On Grief, Loss and Memories of Dad..

This morning, Rohit Brijnath wrote in the Straits Times on his father’s passing, on grief, loss and the memories.


For an honest man with perfect eyesight my father was a beautiful liar. He’d look at me, gangly, chin-less, awkward, 14, and then at my two slightly more becoming brothers and proclaim like a judge:

“You are my handsomest son.”

I’d grin at this transparent sweetness and say: “Relax, Dad, it’s cool. I know what I look like.” My self-esteem was strong and only because he’d helped build it.

My father “was” is a hell of a thing to write, but this is the unarguable grammar of death. In these pages I’ve written about his shoes, his train journeys, the anxiety of his ageing and the scruffy white field of his beard, which he pulled like a man tugging at new ideas. I feel I owe him some final words as he’s gone travelling, back into the earth from where he believed he came. His god was nature.

Even in the week of his death, my father was helping me learn. Intensive care waiting rooms at night, I realised, are therapeutic, long hours of silence that invite reflection. Here, no one god is greater.

The young man in the next chair, whose father awoke from brain surgery and could not speak, said little to me but we were united by apprehension. In a life smudged by uncertainty, the loss of a parent is inevitable. This is our shared humanity.

Down a snaking corridor from where I sat, my father lay, ventilator down his throat, a man who sang Summertime with such gusto now silent as winter edged closer. Medicine sometimes cannot return a man to a dignified life and yet it will not let them pass to the next world. They are stuck in this holding area of diminishing hope. Illness strips humans of personality and authority and if he was awake my father would tear away these tubes and say “enough”.

Days later, when he’s gone, I go through his bedside drawer, exploring his clutter of old bills, folded notes, a poem to his mother and a list of great men he’d made for a lecture series he had done at a school. Lincoln is there, Gandhi of course, Jesus, Buddha and Muhammad, and also Michelangelo and Akbar.

In possessions lie clues to a person and my father had few, a cigarette salesman at the start who preserved his simplicity. He had his shirts stitched at a local tailor and got the roadside cobbler to make his shoes. Some men who come from little can be nervous about wanting more. When my eldest brother bravely bought him a Business Class ticket to Dubai I could imagine my father approaching his luxurious seat with suspicion.

I enjoyed rifling through his cupboard because it spoke of him, two ancient cameras (he was a lousy photographer), an unopened after-shave, a musty set of binoculars, pens with no ink, a clothes brush and, befitting an old-fashioned man, a tower of handkerchiefs. But his treasures, we knew, lay elsewhere – his family, his hats and his Encyclopedia Brittanica.

Grief visits like the tides but I am grateful. I don’t believe in god but I do in luck, in the inexplicable cosmic lottery that places you as a child in the arms of a decent man. My father stubbed out his last cigarette years ago but in my mind he’ll always smell of old smoke and out-of-date after shaves. It was my smell of safety.

At the end, he did not suffer long and he was not alone and neither were we. The Turkish novelist Elif Shafak spoke to the National Public Radio this year about the Cemetery of the Companionless in Istanbul, where “there are no tombstones, no surnames… nothing personal on the graves, just numbers”. It is the place, she said, of “many outcasts”, of sex workers, AIDS victims and refugees.

I read this recently and it makes me think of my fortune. I have family who use love to soak up each other’s sadness, friends who bring food and emotional sustenance, the local vegetable seller who comes in the ambulance with me to the funeral. Everyone knows loss and in the stories that are exchanged is found perspective. One friend lost her mother in childbirth and another his father 23 years ago.

My father died at 84 and I am fine with it, for to see him already diminished, struggling to recite Rumi, his memory unable to resurrect familiar lines, was hard enough. His favourite word came from Urdu, and it was “insaniyat”, or “humanity”, and part of it is the quality of being kind. Letting go is also love.

My peace also arrives from my absence of regret. We were men who left no love unsaid and no argument unfinished. Behind the label of “father” was a man I liked immensely and I told him. An atheist of conscience and knowledge, imperfect and gentle, provocative and generous, who assailed bigots on the television with a string of invective. My father swore loudly and musically, while my mother sat unmoved like a veteran school teacher who could not be surprised any more.

