The devoir of a good son is to break the news of surviving a near-fatal miss to his mother softly. Fortune is on his side as it is dusk preventing her from seeing the numerous bandages stuck to his limbs and jaw, torn jeans flapping and a second chin from stitching together the long cut that neatly cleaved the existing one into two. “Mom, I couldn’t finish my trip.” “What happened?” “My motorcycle got jammed.” “Oh, some engine trouble?” “Yeah, kind of.” Revelation gets progressively tough as my jammed motorcycle
A life cannot be reduced to words, but we still do it because we are yet to find ways to keep our dear ones from dying. Memories penned down become something else altogether but we keep at it whether it is love, loyalty or a sense of legacy. Soon after I got the news I started on my motorcycle. Those who gave me the news as well as those who were privy to it when I got it – I was on a work call with colleagues from two different
(At home during the Corona lockdown, I decide to do some spring cleaning and come upon a bunch of albums where termites are having a ball. These happen to be of my folks from their years when they were younger than I am and dapper than I ever will be. As I show them the cleaned photographs, some make them visibly excited while some a little poignant, memories flooding of people close to them who have passed on. This article is also a note to myself that nothing remains –
Belgian monk Francis Acharya decided to come to India after he met Gandhi in London. So impressed was he by the Mahatma’s espousal of the tenets of Hinduism that he wanted to work for the ‘encounter between Hinduism and Christianity.’ After several unsuccessful applications for visa he finally approached Vijayalakshmi Pandit who was the Indian High Commissioner in England at that time. The visa was finally granted after Jawaharlal Nehru sought a personal guarantee from Acharya that he wouldn’t proselytise. Acharya then travelled across the country before setting up his
Being the only uncle to a bunch of boys who can fill out a small platoon comes with not just enough responsibilities but a minimum knowledge requirement. Like knowing ‘fast track.’ “Tom mama, let’s get fast track,” said one of my nephews at the entry to the water park. “But didn’t I get you all watches just last year?” I was serious as I had actually gifted them outdoor watches from Casio the previous Christmas. In response the kids took turns looking exasperated and laughed. They glanced over their shoulders
The buzz you feel about a place is a collective one – it comes from within the heads of those around. Including your own. The shop had buzz. Talking buzz, loitering buzz, peeing buzz, wide-eyed, quiet, staring buzz, snacking, sneaking, ogling buzz, people-watching, jiggery-pokery, horny buzz. Violent buzz. I loved the buzz, I was the buzz. It was a mom-and-pop shop but a sexy mom-and-pop: a couple in their early 40s, good-looking, garrulous, perfumed, twinkle in the eyes, with a hot daughter. The sari hung to the missus reluctantly but
There was more to it, and she was trying to get it talked out. After a time, she quit trying. Why don’t you dance?, Raymond Carver. For most part of the wedding ceremony, the bride was missing from the altar. She was puking her guts out because of all the spice she ate. She was also six months pregnant. “My mother told everyone it was gas from eating too much spice,” Jimmy told me with a straight face. I looked at him sideways but did not detect any mirth. It was
