This is a special announcement. Clocks have now gone back one hour. Please be aware that we will be moving from BST (British Sad Times) to GMT (Grim and Miserable Times)

Goodbye sunshine, hello Seasonal Affective Disorder.

After you've searched far and wide for happiness, imagine for a moment that happiness comes looking for you.
Will you let it in? Or leave it waiting at the door?

Belfast

In a land with forty shades of green
a stream
gently flows, charting an uncertain path
to an unknown destination.

Leaves, autumn's snow, drop
unrushed, into the shallow end
while in the bend,
bubbles pause
to speak in hushed tones.

In the distance, H&W cranes
watch over a city,
while a mother,
getting ever smaller,
but just as constant, no less stoic,
waves in a rear-view mirror.

Somewhere, in a warm corner
of the memory,
there is laughter.

In the air,
thoughts unravel,
while below, a patchwork of fields
stretch out
like a grandmother's quilt,
well-worn,  familiar,
quietly falling apart.

It is only the body that travels, never the heart.

Greetings

While most other life forms in this part of the world are preparing to go into hibernation, I am making my first tentative attempts to emerge out of mine. Until, of course, the clocks go back (which is in roughly two weeks) and whatever little resolve I have will then freeze under an avalanche of snowflakes and thermal underwear. But enough. Before this little island is taken over again, Narnia-like, by a seemingly perpetual winter, let me try and get some words in.

So, where to begin? 

In the last three months, a number of significant events have taken place in my life. I realise that some (if not most) of these will be of little interest to anyone but me, but here is a shortlist anyway (in somewhat random order of significance- in keeping with the beautifully upside-down-inside-out nature of my present condition). Now, on with it- mild frostbite is already setting in.

I married an amazing woman.
I flew for 14 hours non-stop and didn't throw up once. I repeat- I didn't throw up once.
I learned how to tie a reef knot.
I laughed. Loudly. Several times.
I woke up in one continent and went to sleep in another.
I met people who'd last seen me when I was still in diapers and talked funny.
I sang 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' in public with my wife and sister.
My uncle passed away two weeks before he was due to travel to the wedding.
My grandmother's leg prevented her from making the final leg of the journey to the wedding. (the awkward pun is a defense mechanism)
on more than one occasion I experienced, as Colin Firth famously described, 'stirrings somewhere in the upper abdominals which were threatening to form themselves into dance moves'
I carried a baby (not mine) through airport security.
I traveled in an official Government of India car.
I met Bruce Lee. He was moonlighting as a waiter in an Italian restaurant in China.
I married an amazing woman.

That is all for now. I shall keep you posted on the weather front.

Seeing as you're one of only two people I’ve known literally my entire life, I feel as though I know you enough to say what I’m about to say.

There are things to be said about sharing what could be perceived as 'private' thoughts in a 'public' space, but we'll save that conversation for another day.

For now, what I want to say is this-

I don't know whether you're the first person I saw when I peeled my little eyes open for the first time, chances are it was either you or a nurse. It definitely wasn't Dad, because he only arrived a couple of days later, armed with a smile and unrealistic expectations of what a new-born baby was supposed to look like, and compared me to a jaundiced rat.

But this isn't about me, it's about you.

I don't remember lots of things before a certain age, I just know they happened. Like how you used to drop me off at playschool, read me stories, and allow me to put all kinds of crap in your handbag everywhere we went.

Other things I do remember, like the time you took me to the barber just so I could have my hair styled in some ridiculous style that was fashionable at the time. And then we got soaked in the rain on the way back home and I cried because my ridiculous style was ruined and you spent an hour trying to recreate it for me.

And the time you took me to buy football shoes and you let me have the expensive ones even though they weren't that much better than the cheaper ones and then you carefully poured wax along the stitching so they would last longer. They didn't last all that long but the memories, those last forever, you don't need wax for those. I remember them like it was yesterday.

And then as we got older and bigger, and you got older and smaller, there were other things. Like the countless times you carried those massive tins of flour from the chakki even though they seemed to get heavier with each trip. And those big bags from the vegetable market that you hauled all the way up the hill because we were too busy being busy to help. I also remember the time I woke up in the middle of the night because I had a nightmare that involved you not being around anymore and you sat up with me and explained the concept of death as best you could to a 12 year old. And then soon after, even when things were difficult, you stayed strong and got on with it with a combination of grace and fortitude, that I still, after all these years, struggle to comprehend, but will always admire you for. And even when you were weak that was ok because sometimes it takes a special sort of strength just to show weakness.

You are my rock, my ever-present guiding light, a light that never seems to diminish with time but instead grows brighter with every passing day. You are amazing in every possible way. And never let anyone tell you otherwise.
I love you mum.

“Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity"

- Henry Van Dyke

A big shout-out to my friend Shane Sandhoefner, who a year and a half ago pulled this poem from out of his shirt pocket and read it out at my farewell meal in Cambridge. And with whom I met up again last week on a boat in Richmond. I hope to see you again soon, my cricket-loving, Bob Dylan-quoting, Shawshank Redemption-watching friend.

In the meantime, here it is- a damn fine poem on a..umm.. damn fine subject.

My Time with the The Ajay

We met in Cheltenham Spa
which seems unlikely on the face of it,
but is i suppose only as unlikely as meeting
anyplace, in a certain sense.

He tried his luck at fleeing,
but i caught up and sat right by him.
The past makes a sound much like
the gentle hiss of a heating vent.

Mondays and Fridays were the heaviest-
we renamed assets till our eyes were numb
and fiddling with the feisty pair-split,
bu by god, in the end they fit like a glove.

Parth couldn't tell my voice from his,
which presumably led them to think
it was actually me who came to visit,
me they took out to dinner.
Abdul sent me his best wishes,
and now Vaibhav thinks I'm the one going to Pearson.

The Ajay taught me cricket,
you've got to grip it and rip it-
and we did so at a local park,
where The Ajay nicknamed me Parth,
which added to the general confusion
especially for Charlie and Dawn.
So i nicknamed him Shane,
but it never quite caught on.

We all saw him at karaoke.
He sat down and was suddenly
straight from the 1970s,
almost put his arm around me
with his feet tapping along
to Lola, or some other song,
and we finally sang us some Dylan
because we're both like rolling stones.
We're always moving and spinning
downhill, we're like gravitational poems.

The world is draped and limited
in strange ways, and the words stay
just a few centimetres from
the tips of our tongues.

But we can still smile softly
at the familiar shapes,
these ever-numbered days,
and laugh thinking
that some things hang around,
like an ink stain on a thumb.

