers to each pour a glass of milk into a large jar over the course of the night and the next morning the jar was full of water because everyone thought everyone else would pour milk and no-one did. This is us. 

And so I think about the things we make; I think about how maybe one more person getting into that lift will cause the cables holding it up to snap, or how one more emergency brake will cause the train to slip off its rails. I imagine myself, in fact, standing and staring at some breathtakingly beautiful thing, maybe like the Eiffel Tower, and thinking just how many more people leaning, climbing, jumping can it take before it keels over. And from there it doesn’t take much for me to imagine myself watching this remarkable human creation come crashing into me and for a few seconds before I am flattened under its weight, I would feel, for maybe the first time in my adult life, complete and utter calm. 
Now that, that would be ironic.

It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon; the sort of afternoon that’s hard to come by these days. It’s also warm, which makes it rarer still. The weather, blackout curtains, and a fan whirring at just the right speed, all make for a heady cocktail. I lie in bed and pretend that the flashing ‘pending’ signs in my head are little mosquitoes and I run around zapping them with one of those electric zappers. They don’t really die, of course, but it’s still a fun exercise. Sort of… 

At some point, the weather outside changes. It’s still warm, but there’s just a bit more stickiness in the air despite the breeze. Someone from a nearby house calls out to their neighbour in Malayalam (even though everyone has mobile phones, there’s nothing quite like having a conversation through the window). 

A scooter of some description is coming down our street; I track its progress by the sound of the engine. The rider honks the horn to announce his identity in advance: it’s the unmistakable sound of the mobile fisherman. If it’s a good catch, that means most likely fried fish for dinner. I can picture it now, golden brown with a dash of lemon and some fresh red onion rings. I marvel at my own capacity to get excited by the smallest things. But then again, fried fish is no small matter. 

On a tree somewhere, a crow appears to caw at nothing in particular. The curtains are still drawn, but the heat seeps in through every crevice, and tiny droplets of sweat seem to form on my arms in the time it takes for the table fan to swing towards the window and back at me. 

Somewhere else, a cow appears to moo at nothing in particular. Or maybe it is directed at the crow who decided to shift its perch from the tree to the cow. Crows are like that sometimes. 

In a couple of hours, it will be tea-time and I’ll be sitting on the porch, blowing into my tea while munching on jackfruit chips and banana fritters and all kinds of other magical, sumptuous things. The air would have cooled down a bit by then, and there’ll be the faintest scent of impending rain. 

My eyelids get a little heavier. Despite the buzzing pending mosquitoes (this imaginary swatter must be defective), I decide to give in and drift off into sun-kissed slumber…. 

When I wake up, my son is trying to clamber over my stomach. I blow into his face and he smiles. His smile has the dazzling quality of a thousand suns. His big eyes seem to look at the world with such hope and optimism, such fierce kindness, it’s almost heartbreaking. Which is not to say it induces sadness; more like a profound sense of gratitude. Such moments are always a reminder of how precious and fleeting life is: a realisation which seems to always be accompanied by a hint of melancholy. 

I lift him to on my stomach and for a few seconds he regards me with the same fascination with which I regard him. And then with another giggle he slides off again; after a brief interlude he is ready to resume his journey through the universe. I close my eyes and listen to his babbling. 

Outside, the sun sinks slowly into the canals. It’s late evening, the time when the whole of Amsterdam - beautiful, charming little Amsterdam- appears to pose for all the waiting cameras. 

Sometimes dreams seem to offer a glimpse into another reality. At other times, reality itself seems like a dream.

I came across this video about Forest Man this week and was reminded of a similar man I knew from when I was growing up in India. I don’t recall all the details, but he was essentially a security guard whose passion seemed to be gardening. And so everywhere he was placed on duty, he would use his time and whatever space was available to plant trees, grow flowers, prune bushes, etc. Every barren landscape he turned his attention to was almost magically transformed into a riot of colour, with plants of every shape and design. 

He was an old man even back then, with unkempt hair and a stubble, but whenever he was gardening he always seemed to be completely at peace with himself and the world. I didn’t know it back then, (and I haven’t quite fully experienced it since) but I guess that’s what finding your passion must look and feel like. 

What if everything we did, we did like that man, and Forest Man, and Menstrual Man, and Mountain Man? What would it do for ourselves and the small corner of the world we occupy? I am always inspired by men and women who give themselves up so completely to something they instinctively recognise as greater than themselves; people who set out not to make a living, but to make a life. 

One day, I hope, I will feel what they feel. I must; for if not, it will all have come to naught.

So if we ended up in an alternative universe where I was able to actually write songs for my son, I think this is what they would look like: 

Exhibit A 

Tether your soul to me,
I will never let go completely 
One day your hands will be 
Strong enough to hold me 
I might not be there for all your battles 
But you'll win them eventually 
I'll pray that I'm giving you all that matters 
So one day you'll say to me - 

I love my life 
I am powerful 
I am beautiful 
I am free… 

I am not my mistakes 
And God knows I've made a few 
I started to question the angels 
And the answer they gave was you 
I cannot promise there won't be sadness 
I wish I could take it from you 
But you'll find the courage to face the madness 
And sing it because it's true… 

Exhibit B 

Don't try to make them love you 
Don't answer every call 
Baby, be a giant 
Let the world be small 
Some of them are deadly 
Some don't let it show 
If they try and hurt you 
Just let your daddy know… 

Now when you go giving your heart make sure they deserve it 
If they haven't earned it, 
keep searching- it's worth it 

For all your days and nights 
I'm gonna be there 
I'm gonna be there, yes I will 
Go gentle through your life 
If you want me I'll be there 
When you need me I'll be there for you 
Go gentle to the light 
I'm gonna be there 
I'm gonna be there, yes I will 
If all your days are nights 
When you want me I'll be there 
Say my name and I'll be there for you 

Robbie Williams. Damn genius.