Fathers give us things and so he handed me John Coltrane, Joe Louis, James Baldwin and bad jokes. Mostly he gave me a voice. He did not ask me to fear him or blindly obey him, he did not patronise me or order a career for me. He let me be contrary, let me fence with him, let me slam doors and try out ideas. Freedom is a gift. One of my brothers wanted to study tigers and my father pulled his beard and worried and then opened the door to the jungle for him.

Middle age is comforting but also confronting. If our lives are like jigsaws, and we’ve spent five decades finding a degree, then a job, maybe having children, putting a life together, then now some of those pieces, often in the form of friends or parents, are falling off. There’s no replacement for them and we just become people with parts missing, incomplete forever.

Loss is a companion in the shadows, who suddenly flickers into view. I see chess boards and peg measures and I think of my father. What we are left with is memory and things, like old watches that speak of another time, just small fragments of a life lived. One of my brothers took two of my father’s shirts home, another has asked for a hat but, through sheer coincidence, I have his last full sentence.

I was the first of my brothers to reach India and the infection that eventually claimed my father had begun to seize him. He was barely conscious and yet, even in his distress, he found the lucidity for one final act of fatherhood. He smiled and said to me what he always did:

“Hello, my beautiful boy.”

And then he went to sleep.

On the terrific Kiwis

In this morning’s Straits Times, Rohit Brijnath looks forward to the World Cup Cricket Final – and looks back at New Zealand sport.

Find something black to wear tomorrow. Pin a silver fern to it. Open a bottle of Steinlager. You can then consider yourself an honorary Kiwi for a day. If you feel the urge to do an awkward haka in your living room, let the moment pass.

It’s World Cup final day in cricket and if you are not English then presumably you are cheering for New Zealand. As Sharda Ugra, senior writer for ESPNcricinfo puts it, “after your own country, they are everyone’s favourite second team”. Because their competitiveness is not stained by conceit and their skill not sullied by vanity. They are the unstarry team persistently chasing an outsized dream.

One of their great runners, Peter Snell, a three-gold Olympic champion in the 1960s, titled his book, No Bugles, No Drums. It sounds like the story of New Zealand at this Cup. Quiet heroics and no fanfare. When they felled India in the semis, captain Virat Kohli found an apt word for them. They were “braver”, he said.

New Zealand is famous for its film locations, a humane prime minister and for rolling chocolates downhill. For many years in Dunedin, on the steepest street in the world, they send 75,000 Jaffas – a type of round chocolate – skittering down a slope. How can you not cheer for such a land?

If they are eccentric, they are also stylish. Perhaps they have a Zorro complex for they do almost everything sporting in black. Jerseys and names. The All Blacks (rugby), Black Sticks (hockey), Tall Blacks (basketball), Black Caps (cricket) and Wheel Blacks. If you haven’t solved the last one, it’s their wheelchair rugby teams.

New Zealand is one of sport’s great Davids, a spirited sporting land undeterred by its modest numbers. It has few people (4.8 million) in a large land (268,000 sq km) and as John Wright, a former cricket captain who grew up on a farm near Canterbury, says: “It’s an outdoor country.”

Wright, 65, speaks with quiet fondness of a boyhood full of sport, of volunteers who organised fixtures and of a society that “doesn’t put people on a pedestal”.

“Most New Zealand sports teams,” he says, “know that they play bigger, better resourced countries. That’s the reality. So there’s always an understanding that you have to knuckle down, that you’re up against it.”

Sport in New Zealand, as Ben Pulham, a former Kiwi triathlete says, “is something to aspire for”. It’s as if the vast land invites play. Indeed, on the Sport New Zealand website, you can find a sport to try from a list of 106. Axe sports anyone? Shearing perhaps? Kerri-Jo Te Huia once sheared 452 strong wool ewes in nine hours. Evidently everything is competition here.

Their small population has not been a deterrence but possibly an inspiration and New Zealand has tackled the land (the All Blacks have three rugby World Cups) and commanded the waters (rowing golds and the America’s Cup). They’ve had a shot putter Valerie Adams who won two Olympic golds; a driver, Bruce McLaren, who built an F1 team; a No. 1 golfer, Lydia Ko; and a Wimbledon champion. Over a hundred summers ago, Anthony Wilding won four singles titles between 1910-13, lost in the 1914 final and was killed in 1915 during World War I. He was 31.