I am my Dad, who ran the last kilometre of my first half-marathon with me,
just to see me cross the finish line.
I am my Mum, who makes sure I’m wearing fresh socks,
but loves me even when I'm not, which is almost all the time.

I am my Ammachy, who taught me -with modest success- to speak up,
and my Appacha, who taught me the magical properties of silence.

I am Johnycha, who signed the first cheque for my university degree,
Mathewcha, who got two speeding tickets to drive me there,
and Maavan, who drove 200 miles to bring me back
(after another bout of flying fever).

I am Sushil, who has become used to giving up half his room,
with- what he must by now consider- alarming regularity (liberties, bruv).
And also Santosh, to whom I didn't repay the favour,
leaving him to curl up instead on the floor of my cold flat,
wearing two layers of clothes and a hoodie.

I am my brother Vijay, who called me achacha maybe once,
my little sister Sujaya, who called me it five times,
(and has long since swapped it for more colourful terms of endearment)
and also Hannah and Rachel,
who call me it whenever their Dad is in the room.

I am Gisamama, who has my specific medicational needs covered,
Anniemama, whose knowledge of Mumbai Marathi comes in handy,
and Liz, who will (hopefully) service my lifetime dental plan.

I am Maavi, who still considers me young enough to buy presents for (hint, hint)
and Shantamama, who gamely endured me every summer for many years,
when my brother and I would descend on Karikattoor,
and then proceed to soak the chicken feed in kerosene,
and break her hanging flower pots
(while making sure to fling the incriminating evidence into the nearby field).

I am Bobbycha, who made the first cricket bat I ever owned,
and Jobycha, who meticulously painted and varnished it.
I am Babuchayan, who repaired everything I broke or tore,
(but couldn't do much about the flowerpots).

I am Anil, who drove a white toy police car across Ammachy's lawn,
and Sunil, who drove a slightly more imaginary one in Pune,
(mainly by carrying around a large rubber washer and making engine sounds).

I am every single individual separately, and all of them together, all at once.

I am who I am because of everyone.

Sachin's Dilemma

So the wait is over, the ton of tons has finally arrived. It is a staggering milestone, a cricketing Everest that may never be scaled, on par with Don Bradman's 99.94 average. Or maybe it will, who is to say? It may well be conquered just by virtue of its presence- it is now a target, an opportunity to dream the impossible dream, and on another day, another man may flirt with immortality. But until then, it will stand there, gloriously out of reach, a reminder of a time when giants mingled with men on a cricket field.

So now what? At what cost has the quest reached its conclusion? Does Sachin walk away now and prove beyond doubt this was his sole motivation to keep hauling himself out onto the field of play after that glorious April evening in Mumbai when he held the World Cup aloft? Or does he persist despite the lengthening shadows, raging against the fading of the light, ignoring not just his creaking body but an increasingly disenchanted public? At what point does the Master start to overstay his welcome? And who will tell the Emperor he's not wearing any cricket whites?

The photo encapsulates his dilemma. While the one fan stands with folded hands in awe and reverence, waiting expectantly for another miracle, the other looks like he just wants the noise to stop. Both must be voices in Sachin's head, both louder now than they've ever been.

Which one will he listen to?

Every three or four days a week, i take my place alongside other bleary-eyed commuters on the eastbound Picadilly line heading into Central London.

I flick through the morning paper and wait for the inevitable announcement that begins with the words 'We apologise for the delay, but...'

But most days, i also think.

I think about how much more attractive people seem the moment they smile.
I think about whether my shoes are too red and whether they're sending out the right message about me.
I think about where I've been and where I'm headed (apart from eastbound on the Picadilly line)

Most of the time, however, my mind is occupied with one single recurring thought-

Is it worth it?

When I was a child, i thought the Snooze button on my alarm clock actually paused time.

Now as a slightly older child, i no longer think this. But at approximately 7 o'clock every morning, i wish more than ever it was true.

So after a week of lying flat on my back, drifting between delirium and despair, and puking my guts out- I'm back in the land of the living. But only just.

Miss me?

Dear M25

I love you, but please sort your life out.

Life is short enough without my having to sit for hours on end in my car, staring at the number plate of the car in front and imagining I am on Countdown (it's a really lame version of the game, and I can never get words longer than three letters) I mean, come on- I’ve seen cars move quicker on a production line.

Also, what is up with all the cameras? I almost feel like a celebrity on a red carpet; except of course the road isn't red, and, (no offense) not nearly as smooth as a carpet.

I know it's not all bad. Perhaps I'm being a bit harsh. For instance, it's great that you're getting wider. It appears to be a slow and painful process, but the last thing we need is for you to start downsizing like everything (and everyone) else these days. Also, you have a sense of humor. for e.g., every time I see this message on one of your screens: JUNCTION 15, 16 MILES, 18 MIN, it makes me laugh so hard that sometimes I spill my coffee all over myself because it almost always takes me about 500 MIN to get anywhere near JUNCTION 15. Also, that bit where you have a 50 mph average speed limit on the one section of the road where people can actually move faster than 30 mph? That’s hilarious, really.

And then there are those times, every once in a while, when you- with sparkling streetlamps hanging around you like a necklace- seem to almost glow in the pale light of the setting sun. Those are the times when everything seems right with the world, the road seems to rise up to meet my little car, and, for a few glorious moments, it feels like just you and me.

I think we'll be ok, the two of us. I'm not really looking for a long-term relationship at this point, but we could definitely get along and maybe see where the road leads? I'm just worried that if we don't work out our little issues, we could end up going round in circles. Or one big circle.

See you tomorrow.

If you're reading this, that means you're alive.

Whatever your circumstances, whatever else is going through your head right now, that is the single most important fact of your present situation.

These precious moments- make them count.

Despite death being the only certainty in life, why do we still insist on living like we're going to be around for ever?

Another gem from Seth Godin:

Once the water is deep enough that you must swim to stay afloat, does it really matter how deep the pool is?

Dear NY Times

Thank you for your letter stating that you are rejecting the poem I sent for inclusion in the Arts section of your esteemed publication.

I regret to inform you, however, that after careful consideration, I have decided that I will not be taking your rejection personally and my enthusiasm for writing is in no way diminished by this latest development.

Your letter has been retained for my records and will, in compliance with my own personal policy on this sort of thing, be destroyed in 6-8 weeks, or when I next clear my desk, whichever occurs earlier.

Once again, I wish to thank you for taking the time to write to me and I wish you good luck for all future rejection of my work.

With best wishes.

