Category: Yesterday

  • Clarity begins at home

    Maybe it’s a 40s thing, or maybe it’s just me projecting my top-of-the-mind thought on to others, but these days, ‘the place to retire to’ is a recurring theme in many conversations with friends. Once upon a time, in line with Pico Iyer’s “Home is not just the place where you happen to be born. It’s the place where you become yourself”, Bangalore was an obvious choice. A few years ago, Cochin got back into the consideration set, as I veered more towards who I was than what my self image was. The mind and its narratives.

    During a recent trip to Cochin, when a classmate described my school-self to D, I had a moment straight out of a Kazuo Ishiguro book. He is one of my favourite writers, and at least two of his books feature narrators with flawed memory constructions. In the books, it is fascinating to watch the peeling of reality against the narrator’s reconstructions. Ishiguro is kind, and usually brings the narrator down gently. In my case, I was first shocked to realise how I was like one of his narrators, and then pleasantly surprised at how my friend remembered me. Maybe he was being kind. But this isn’t the first time. When a similar recollection about me had happened with one of our other classmates during a reunion a few years ago, I had brushed it off as his false narrative. Because my own perception of who I was then was different. But after this, I realised that this was the key to Cochin behaving like a magnet!

    In Capital, Rana Dasgupta wrote – ‘when one becomes homesick, it is not a place that one seeks, but oneself, back in time.’ Despite my conscious mind’s narrative constructions, my subconscious probably remembers it more accurately. It remembers someone whose sense of humour did not have the cynicism that an adult life gifted it. Someone whose whistling skills seemed like magic to his friends because it was not self-conscious. Maybe, by pulling me back to a place, the mind believes it can also pull me back to a time and a self that was happy with itself. That him who I was.

    And maybe it’s not just that. Before I left Cochin, I made it a point to visit an old hangout. An aunt’s home. My mother’s cousin, whose granddaughters were roughly my age, but insisted on calling me ammava (uncle) especially in public. My memories of that place and my aunt, and these I am sure of because there are physical spaces that could testify to it, are ones I cherish and am deeply grateful for. The place and the person brought a sense of warmth and security to a teen life that was troubled by loss, and a mind that did not even realise it was unmoored. I see the afternoons and evenings I have spent there as an incomparable act of kindness. A refuge from the world at large.

    So maybe what drags me back to Cochin is a little more than who I was. It is also about those around me at a certain stage of my life. The friends who made me feel special. The people who made me feel secure. And places that are so deeply etched in my memory that it would be impossible to feel lost even now. Even as I realise that the places and people may no longer be around and that this construct is one that fits the current idea that I have of myself, I also think that somehow the mind will conspire to project an environment that can anchor me.

    P.S. As I began writing this, I had an intense sense of deja-vu. Very meta. I had gone through these thoughts before, I was sure. And indeed I had. That is somehow reassuring.

  • The ordinary kindness of Mohandas

    My surname is very unobtrusive. It is present in all my official documents. It’s absent in my signature, and when I am casually giving my name in say, a form, I stop at my middle name, which exists courtesy Kerala’s matrilineal ethos. The surname’s modest behaviour is apt for the person it represents.

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  • The ride of a lifetime

    The year was 2008. For 7 years, I had been serving as a palliative care owner to second hand two-wheelers. This included manually-powered visits to workshops every other day, to the extent I had called the original one Potential Honda, because it was Kinetic only occasionally! And that’s how I finally decided to take the bold step of buying a brand new two-wheeler for the first time in my life, at double the cost of my mobile. I bring that up because now Activa competes with the likes of Apple and Samsung for the share of wallet!

    Fast forward to 2013, when D got herself a four wheeler, and a driver, I cajoled her into letting me use both, and stopped using the Activa for office commute. But it still was my go-to vehicle for chores. From about 2016, I became an Uber regular, but the Activa continued its role. I think it was the pandemic, and then the zoning out that separated us.

    And thus, here we are in 2022, and I am wondering how does one say goodbye to a partner who has been with you in your 20s, 30s and 40s! But I have to. Unlike the foreign object and these guys, the maintenance effort is not trivial. It doesn’t help that it needs a fitment certificate later this year!

    And thus this thank you post. To a relationship in which I cheated on you with another two-wheeler only once – when they insisted I use a wheelchair when going in for an angioplasty last year. To a relationship in which we got hurt just once – back in 2010 in Austin Town on a rainy night. I remember crying that night, as I picked you up and continued home, because a truckload of things made life seem so unfair. I am older and a little wiser now, and life doesn’t seem very unfair, but I thought of the lifetime we’ve been through and blinked back tears, when I stood gazing at you before I put you up for sale.