But tomorrow matters because this nation’s sporting cupboard has an empty space. Cricket’s Cup has eluded them and as Andrew Alderson, a sportswriter with the New Zealand Herald says: “Yes, it’s the missing piece in the jigsaw.” To lose in the final for a second successive time would feel more like curse than coincidence.

In the Cup final New Zealand collide with England, the hosts who battered them in the round-robin phase, but they will not flinch for they are hardy creatures of their geography. As Pulham says: “New Zealand is so remote, the terrain is hard, the weather can be miserable and we’re not crazy wealthy. So we have to earn everything. People are just tough.”

No kidding. Susan Devoy, eight-time British Open squash champion, worked as a builder’s labourer and Trevor Manning, goalkeeper of their 1976 Olympic gold-winning hockey team, had a novel response to his kneecap being smashed with 14 minutes left in that final. As he told The Wellingtonian News: “I just did a couple of squats to let the Aussies know there was nothing wrong with me.”

But perhaps New Zealand deserve a cheer mostly because they are led by a man of decency and distinction. Captain Kane Williamson is a warrior in the guise of a monk. Wright calls him “a very wise young man” while Alderson defines him elegantly. “I don’t think,” he says, “I’ve ever met a New Zealand sportsman, or for that matter any sportsperson, who has such an ego to ability ratio. Low ego and high ability.”

His bowlers create enough swing to impress a jazzman but there will be pressure on Williamson to bat long. Yet he has met expectation calmly all Cup. He has averaged 91.33 and it shows a man of purpose who knows his team are only slightly better than his national bird. The Kiwi, you see, has no tail.

Should these understated underdogs ascend their cricketing Everest and Williamson is lost for words, he can always borrow some from a famous countryman. As Edmund Hillary said after completing another famous quest: “We knocked the b*****d off.”

On Virat’s team – and the Australia series win.

This morning, in the Straits Times, Rohit Brijnath on India’s first series win in Australia.


As words go in sport, “earn” has an imposing weight. It is short, muscular and unfussy. It is a word which suggests no one is entitled to victory, that in competition there are no favours, that no bonus points are given just because you tried.

No, to earn is to acquire through merit.

There is no timeframe to “earn”, no guarantee, no deal that labour for a required number of years will bring victory. No, you keep working, keep believing, keep buying Scotch tape to bind broken dreams, keep going.

Ask Liverpool. Zero league titles in 28 years. Ask the Atlanta Hawks. Zero NBA titles for 60 seasons.

So you wait.

Fans started waiting for India to win a Test cricket series in Australia from 1947. Joe Louis was heavyweight champion. Fans got old waiting for victory, they got married and then waited with their kids as new teams wrote old stories of loss. They waited till loss became a jinx and then turned into a curse.

Years passed, decades ended, a century turned. Indians argued about Australian bounce, fear, horizontal bat shots and waited. They cursed, pleaded, tuned into Channel Nine and waited. They even moved to Australia as migrants – 291,916 between 2000 and 2016 – and filled stadiums and waited. Religion, it sometimes seems, knows less about faith than sports fans do.

Then yesterday India won their first series, 2-1, in Australia. In the game’s toughest format they subdued the sport’s toughest land. Team – and fan – had earned it.

People will say this is India’s greatest Test team and it smells like overstatement but this day was for applause not argument. A team defeated in England had cemented its cracks, kept its belief, won small skirmishes, married patience to urgency, bowled ferociously, ignored silly headlines (The Scaredy Bats, an Australian tabloid called them) and waited out tough bowling spells.

Captain Virat Kohli yesterday spoke of a nine-over spell bowled by Pat Cummins to him and Cheteshwar Pujara in Adelaide which yielded only eight runs. They were shaken but still there. Perhaps India won because they never went away.

India won the series stylishly, comprehensively and wore their intent almost always under a civil coat. This was worth the wait. The only line again crossed by Kohli – who was stupidly booed, can be overwrought and still has edges to sandpaper – was the batting crease, outside which he stands with classic contempt.

Elsewhere rival wicketkeepers discussed babysitting, Australian captain Tim Paine took a phone call on a reporter’s phone during a press conference and Kuldeep Yadav was thrilled Shane Warne was watching him take five wickets. It was cricket, fair but hard.