My Medium-sized Resolution

So on day 2 of the New Year i learned that i am no longer a Medium shirt size. I am now, at least according to the label on the Hollister shirt, a Large Dude. (steady, ladies) Things were further complicated by the fact that i was a Small at NEXT. (I’m going to have to treat that as an aberration)

So, having initially decided that i was not making any resolutions, i have now resolved to strive to become a Medium Dude. And just to show that i mean business, i actually bought the Medium shirt which, at some point this year, will fit like a glove. Don't hold your breath, though. I'll be the one doing that. (chances are, that's the only way it will fit)

Tip for the month: If you’re trying to squeeze into a shirt, buttons are not your friends.

Tip for the year: The quest to be Medium is not to be confused with the quest to be Average. That’s a mistake I’ve often made.

Happy New Year.

It's important to look forward, but also to look back to see how far you've come. The only problem is that you can't do both at the same time.

So, as 2012 rolls around, which one is it going to be?

A quote for the end of one year, and the start of another

I find I'm so excited, I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it's the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain. I hope I can make it across the border. I hope to see my friend and shake his hand. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope.

- Ellis Boyd 'Red' Redding (last lines from Shawshank Redemption)

Two songs...

...which I'd forgotten how much i loved about ten years ago. and love just as much now.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free



-------------
The space between
The tears we cry is the laughter that keeps us coming back for more
The space between
The wicked lies we tell and hope to keep safe from the pain
Will I hold you again?

The Three Stages of Life

1) You believe in Santa Claus.
2) You don't believe in Santa Claus.
3) You are Santa Claus.

For my sister on her 21st birthday

Seems like just yesterday
you were reaching
for my ear lobe
or the wrinkled skin
around my elbow, (whichever was closer)
while sucking
your two middle fingers
and leaving tooth marks
that eventually developed
into what, I remember thinking
at the time, would be permanent scars.

Of course, they weren't really permanent,
were they? Because they've gone,
along with every other visible sign of your childhood.

You went:

from kicking at the air
in front of strangers
with tiny chubby feet
by way of greeting,
to donning
skinny jeans that
seem perpetually in danger
of being not quite long (or skinny) enough.

from dimpled chin
to pimpled skin in a heartbeat,
And yet, now your face
shines with a resplendent grace;
your kohl-lined eyes being just
about the only features I recognise
from old photographs.

It’s one of those things I can't explain,
You seem so different and yet the same.

I guess you just Grew Up without telling me.

One of these days
you should come round.
Try and make it for a Sunday,
We can go to the fairground.

We can hold hands,
buy some popcorn to share.
I'll knock down some tin cans
and try and win you a bear.

When we get really cold,
we'll drink some mulled wine.
And when we're really old
we can think back to the time
when all we needed
was a Sunday at a fairground
to make us happy.

I don't know about you, but at some point over the course of my professional career, I would like to sit in on a meeting where one of the following phrases is not used:

pedal to the metal/ rubber meets the road
gaining traction
gathering momentum
the upshot is...(my personal favourite)
back to the drawing board
going forward
at the end of the day

This is by no means an exhaustive list, but i'm exhausted just typing these. The wait for a meeting without one of them continues. I'm not holding my breath.

Because, at the end of the day...

Wood, steel and skin
he said,
were the three things
that made
the sound seemingly
take on a life
of its own, and meaning
like so many words
unsaid;
that, and the strings
that he picked apart
like thread, each
one vibrating with a sense
of its own unique purpose.










Wood, steel and skin
and a boy, alone,
making a sound
come alive
as though it were
made of
blood, flesh and bone.

And I,
watching it take flight
until it disappears from sight.

Soumik Dutta played the Sarod at Clare Hall, Cambridge. Summer 2010.

No offense, 2011,...

...but i think I'm about ready for 2012 now.

Mirage

Somewhere between the prison
and the sea,
she waits, my love.
Faced with choices she shouldn't
need to have to make,
my love.

In the distance,
a roving beam of light
casts shadows across the bay,
turning sand dunes into
the humps of a hundred
camels.

The lights of the old factories
blink,
on and then off,
in silent morse code;
while wisps of smoke rise
triumphantly from giant
cigarettes and disappear
into the moon.

All around her, life goes on;
but tonight
she stands alone under the stars
and waits,
faced with choices she shouldn't
need to have to make,
my love.

Yesterday my life flashed before my eyes.
But i was busy so I recorded it to watch later.

Besides, there's always eye player.

Aisle 13

She was rummaging through the 'Reduced to Clear' section.
He was shaking squash bottles and placing them back on the shelves
(because he didn't like the look of sediment at the bottom.)

They ended up talking about how they put the blue in blue cheese,
and the general over-use of the word please.

At the checkout, he bagged her shopping and bragged about his taste in wine.
Her 14 items totaled £ 8.79.

"Every little helps", she said, and shook her head from side to side.
He smiled and they left together for the Park and Ride.

On the way, she opened a tub of yoghurt and licked the lid.
not quite happy ever after though; they split before the milk did.

I'm odd; you're even.
Together, we're slightly uneven.
In hindsight, it was never quite right; 
I suppose we were never going to fit.
I'm a ball, but you're no socket.
You're a small hand, and I'm a deep pocket.

Still, who knows?
You can swing, I can shuffle,
Who's to say we can't dance our way 
out of circumstance?
I'll give it a go if you give it a chance.
Go on, one more go, if you give it a chance.

Solitary Oyster...

...is off to go and be solitary. Will be back soon. Maybe.

The Question I Wish I Asked Ms Roy

Two weeks ago when Arundhati Roy floated into a room in London to enthusiastic applause, I sat and gaped like a star-struck schoolboy. There she was, the woman who wrote the book that I've loved more than almost every other book I've read. The woman who achieved Big Things with the God of Small Things. There she was, a vision in lime green, glowing with the sort of grace and charisma that turns nearly-thirty-year-old men into, well, star-struck schoolboys.

Over the next hour, words seemed to come dancing out of her mouth in sentences so delicious you could almost eat them. Sentences that weren't anywhere near as clumsy (and creepy) as that last one. But anyway... my point is, if I hadn't felt like I suddenly needed to learn the English language again (starting with the alphabet), and if I had gathered enough courage to ask for the microphone, and if I had managed to close my mouth and re-open it long enough to actually speak in a coherent manner, and if I could have decided in my head exactly how I was going to address her; if all these things actually happened (and is it any surprise that they didn't?) then this is what I would have asked:

Dear Arundhati/Ms Roy/Mrs Roy/Ma'am,

If you don't mind, I'd like to read a line from a book you might recognise (and at that point I would have held up my copy of The God of Small Things which I had taken along specially for the occasion).