  • Moving past

    It’s April 24th. Later in the day is my favourite part of the week – the Sunday evening ritual with D. Balcony, drink, sunset, and mood music. Sometimes we fill it with conversation, and sometimes we’re just content in each other’s presence. Today is extra special because it’s our anniversary – 19th.

    It was a week ago, when it suddenly struck me that back in April 1993, he would have still been in a state of shock. It had only been a few months since he turned 49. They would have celebrated their 18th later in the year. But it wasn’t to be. A month ago, she passed, leaving him with a boy in his teens and a girl in primary school.

    In that moment of my realisation – of what he had lost – I saw everything he has done since then in a new light. And after all these years, I understood, and wept, for his loss.

  • A converging life

    The year was 1993, and at least for the next 4-5 years during which I actively played the game, I was hard at work trying to replicate it every time I bowled. Such was the magic of The Ball of the Century. I don’t even watch cricket now, and yet, I could sense my own excitement when I showed the clip to D.

    No wonder it came up in an evening with friends soon after. 40-something year olds who are still at war with the phrase ‘middle age’. We talked about Warne and how everyone was shocked – after all he was only 52. In the context of cardiovascular diseases, I think 40s are the new 60s, mostly courtesy a drastic shift in lifestyles. And that’s when it also struck me that all our celebrity crushes and role models are entering the second half, if not already well into it. In them, we see our own epochs. They are a part of us, and their age or agelessness have started defining us by holding up a now uncomfortable mirror for us. When health events happen to them, or when they pass on, or they retire (like Shahid Afridi at 18), we feel the spectre of old age. And along with that, the grip of our own mortality tightening. We’re watching the clock and conscious of time.* Or maybe it’s just me.

    But let’s not get morbid. While Simone de Beauvoir called ‘elderhood’ the ‘crusher’ of humankind – with our own biology and expectations of ourselves, and society’s different manifestations of ageism, she also believed that it is an opportunity to turn to ourselves, to be more responsive to our own needs, and less obliged to other people.** And hey, we still have mid-life crises, and the thrashing around for relevance and meaning. Also, apparently, in a happiness vs age graph, the 50s are when the curve begins its upward journey towards making a smile.

    But yes, the series of undulating hills that I wrote about in a post a while ago are certainly coming up. And while The Lincoln Highway is not my favourite Amor Towles book, two pages in it, when Abacus Abernathy weighs his life, were magic to me. I see no way to top that, so I’ll just leave you with it.

    What an extraordinary passage were those first years in Manhattan! When Abacus experienced firsthand the omnivalent, omnipresent, omnifarious widening that is life.

    Or rather, that is the first half of life.

    When did the change come? When did the outer limits of his world turn their corner and begin moving inexorably toward their terminal convergence?

    Abacus had no idea.

    Not long after his children had grown and moved on, perhaps. Certainly, before Polly died. Yes, it was likely at some point during those years when, without their knowing it, her time had begun to run out while he, in the so-called prime of life, went blithely on about his business.

    The manner in which the convergence takes you by surprise, that is the cruelest part. And yet it’s almost unavoidable. For at the moment when the turning begins, the two opposing rays of your life are so far from each other you could never discern the change in their trajectory. And in those first years, as the rays begin to angle inward, the world still seems so open, you have no reason to suspect its diminishment.

    But one day, one day years after the convergence has begun, you cannot only sense the inward trajectory of the walls, you can begin to see the terminal point in the offing even as the terrain that remains ​before you​ begins to shrink at an accelerating pace.

    In those golden years of his late twenties, shortly after arriving in New York, Abacus had made three great friends. Two men and a woman, they were the hardiest of companions, fellow adventurers of the mind and spirit. Side by side, they had navigated the waters of life​ ​with a reasonable diligence and their fair share of aplomb. But in just these last five years, the first had been stricken with blindness, the second with emphysema, and the third with dementia. How varied their lot, you might be tempted to observe: the loss of sight, of lung capacity, of cognition.

    When in reality, the three infirmities amount to the same sentence: the narrowing of life at the far tip of the diamond. Step by step, the stomping grounds of these friends had shrunk from the world itself, to their country, to their county, to their home, and finally to a single room where, blinded, breathless, forgetful, they are destined to end their days.Though Abacus had no infirmities to speak of yet, his world too was shrinking. He too had watched as the outer limits of his life had narrowed from the world at large, to the island of Manhattan, to that book-lined office in which he awaited with a philosophical resignation the closing of the finger and thumb. 

    *Trivia: It has been a decade since Gangnam Style became a phenomenon, two decades since Sourav briefly became Salman at Lord’s, 25 years since Diana died, Arundhati Roy got a Booker, the release of Hanson’s mmBop, Aqua’s Barbie Girl, and Titanic, and 30 years since Basic Instinct released, and Babri Masjid was demolished.

    ** Simone de Beauvoir recommends we fight for ourselves as we age