Kohli has built a team in his image: lean, urgent, bearded, defiant, fit, ambitious, sure, unselfish. Every time his team needed a hand, many went up. He gives his side an intensity and maybe they soften him a little. After all India’s two best players were a fast bowler, Jasprit Bumrah, whose deliveries snort even as he smiles and a devout batsman, Pujara, wrapped in contemplation.

Bumrah was something Australians had not seen and India had waited for: a genuine, 140kmh-plus, eyelash-trimming Indian fast bowler. Pujara was something we knew but considered extinct: in a Kill Bill-like IPL world he was a non-violent Test sculptor. He finished with more runs (521) than Australia’s two best put together and this was not incidental. Almost everywhere India was twice as good.

This was not the Australian team we once knew, who used to walk as if they owned the land and could score runs with a fence post. This was a hesitant side of brittle batting but even if we accept Australian cricket is rehabilitating, this does not dilute India’s win. You can only beat the rival in front of you. Roger Federer once beat Marcos Baghdatis in an Australian Open final. There are no asterisks to be attached here, only acclaim.

And yet only the unfeeling would not flinch at Australia’s cricketing slide. Everyone wants to see the bully tamed and yet cricket has always been lifted by their rugged, resolute style. Their rapid revival is necessary for if the kingdom of strong Test-cricket teams shrinks, being monarch won’t count for much.

But the game has a powerful missionary and in a time of short attention spans has come Kohli the evangelist of the long game. “I think it is important to spread that message of Test cricket”, he said and it was gently ironic. Purists might dislike him and yet he is leader of their most powerful cause.

Kohli, who was part of India’s 2011 World Cup-winning team, in India itself, saw this victory as a greater one for himself. Nothing more of its importance needs to be said. It might seem unjust that a drizzle interrupted India’s bid for another Test win yesterday, but there was no raining on this parade. When history is made, the moment glitters even in the gloom.

A letter to the Indian Cricket Media ..

Dear Media,


My name is Mihir. I am an Indian Cricket fan and I am not an Ugrawaadi.

I thought I’d write to you as one of those whose love for faith in our team and our captain is considered by some of you as providing unconditional, unquestioning support, as being one-eyed, as being a cheerleader. I’m just one of those at the party where you swing your bat at the Indian Cricket piñata. Not that I’m formally writing on behalf of my tribe, only as one of them.

Facts, Truth, Damned Truth

First, let’s get the basic stuff out of the way. India lost 1-4. They competed, but were outplayed by a better team. There is no hiding from that. The scoreboard, in all its indisputable and undeniable starkness, does not lie.

However, life teaches us that even a series of irrefutable facts do not necessarily add up to a complete truth.  Take, for instance, the mini-battle of the series : James Anderson vs Virat Kohli. The undisputed champion of 2014 vs the pretender. Anderson pretty much owned Virat the last time we visited England in 2014.

In the intervening series in India in 2016 (India 4 England 0), Virat scored 655 runs @ 109.16. At that time, Anderson had said that Home pitches hide Virat’s technical weaknesses.  The series in English conditions, with the Dukes ball was going to be the real test.

The record will show that Kohli (who top scored the series with 593 runs) was not dismissed once in 270 deliveries from Anderson (who in turn was in peak form as well, being the top wicket taker with 24 wickets).

From Cricviz :

Of course, a batsman as good as Kohli retains the right to claim autonomy. He has made changes to his game which have a right to be seen as reason for the Indian captain’s success. Kohli has tried to combat the issues of 2014 by batting around 40cm further out of his crease than he did in 2014, desperate to counter the lateral movement of the Lancastrian. Regardless of the crowing of Indian fans, Kohli was clearly willing to change his entire technique to combat the threat of Anderson. As a batsman, I’m not sure you can give a greater compliment.

Combining softer hands and stronger wills, Kohli has managed to make it though the series without falling to the hand of the swing king. Anderson is the only front-line bowler not to claim Kohli’s wicket, the kind of fateful flourish which one might expect from a hack scriptwriter or a cliched performer. To fall from dominance to complete ineffectiveness is a fall too extreme to be believable, but the tough truth of the numbers bears it out.

Coming on the back of Virat’s dismal 2014, and the fact that Anderson was, per his captain, bowling at his best in mostly conducive conditions, this was a victory by knockout.