'Ammu,’ Chacko said, his voice steady and deliberately casual, ‘is it at all possible for you to prevent your washed-up cynicism from completely colouring everything?'

I'm not suggesting, of course, that anything you said here today contained any cynicism, whether washed-up or of any other variety. I am worried, though, that cynicism may turn out to be the only natural response to the events taking place in that incredible country we call home. To the point where it becomes a sort of defense mechanism. I worry that our fierce love for India will somehow morph into an equally fierce disenchantment. And that we will, like Ammu, fail to see all that is still truly magical about it. I worry that we will reach a stage where we believe our Humpty Dumpty Broken Republic will never be put together again. That what we've lost will never be recovered.
That we will never again know Love, Hope, Infinite Joy.

Because is it even possible for a country to unsell its soul?

PS- I love you.

People never die, they're just playing hide-and-seek with the rest of us. And they've found the best hiding place ever. They give us little clues along the way, reminders that they haven't really gone anywhere and that we shouldn't stop looking. So they seem to jump out at us every once in a while- when that one song plays, when you hear their voice on an old voicemail message, catch a glimpse of their picture, or read a letter they wrote before the hide-and-seek began.

"I'm here", they seem to say, "you're getting warmer". And then one day we will finally find them and they'll come out of their hiding place and ask us how we never saw them even though they could see us the whole time. And we'll have to admit that some things you just can't explain. Like how you can feel someone's presence without actually seeing them. And how even after so much time has passed, they look exactly the same. And then it's our turn to hide.

One day I will find you, my friend. Until then, rest in peace.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do. It's not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own lights shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

- Timo Cruz in Coach Carter (2005)

Songs often have the magical capacity to permanently store memories that you thought were lost forever, only to release them when you're least expecting it. They're not always good songs, and not always good memories.

But everyone once in a while, you get both. Like I did today.

Tick tock, tick tock...

This year's already been significant for several reasons, despite the fact that we're only about four months in. My dad's turned 60, my sister's just turned 21. This blog is five and in a few months i will be, erm..., 25. India's won the World Cup. And I’m packing my things into boxes, in preparation for another move.

Meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking. It's only at times like this, when you momentarily stop to catch your breath, that you hear it. The passage of time is a grim inevitability and no amount of cheerful cuckoo clocks can alter the fact. I've often wondered why people say they're killing time, when in truth it's always the opposite. Time's the one killing you. You try everything you can to outrun it, but in the end it catches up. Sometimes it's a like a pick-pocket, stealing second after valuable second while you're busy looking the other way; at other times it jumps out at you from out of nowhere, turns your hair grey and leaves you for dead.

On the plus side, it's almost summer; the season that somehow makes things seem alright, the one season that somehow manages to suggest that dreams, however implausible they might seem, may just come true.

Everything (and everyone) looks better in the sun.

Video of the week #1

From a purely comedic standpoint, it has to be said that this would have been a LOT less funny if the kid had a t-shirt on.

A Final Note on the Cricket World Cup

This is for all those who thought the Australians were too clinical, the Pakistanis were too gifted, the Sri Lankans were too familiar with the conditions and the big occasion.

For those who thought the Indians did not have the stomach for a fight, that we would take the role of host nation to its natural conclusion and let one of our guests walk away with the trophy. Because that's the Indian way.

This is for all my jaded, battle-weary friends who thought bleeding blue and feeling blue amounted to the same thing.

This is for the cynics, the non-believers, the ones who assumed disappointment lurked just around the corner but now find it was actually glory all along. For those who are still somehow surprised that a group of talented, motivated, well-prepared individuals actually achieved something on a global stage. Yes, they won. And yes, it means you can, and should, win too. Deal with it.

This is for all those who would struggle to name half the Indian squad but now have Sachin's smiling face on all their Facebook profiles. This victory is yours too, of course it is, but remember to wave the flag even when the chips are down. Especially when the chips are down.

This is for Suresh Raina, who, when asked whether Ashwin's absence would hurt India's chances against Pakistan, answered in just three words - "I am there". For Dhoni, who said "Banish Pain" in a slick Nike ad campaign but then went out and banished it for real. For Yuvraj Singh, who, for once, echoed the thoughts of Indians everywhere when he said "Tonight is going to be a good night", after the win. For Sachin; special, special Sachin, whose smile alone was enough to light up the Mumbai sky. Who still, after 22 years, plays every game like it's his first. For Virat, Munaf, Zak, Bhajj, Viru, Ashwin, Nehra, Gautam, Yusuf, Chawla, even Sree. You did it.

But most of all, this is for India; that magical, maddening, jigsaw-puzzle of a country, that today celebrates as one.

Jai Hind.

My problem with Facebook...

...is two-fold.

Firstly, everyone is on there. Which probably doesn't sound like a problem at all. Surely it’s great to have everyone I've made even passing acquaintances with in the past two or so years, all one place, nicely stacked up alphabetically, with pretty pictures to remind me of what they look like? Well, yes. But then again, no. Because all that's happening now is that everyone goes into a pile- and the more people get added to the top, the more the rest at the bottom get lost under the near-constant stream of status updates, photo-uploads and daily horoscopes. On more than one occasion, I've logged in specifically to send a message to someone in particular, and then logged out 30 minutes later without having gone anywhere near either his wall or ceiling. This probably says more about my own attention spans than Facebook itself, but I have a niggling feeling that there is more information on a daily Newsfeed than an average human of normal intelligence can hope to fully process in one lifetime.

“But that's what filters are for”, I can hear you yelling, while angrily waving your optical mouse. To which all I can say is- “Calm down, let go of the mouse, and no-one is going to get hurt.” With the rodent- related crisis successfully averted, I will add that surely there comes a point in any social medium when even all the filters you can think of will not make one iota of difference. Allow me to present Exhibit 1: Log into You Tube. Type in ‘laughing baby’ in the search field. Change the Upload Date filter to - This Month. See you in ten years.

My second problem is that it's making me lazy. When you're pretty lazy to begin with, this is a big problem. So where earlier I would take an active interest in my friend's lives, now I just passively keep up with them by flicking through pictures of their new car or kitten. This is fine by itself, but- and I am sure there is an economic theory about this- the more information I am bombarded with, the more likely it is I will miss something. Again, I have the niggling feeling there are more important things going on with my friends than their preferred shade of nail polish. Maybe there isn't, and maybe it's just me, but the niggling feeling persists.

This is made even worse by one simple fact- nothing of real value ever falls into your lap. Or an inbox. The most treasured friendships are always (or at least very often) the ones you have to work at maintaining, ones you consciously make time for. The best stories or articles are usually the ones I seek out and discover myself, instead of linking to them from a forward or RSS feed. The most interesting events take place in the real world, in real life, not in Farmville. Surely we're missing out?

“But..!”, I can see you thinking again, “Surely it's way more efficient to do it this way, because if I was to send a personal message to one friend per day, it would take me six months to get through my list. And that's without even replying to the replies.” To which I would be tempted to say- “Ha! You only have 150 friends?! What are you, a loner?”- but I wouldn't say it, because I don't have that many more than you, and I would like to add you to my list. And then we can keep in regular touch, mainly by exchanging pokes.

And so for one closing thought: If I think it's bad for these two main reasons and possibly loads more, what is Facebook good for? Well, for one thing, I could now take this well-constructed piece of socio-cultural analysis and stick it on my profile, where it will instantly be in the virtual faces of about 500 people. Which is approximately 500 more than the number of people who will see it here. Question is, do I really want to add one more item to that wonderful Newsfeed and deprive all those people the immense pleasure they will undoubtedly feel if and when they find this on their own?

Decisions, decisions.

The Sound of Silence

"a roaring river of rubble; an entire town lies in ruins..."
"a cascade of cars, bobbing like rubber ducks in an endless bathtub..."

These were just a couple of the statements used by solemn-voiced television reporters last Friday as the world's eyes turned to Japan. I am all for a turn of phrase, but when juxtaposed against images of a terrible tragedy, the words just seemed absurd and contrived. It was clear what was happening, we get it, was there really a need to put on this kind of literary-style commentary as well, just in case we missed something?

As my uncle and I flicked through the channels, the lines between reality and fantasy appeared to blur. The visuals had taken on the look of a mid-budget Hollywood production. Ground shots, aerial shots, shots from the inside of a building, from under a desk. And the commentary seemed to get more and more ridiculous. "You've seen this view" they seemed to say, "but have you seen this one? How about this one?", and on it went.

Finally, we stopped at one particular channel. And we looked at each other in amazement. There was no commentary. In fact, there was no sound at all. All they had was footage, with a ticker at the bottom of the screen summarising the unfolding events. What else was there to say?

I remember a friend once telling me about an orthodox Jewish tradition where the only response to tragedy or intense grief is - silence. Similarly, the Bible tells the story of Job's friends coming to visit him in the midst of his suffering. When they realised the full extent of their friend's plight, they were so saddened that they sat with him for three days- and said absolutely nothing. They knew that there are some voids that words- however well-intentioned- can never hope to fill.

In the 24/7 world of 'info-tainment', however, there is simply no time for silence. One person's world unexpectedly shattering is another's breaking news.

Last week I learnt...

That saying hello to a bird (a real bird, with feathers and wings and things) and having it say hello back is ridiculously satisfying. Especially when you didn't know it was the sort of bird that did that.

Me to friend: I've always had a way with birds. They get me.
Friend to me: That's cos you're on the same wavelength, birdbrain.

Yup, walked into that one.

And the Aaascar goes to...

Meanwhile, away from the cricket field, it was a close contest between Aishwarya Rai and Mallika Sherawat this week for the Outstanding American Accent Award.

In the end, though, it was Mallika all the way.
It's Baallywood, baby...!

http://movies.ndtv.com/playvideo.aspx?id=192183&type=oscars

(Please click the link; I insist.)

The strange case of Shanthakumaran Sreesanth

As much as I don't want to seem like I’m defending him, it appears these days the guy just can't catch a break. You know things are messed up when your own teammates - including your captain - start slagging you off to the press. His reputation, while entirely of his own making, now well and truly precedes him.

While there is no doubt that he needs to tone the aggro down *several* notches, by trying to beat him into submission the team management risk throwing him off his entire game. Trouble is, that way, nobody wins. He will go the same way as Irfan Pathan (albeit for slightly different reasons) and Team India will end up losing their best swing bowling hope since, well, Irfan Pathan.

And let's be honest, how many fast bowlers have there been that aren't at least slightly nuts? Akhtar? Check. McGrath? (more cold-blooded assassin than all-out nutcase, but still- check.) Donald? Check. Almost every insanely quick West Indian? Check.

When he's not making psychiatrists reach for their notebooks, Sreesanth is (according to Wikipedia) a student of psychology himself. Maybe that will help sort himself out.

Didn't work for me, but you never know.

This time

This time, we hope the exploits of 1983 will finally be equaled.
This time, we hope the shame of 1996 may be cast aside.
This time, we hope the disappointment of 2003 will be forgotten.
This time, we hope the ghosts of 2007 will be exorcised.

This time, we hope the image of Sachin Tendulkar holding the World cup aloft under a floodlit Mumbai sky will be the defining image of our times; and that our kids will grow up with it rubber-stamped on their minds, like Kapil's image on ours.

This time. We hope. Again.

The Good Stuff

My favourite family trip is one we didn't actually go on.
And I mean that literally, not as a mildly philosophical reflection. The year was 2004. We arrived at the train station to travel to a wedding the next day, with a few days of holiday added on. For a change, we were an hour early. For those who know us well, that would have come as a particularly surprising bit of detail. Yes, you read that right: we were an hour early. So we found a bench, watched mice run along the tracks, and chatted till our train arrived. It was 10 pm.

When the train pulled in, it was mostly dark, and the only people stirring were the ones about to get off. Everyone else was comfortably asleep, even the passengers in our berths. We checked the numbers again and, yes, they were definitely our berths (who were these people? not just sitting in our seats, sleeping in them!) So as my dad and I proceeded to gently prod them to life while also moaning about the state of the Indian Railways (which, we both agreed, suffered from the same problem as the rest of the country- i.e. a worrying lack of berth control), somebody checked the passenger list stuck beside the door. Our names weren't on there. Surely there was some mistake? Maybe this was the wrong carriage? Checked again, not on there. And so off we got, before waking up any more passengers - sleeping peacefully in their rightful seats- for no reason whatsoever.

And there we stood, huddled around a sheet of dot matrix printed paper stuck to a train that was about to pull away into the night, wondering how not even one of our five names were on there. Surely this new computerised system wasn’t that bad? We looked at the tickets again. And this time checked the date. And then the date on the screen above. Our tickets were for the previous day. We hadn't been one hour early. We were 23 hours late.

Still, looking back at it now, there was something about those sixty minutes spent at the train station and the approximately sixty seconds spent on the train. Sure, we were going to miss the wedding. And of course, we couldn't really tell people exactly why we were going to miss it (at least, not for another seven years, after which I was going to put it up on this blog, and even then it's not like anyone’s going to actually read it on here).