But was it? Did luck play a part? Did the relentless pressure that Anderson exerted manifest itself in the rest of the innings? Does this prove that Anderson is not really up there? Does his #1 ranking tell a flattering truth? Or was it simply a competition where one rival was just not able to close the deal? Pertinently, does the one sided result make you think that if there was another battle in the same conditions tomorrow, it would have a similar result?

“When we see one (a domination), we will not have to be told what is what. We will know.”

Will we? Really? Always? What do we know?

Incisive questioning versus bombast, fabrication and braggadocio

That 27 second clip of a 15 odd minute press conference has really been circulated by you guys, hasn’t it? So I’ll leave it out here. It has been analysed threadbare. I think it has fuelled the kind of general trend in public debate which is so much the norm. (Maybe the trend owes its existence in part to the desire to slot, perhaps? But I digress.)

Best team in 15 years? It is a hard question for a captain whose team has been beaten after a long tour.

Maybe what he should have said is something like – “I don’t think I should get into those things. Perhaps it would be best if you answered that question. We haven’t changed our mindset in that we try and focus only on our cricket. I don’t want to get into these kind of comparisons. Our job is to play matches, do our best, work hard, perform and try and win every match we play. There will be enough analysis of our performance. Our motive, as a team, is singular – that we put in a 120% effort, that we practice hard, keep our mindset positive on every day of the tour, keep our preparation at the level where we can win every day. If we do that, that will give us the greatest happiness. Tags and headlines are not for us. Our job is to play cricket.

Well, as it turns out he did say that.  Fact. But in the trend of partial facts, he said that after the 5-1 win over South Africa. And the question was, “Was that the greatest overseas win?”

He also said, “Honestly, I can’t sit here and feel good about the tags and take praise, because honestly, it doesn’t matter to me. Honestly, it doesn’t. It didn’t matter when we were 2-0 down, and it doesn’t matter when we are 5-1 up. All that matters is the respect in the change room. What matters is what the management thinks about me, what I think of the players and what the players think of me. That is all that matters to me. These things do not matter. I know that the headlines change day in, day out….. As I said, it is not my job to say anything about what I do. Yes, if I make a mistake I will come here and accept it. I have never been one to make excuses and I will remain like that, but I am not one to come here and praise myself. I can never do that, because as I said, this is a job for me. I am not doing anyone a favour. I am representing my country, it is an honor for me and I am just stepping out to do my job.

So, it turns out, he wasn’t quite indulging in braggadocio. Perhaps it was not bombast and it certainly was not fabrication aimed at diverting attention.

Maybe we can consider that perhaps the question was not quite incisive?

Selective perception

Ok. So if you will admit that the question was aimed at grabbing a quote, that it was basically a jibe in the garb of a rhetorical question, I will admit that the response was testy. The coach had said that the results that this team had got in the last three years overseas were better than previous teams. Maybe some of that is factual. But as you will doubtless tell me, it is not the complete truth. In sport, thankfully, it rarely is.

As an aside, watch this fine interview. This was Ravi Shastri taking questions that were not aimed at grabbing headlines. This was before the South Africa tour.  (Quick gist – This team has the potential. At long last we have a bowling line-up that will give us a chance. But for now, it is just potential. The next 12-18 months – the tours of South Africa, England and Australia will tell us how good they are. They have the desire and now they have an opportunity. It is exciting to believe)

Maybe looking at the big picture is what the doctor ordered.

An Opportunity Lost

Yes, none of this takes away from the fact that we lost. We could have, should have won, but we lost. It must hurt. Here is a considered perspective of the loss (and of that dodgy comparison). It taught me a lot about the kind of questions and questioning which could be incisive.

Yes, one can be hurt and optimistic at the same time

What must have hurt

Here is my perspective on what must hurt. Rewind to 2012. England visited India.

Everything about it is here.

We won the first Test in Ahmedabad. Comprehensively. By 9 wickets. In that first Tet though, Alastair Cook, then their captain, got 176 in the second innings following on. It was to have a remarkable bearing on the series, despite the huge loss.  Its exemplary nature, invigorated the team, made them believe that they could bat in these conditions. In the next Test at a Wankhede dustbowl, India went in with 3 spinners and just the one quick, won the toss and should have been good for a win. Cook got another century but was joined by Pietersen who got 186. England won the match by ten wickets.