But the fact remained that we had just found ourselves in a ridiculous situation. Together. And despite the fact that family life is, for the most part, a series of ridiculous situations, this was a shared experience that we were unlikely to forget. Which is just as well, because the five of us have never been together on a railway platform since.

Point is, sometimes the stuff you think is getting in the way of good stuff is the good stuff. I suspect that even my mum, who had inadvertently booked our tickets for the previous day, will smile every time she thinks of this. And so will the rest of us.

Wedding or no wedding, that's the kind of thing you just can't put a price on.

Your moment is waiting, honest

This is the latest film by Kerala Tourism to promote God's Own Country which i came across at some point last year and I stumbled upon again a few days ago. I'm still not sure what i think about it though. It's clearly an ambitious attempt to depart from the cliched coconuts-ayurveda-backwaters formula, but I suspect God himself might struggle to recognise his country as depicted in this super-slick art-house production.

And if He is (for argument's sake) scratching his head over this one, what will the average western traveller, at whom this campaign is presumably aimed, make of some of the images? Or is there an exclusive group of theatre-going, gin and tonic-drinking travellers out there who will 'get' this kind of thing? I don't know. Have a look for yourself.

As for me, I can't get past the whiff of dull sophistication. Maybe i just miss the coconuts.

Time to start writing... (again)

This week's motivation to get off of my hindside and do something came from a blog post from Seth Godin. If you haven't heard of him, you should check him out at http://sethgodin.typepad.com/

--------------------------------
In and out

That's one of the most important decisions you'll make today.

How much time and effort should be spent on intake, on inbound messages, on absorbing data... and how much time and effort should be invested in output, in creating something new.

There used to be a significant limit on available intake. Once you read all the books in the college library on your topic, it was time to start writing.

Now that the availability of opinions, expertise and email is infinite, I think the last part of that sentence is the most important:

Time to start writing.

Or whatever it is you're not doing, merely planning on doing.
--------------------------------

There's a lot of things I'm merely planning on doing, but i think at this point writing is pretty high up on the list. So, thanks, Mr. Godin.

I'd better get on with it now.

Dear Sun

This morning I watched your desperate fight to emerge from between the clouds. It appears your months of being stifled and smothered into submission are almost at an end.

I applaud your efforts to rise up against those caped and hooded villains of winter. We missed you and hope that you continue to wage the battle that we all, in some way or another, wage every day.

Take comfort from the fact that history and poetry, to name but two things, are on your side. Just like evil is eventually vanquished by good, darkness is always overcome by light. Your victory is in sight.

So rise and shine already.

** News Flash **

Due to a fortuitous and heady combination of intent and new internet, this blog is coming out of retirement for one last shot at greatness.

Please bear with me while I take calls from my agents, publicists and an expectant public. Normal serice will resume soon after.

In the meantime, bookmark, sign-up, subscribe. At the very least, let out a little whoop. All together now...

Happy New Year.

Postscript

That last bit about Bob Dylan's rendition of Little Drummer Boy (which I'm assuming you enjoyed) was post number 100.

A hundred posts in about three-and-a-half years is, by all accounts, a pretty dismal output. Nevertheless, it's still a milestone and any milestone is worth celebrating. Maybe I'll wear my santa hat and have a mince pie.

It is also a good time, perhaps, to call it a day. Thanks for pushing and prodding this little blog along. For commenting, sharing, or just coming along for the ride. But above all, thanks for reading. For validating its existence. Tomorrow's stories await another voice.

Merry Christmas. And a Happy New Year.

One more Dylan post...

...last one for this year, I promise.

'Little Drummer Boy' is probably my all-time favourite Christmas song (despite the occasional mildly traumatic school nativity play flashback) and Bob Dylan sings it like it's never been sung before. Does anyone else think he's perfect for this song? Yeah, yeah, I know it's 'little' drummer boy, but there's no need to get all literal about it...

Just when I thought I'd heard it far too many times, Dylan's rasping voice makes this timeless classic seem 'cool' again. That, and one of the most quirky, off-beat videos you're likely to have seen all year. But don't just take my supremely biased word for it, check it out. pa rum pum pum pum.

Madness

Oddly enough, my watch stopped working yesterday.

Going Underground

The travelling circus is coming to town,
Plenty of freaks and I'm the clown,
Mind the gap please, mind the gap-
I'm going Underground.

*Alight here for New Zealand and the Royal Albert Hall*

*Ladies and gents, this train will not be stopping at the next station. This is due to planned engineering works that I was not aware of.*

(Girl on phone): Did you see his face when I glassed him?
(Assumed response): No, what was it like?
(Girl on phone): I dunno, I wasn't looking, was I?

*There is a good service on all lines on the London Underground today except where there is a bad service.*

(Same girl on phone): Wat u wearing 2nite luv?..I'm worried mine's ova-da-top... yeh, it's a dress, like, what u call da type of thing dat goes round your neck?
"A noose?" I offer, hopefully.

My mind wanders.
The girl in the next seat catches me reading her texts in the reflection in the window.
She shoots me a look.
Oh, for a book.

The travelling circus is coming to town,
Plenty of freaks and I'm the clown,
Mind the gap please, mind the gap-
I'm going Underground.

Christmas is coming...

...and for the first time ever, Bob Dylan is ringing it in. That's right, the greatest songwriter of our times is singing Little Drummer Boy on his latest album. 'Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum, on my drum (and guitar. and harmonica)'

I haven't heard Christmas in the Heart yet; I'm having too much fun just reading some of the reviews. Here's an excerpt from one of them:

"Whereas most vocalists might prepare to record by getting plenty of rest and sipping warm tea with honey and lemon, Dylan sounds as if he just closed down the bars in Bethlehem with the Three Wise Men and then smoked some frankincense and myrrh as a nightcap." Heh.

My favourite piece though, is this part-review, part-worship-at-the alter. Always somewhat comforting to come across a kindred spirit.

And of course I'm going to buy it. It's Dylan. I would probably pay just to hear him breathe heavily on an album. Besides, he's not making a dime from this one, all proceeds go to charity. So there you go. Greatness for a good cause.
pa rum pum pum pum.

Mistaken Identity

A friend of mine mailed me earlier today asking if the person giving the talk below was me. Given that he hasn't seen me in a while, I can only guess it was the name or the sparkling wit that caused the misunderstanding. Either way, I can confirm it isn't me.

Despite that, I would still recommend watching the video. It's pretty interesting stuff. But then again, most of the stuff on TED.com is.

On Writing

India Uncut, one of the blogs I follow, recently had a short but interesting post titled 'Education'. A Quinton Tarantino quote was used to make a larger point about whether or not writing, like films, can be taught in a classroom. The original post can be read here, and the response I sent to Amit Varma, the author of India Uncut, is below. If any of you have thoughts on the topic, do write in.

When people ask me if I went to film school I tell them, ‘no, I went to films.’
-- Quentin Tarantino

As someone who put down a small fortune on a (relatively) expensive writing degree here in the UK, I have come up against this line of argument on more than one occasion- before, during and after the course. My answer has always been the same: Writing, like any other art form, is both an art as well as a craft. The art is a largely metaphysical thing and can never be captured in a textbook (some say you are born with it, but I'm not convinced you are born with anything. That's another debate, though). The craft, on the other hand, can and should be learnt. The classroom is not a bad place to start.

While Mr Tarantino's quote makes good copy, I would begin by questioning the truth of it. The most obvious reason is because films, more than most other art forms, have a technical element that cannot be learnt from merely watching them. This might be reading too much into his quote, but I am certain that at some point he was just an unknown clever guy who wanted to make films but didn't have the foggiest idea how. He would then have hung around people who knew what they were doing and sucked up everything like a sponge. This process would most likely have involved sleeping on a few couches, recreational drugs, and some beautiful free-spirited ladies. Mr too-cool-for-school Tarantino might never call this an 'education', but for those of us who lead far less exciting lives, that's exactly what it is.

It's a similar argument that one sometimes comes across in sports as well. Mr Tarantino's quote, when used in a sporting context, would be akin to a gifted cricketer saying all he needed to do to become a world-class batsman was watch Sachin Tendulkar bat. This is meaningless because all he would be watching is the end-product of years of hard graft, the distillation of months of toil to perfect a certain shot or correct a flaw in technique. He is watching the final edited version, with no awareness of what has gone on behind the scenes.

Yes, writing is, at its core, a solitary activity. But there is a collaborative element, however subliminal, to all good writing. This is what I leant from the few months spent in workshops with other writers discussing each other’s work, all of us believing all the while that our individual pieces were nudging perfection but realising in the end that we merely did different things well.

You would no doubt have felt this too, over the course of your promotional tour for your first book. Those who came to the various venues to listen to you read and discuss your writing will inevitably try to incorporate certain things they liked into their own work, and some of their questions, reactions and comments would have set off sparks, however tiny, in your mind as well.

It is this constant process of moulding and shaping, modulating your own inner voice in relation to others, that creative writing classes seek to capture. Has all this made me a better writer? I'm not sure. What it has given me is a better understanding of what I do, and the ways and means of doing it better.

Still, I am by no means suggesting this is the only way to go about turning into a 'writer', whatever that creature is. At the end of the day, as they say, there are no answers. Only choices.

All the best.

The inevitable Dylan post

One of the great pleasures of shopping for books (or anything else, for that matter) is walking in to a shop and finding you have a 50 per cent discount on a title you would have gladly paid full price for. And so the Cambridge Companion to Bob Dylan is now on my shelf, along with the 9 other books under 'D'. All on Dylan. One more will make ten, just in case any of you have been staying up at night wondering what to get me for Christmas...

I've got about 25 pages in; the excerpt below is from the Introduction:

...Dylan from an early age boasted the voice of a seemingly old man – seemingly the very voice, to steal a phrase from Greil Marcus, of “old, weird America.” In an era when pop (and even folk) stars were, as today, meant to sing like the nightingale, Dylan instead sang as the crow. But that croak, it seemed, contained a depth of feeling and passion and anger and joy and wisdom and disillusionment not hinted at by the songbirds; it came as a revelation. And it sounded like the voice of Truth...

The rest of the first half consists of essays, each taking on a different perspective Of Dylan's life and career, while the second half takes a closer look at some of his landmark albums. I am hoping it will shed some light on at least a few of the 800-odd Dylan songs I currently have on my iPod. I was going to post the link to a review I wrote of his 2006 album (and one of my personal favourites), Modern Times, but the article is no longer on the Amazon website. I’ll try and post a review of the most recent album, Together Through Life, soon.

Yes, I'm obsessed. I have no friends. Well, except Dylan.

One Night in October...

...the clocks go back...

Check out the ridiculously infectious tune by the Tiny Comets.

Dear Mr Griffin

On Question Time yesterday when a young Asian man, like myself, asked you where you would like him to go, you said you were happy for him to stay. I am certain that the young man would have slept much easier last night knowing that you, Mr Griffin, safeguarder and protector of British society, deemed him good enough to stay in your country. I doubt, however, that you would have had the same feelings about me.

You see, I, unlike that young man, was not born in this country. I came here to study, found a job, and yes, I'm still here three years later. Do I dare ask where you think I should go?

Nick, (do you mind if I call you Nick? Mr Griffin makes you sound like a serious politician) you appear to be a man with a tremendous memory (albeit selective) that stretches back to 700 A.D, when your ancestors obviously magically appeared from beneath the melting ice.

You might remember, then, that when these 'indigenous British' people you refer to first arrived in India not so long ago, they ended up staying for over 200 years. A lot happened in that time, but you would be hard pressed to find an Indian who does not acknowledge the contribution that the British made to my country. They, much like the Mughals, Portuguese, Dutch and French before them, came and went, leaving us with the rich and diverse culture that I am so proud of today.

History has shown us that in times of cultural and economic unrest, people sometimes actually acknowledge the presence of individuals such as yourself. There is no doubt that people are unhappy, not just in this country but around the world. There are several reasons for this. Your mistake lies in confusing that discontent with a mandate. Soon this time too will pass, and you will go back to being a political non-entity, a mere irritation, admired perhaps only for the extent of your own delusion.

To be honest, Nick, I almost felt sorry for you last night. A big, strong man like yourself, twitching and sweating like someone in an electric chair. I know you don't need my pity. Or my advice. But I'm going to give you some anyway. Read, Nick. Travel. Introspect. I would suggest a degree in History, but given that a degree in Law couldn't help you identify an illegal constitution, I doubt another one would do you much good. Still, you never really know, do you?

Regards,
Ajay Jacob (yes, there are Christians in India)

Question Time in 30 mins

In just over 30 minutes, Nick Griffin, leader of the British National Party, will take his place for the first time on the panel of BBC's Question Time. The decision to invite him on the programme has attracted a huge amount of publicity and caused outrage among both the mainstream parties as well as the wider public. A good friend of mine is one of several hundred people making their protests heard outside the BBC's London studios at this very moment.