The third Test at the Eden Gardens had India winning the toss for the third time, batted first for 105 overs, and still lost. By 7 wickets. Alastair Cook got 190.

The fourth Test was drawn but Cook’s 562 runs had contributed more than just the numbers. That first innings in Ahmedabad, you could say, had infused the confidence in the side’s batting unit that the ghosts could be fought.

England won the series 2-1. In our conditions, on pitches made for us.

Virat got that 149 in the first Test loss at Edgbaston. A more ready, perhaps better cooked team, would have got into that slipstream like England had. Lords happened next, and that seemed like it was that. It must hurt.

There were some other differences too. Before the series, England did a three day training camp at the Global Cricket Academy in Dubai. Then they did 3 more three day warm up matches before the Tests started. All red ball cricket, no white ball. India’s warm up by contrast though, was a few weeks in England, sure, but all white ball cricket.

That India will do a trip to the Academy before the Australia series is now a fact. That they are also angling for more warm up games ahead of the Australia series is also true. These they have spoken of. As lessons.

What I did not hear, and I am pretty sure you didn’t either, were any excuses. Nothing about conditions, not a word about the tosses. Not a word about the fact that a big factor for  our optimism (Jasprit Bumrah and Bhuvneshwar Kumar) were either partly or entirely not available. Nothing about the first choice wicket keeper being unavailable because of injury. That these factors would have led to a rework of the team balance was never proffered. Not once did we see dissent from the Indian team; no fingers were pointed at the weather conditions at Lords and the role it played (actually listen to the post Lords press conference here and see if it could have been any better).

What we did hear were lessons and admissions: That England played better; that there were multiple times in the series where the pressure was on them but that mistakes were made by India that led to England capitalising; that the team understood that it was a failing and would need improvement; that individual players had been spoken to; that the effort had been to try and understand what made them wary or weaker in those moments when the pressure was let go; that it was important to recognize that those concerns not be an assigning of blame or responsibility, but to learn about what the team and the captain needed to do to make sure it didn’t happen again; that starts to the series were important and you needed to be more confident going in and setting the tempo rather than chasing it. That without that learning and those questions, there would be no improvement.

If you listen to the rest of the post series press conference (minus those 27 seconds), you will hear the lessons.

This was Virat Kohli saying we need to understand and learn from our mistakes, and move on.

As grace and modesty go, I will take that. This isn’t about pretending to epoch-making perfection. This is about recognising that there is progress, and there are failings. And trying to get further.


Comparisons are odious. You have taught us that.

For my part, I keep my faith on a somewhat grey-er canvas. I don’t hold it against those wonderful teams that we lost overseas to Zimbabwe in 2001, or that my memories of 2007 are somewhat tainted by the World Cup. Yes, we have never really dominated and steamrolled everything in our path.

My faith is built over time. It is based on Gavaskar, who taught us that we could stand up to overseas opposition in overseas conditions. On Tendulkar’s generation which built on that confidence to understand that we could take them on. On Dhoni’s teams that could often (but not always) be good enough to be the best of their time and when we weren’t, it did not lead to rampant burnt effigies and stone pelting (though some of you guys tried to stoke that with match ka mujrim type of stories). Yes, I think we owe him that.

And now, on whether Virat’s efforts could channel his “perpetual state of smolder” into a team that is similarly ambitious and driven to overcome failures and improve enough to excel.

None of this will make any one of these teams better than the ones before. They are just proof of evolution. I get that.


Just another fan.


My Role Model …

Great photographs tell stories and capture the enormity not just of moments, but of the sentiment around them.

This is my favorite photograph of all.

It is of Rhea holding my hand for the first time. Just born, barely awake, her entire hand smaller than that part of my finger (Distal Phalanx, says Google). Tiny, but overwhelmingly engulfing. This was infinity and eternity all at once. I will never forget it.


She arrived in the world earlier than most kids do. And somewhere in those early days, needed to fight just that bit harder than most kids do. She did.