But even amongst those who despise this openly racist party, opinion seems to be divided- either deprive the BNP of the 'oxygen of publicity' or put them on a national stage and expose them for what they are. It is, to be honest, a tricky one. I'm not sure to which camp I belong. Not yet, anyway. Maybe in a couple of hours, depending on how the debate goes, I will have an opinion.

For the other panellists from the mainstream parties, it could be a challenge. Merely calling the BNP a ‘vile and despicable party’, is not going to cut it. They are going to have to tread a fine line between engaging with them on issues while distancing themselves from the party’s real agenda. If the Tories, Lib Dems and Labour can join forces and systematically pick them apart, the BNP will look stupid and out of their depth. If they overdo it, however, it will look like they’re flogging a dead horse. It is vital they achieve the right balance.

For Griffin himself, the advantages of appearing on the show are clear. A record audience will be tuning in and he will want to milk it for all it is worth. There is also no doubt that it will lend a certain legitimacy to a party whose constitution is still officially illegal. On the other hand, you've almost got to hand it to him. I would be surprised if every word he utters isn’t booed and hissed at, and in between all that he has to try and prove he is not a Nazi. Or prove that he is. Whatever the case, it should be an interesting show.

Mince Pies

are the reason
I thought of you tonight.
soft shortcrust,
sugar-dust,
secrets inside.
And only around for a season.

Home Sweet Home

fairy lights,
which once lent the stairwell
a festive air,
now hover over the edge
of the banister,
weighing up their options;
their luminescence
a kind of indifference.

chairs,
once high-backed and proud,
now lie scattered around
the floor like unfinished sentences;
stooped over
with the indignity of months
masquerading as
coat hangers,
doorstops,
resting places for moths.

curtains,
drawn tight,
to keep in the dark.

There’s nothing on the telly,
except me on the laptop,
which is a reflection
of the way things have been
these past few days, even
the clock has a sad face,
stuck at twenty-to-five.

the sink is full of wishes.

photos,
merely portals to the past,
where once there was laughter
like the tinkle of crystal
but now only silence,
broken every so often by the breaking
of a wave
off a distant shore
washing up another memory.

on the mantelpiece,
a starfish of keys.

!ndia in under 2 Minutes

The latest Incredible !ndia video...If you're homesick, that makes two of us.

The RG Enigma

It is, in many ways, already a striking story. Born into India's most famous political family, is barely 14 when his grandmother and India's first woman prime-minister is assassinated; at 20 his own father is killed by a suicide bomber; escapes to a life of anonymity first in America and then London where he works (under an assumed name); eventually returns home to help his widowed mother bring the Congress party back to power.

And yet, with Rahul Gandhi, you get the feeling the story is only just beginning.

Not long ago, with the Congress in turmoil and the right-wing BJP on the rise, Rahul was happy to be just a peripheral figure, popping up now and then for a party meeting or at a memorial for one of his relatives, while his older sister, Priyanka, was being touted as the natural heir to the dynasty. Today, he is at the very heart of a resurgent Congress and the BJP is on the brink of self-destruction. Even by Indian politics' famously unpredictable standards, it is a turnaround few would have foreseen.

The fact that Rahul Gandhi's rise has coincided with that of the Congress party is no accident; the party’s fortunes have always been inextricably linked with that of its first family. However, it is the evolution of Rahul the politician that has captured the imagination. Now, finally, he appears to have emerged from the multiple shadows he has grown up in. The second name- one that he spent most of his life trying to escape from- has been embraced. And, ever so slowly, little wheels of change are being put in motion. 62 years after his great-grandfather articulated India's original tryst with destiny, is he the one to renew it?

It is a curious situation Rahul finds himself in. He is well aware that the moment he wanted to lead the Congress party, the position would be offered to him on a plate. And yet, he seems perceptive enough to know that he is not ready, and has set about schooling himself. How tempting it must be to reach for it now, surround himself with a competent and loyal inner circle and enjoy the trappings of power. Even more tempting must be the prospect of being able to pull all the strings but have none of the burden of responsibility. Rahul Gandhi seems to have chosen a middle path. Blessed with a birthright but free from its shackles, he knows he can bring about radical change.

'Radical' is not a word one hears often in Indian politics, and certainly not in the positive sense. For a large majority of the disillusioned electorate, another Gandhi leading India's Grand Old Party simply means more of the same. But if early signs are anything to go by, Rahul will not be just another Gandhi. Since winning his seat to Parliament in 2004, he has stayed away from Delhi's corridors of power, choosing to pursue his own vision for rural India while leaving the PM and his cabinet to look after the business of running the country. The poor and the youth have been at the top of his agenda; and while it is easy to be cynical and suggest that this is merely vote-bank politics on a larger scale, it would be a failure to acknowledge the significance of what he has already achieved.

Along the way, he has used words that have had old-timers squirming in their high-backed chairs while reaching for their dictionaries. Words like inclusiveness, inner-party democracy and empowerment. He has also not hesitated to speak his mind, and gives credit where credit is due, even if that means praising an opposition party. He has overseen the rise of a new generation of young politicians who are now infiltrating the rank and file of the Congress. Nandan Nilekani, Chairman of the Unique Identification Authority of India, recently described India as 'the only young country in an ageing world’, a fact Rahul seems determined to extend into the country's politics as well. Elders, from within the Congress as well as the coalition parties, have muttered under their breath about youthful exuberance and inexperience, but Rahul himself seems unfazed.

It is also a measure of the man that in a culture that lives by the dictum of any publicity being good publicity, the young Gandhi's rise has taken place not in the tabloids, but in the dustbowl of the hinterland. Apart from the odd sensational headline- (Rahul Gandhi and David Miliband! Future Prime Ministers of their respective countries! Sleeping in a hut! On the floor!), his campaign has been a silent one, far removed from the haze of celebrity that seems to have enveloped New Delhi like early morning fog. While other star-sons stagger through the capital intoxicated by their own sense of entitlement, Rahul chooses to make unannounced trips to Dalit villages instead, often without his security entourage and a convoy of cars. His particular brand of grass-roots activism has endeared him to the masses.

When the spotlight is turned on him, however, he has seemed increasingly at ease. In interviews he comes across as gracious, polite, and softly articulate. The person he says he is closest to is his sister and he is known to be very possessive of his mother. Could this suave Harvard-educated, London-trained poster boy of emerging India really have his finger on the pulse of India's faceless millions? It is an intriguing question, and the answer may yet surprise us. Scepticism is ingrained in our DNA, and so is the tendency to dish out halos and elevate mortals to saint-like status. Perhaps we should take a cue from the man himself and choose a middle path. That path, for now, involves giving Rahul Gandhi the benefit of the doubt. Who knows where it might lead?