Now, next month, she’ll be 13. Thirteen! If you haven’t been there, or even if you have, the prospect of a teenage daughter is, let’s face it, daunting. This is when all the scary stuff about vanity and rebellion is supposed to kick in, when the conditions implicit in unconditional love become that much more stark, when you’re acutely aware of the importance of every step you take as a parent and thereby unduly nervous about it. This is when you balance independence with control. This is when you hold hands but also when you let a bit go.

My daughter is now no longer at an age where knowledge is what is presented to her and absorbed effortlessly. Now, her curiosity shapes what she learns. She has the means at her disposal just like everyone now does (did you know that there is a Wikihow page on How to be a Good Daughter? Yes, there are 14 easy steps apparently). It is a bottomless, horizon-less world out there.

This is how she’s shaping up : Her room is the color of her favorite team – the LA Lakers (no, not Team India), on the wall there is a Justin Bieber poster (no, not Eric Clapton), and for mood, One Direction sing the Story of My Life over and Over Again. It is beautifully infuriating.

On the odd day, we sit down with her and talk of the value of friendship and choices. How far you go, baby, depends on who goes with you. Choose wisely. Beware the alluring sounds of alarm bells, for that is how they sound at that age. Be careful of the examples you follow and even more cognizant of the ones you set. Read. Write. Always read and write. Express yourself. Follow the news. Compete. Be kind.  It is our own little Wikihow.

And then, on a day to day basis, we keep a watchful eye. But some of the biggest examples of character come when you hardly expect them. About a year or so ago, Rhea told us of this initiative in schools here to volunteer in various ways for Cancer cure and research. She told us of her desire to shave her head , donate her hair, show solidarity, raise money, contribute to finding a cure and help those who waited for one. It was a decision with amazing clarity.

She had read about it, spoken with friends, understood what it meant and chosen to do it. Over the past year, her resolve has been unstinting, her excitement only increasing. It is probably what she has looked forward to the most. This wasn’t a parent’s idea of virtue carefully planted or spoon-fed. It was in every way her own initiative born out of her own sense of value.

So tomorrow, she will do what she set out to do. And I will be there to hold her hand

My daughter is older than that girl who first held my hand and I am proud that as she enters her teenage years, my daughter’s biggest strength is implicit in this choice that she has made. That for her, the real cancer is apathy and the only cure is empathy.

To walk in my father’s shoes, to make a journey home…

Rohit Brijnath, in The Straits Times this morning.

The grandest treasures of my childish universe lay in my father’s cupboard. It was unlocked and yet forbidden, full of manly secrets not to be shared with a boy. So, of course, when he went to work, I turned burglar. In a small tray, lay a huddle of riches. A half-eaten packet of peppermints. Two quickly swallowed. A one-rupee coin. Purloined. A hankie with “R”. Pocketed. A hotel comb from his travels. Tried. Cuff-links? Now what were these?

I ran my fingers over his shirts, I felt the weight of his faded, corduroy jacket. Touching my father’s world. Discovering him through the hint of cigarette smoke that infused his things. I opened a scarf and wore it across my face like a bandit. I envied his socks – why, I do not know, for my father remains among the planet’s most unfashionably dressed men. Except on Christmas Day when waistcoat, cravat and jacket appear. For an atheist he seems to make an effort on a holy day. But don’t tell him that.

Across from my father’s cupboard in his bedroom, as I moved like a soundless boyish thief across the carpet, was his walk-in closet. In the front rested an old spool tape recorder of more promise than performance, which was taken religiously to a repairman, an angular chap who clucked and squinted and probed with a screwdriver. It wasn’t a careless era where you simply discarded a hiccuping machine and bought another. Anyway, how could these men let it go: the technician because repair was his craft; my father because this machine had once delivered to him an unforgettable music.

In the closet, hanging above the recorder were my mother’s saris, a neat row of cascading colour, but it was below that lay the real prize.


My father is a middle-class man, who arrived from no money and built his life with sweat and intelligence. A man not covetous, not a cheapskate, just cautious. He will proudly claim he has had four shirts stitched for the price of a single, branded ready-made one. We will not discuss the fit and cut. When he visits me in Singapore, and inspects shoes in the shops, he is more calculator than connoisseur. He will convert dollars into rupees ($1 is Rs48) and then rapidly have a series of minor coronaries. He thinks those Use-By dates on sauces are a collective conspiracy by manufacturers to seduce us into throwing away perfectly fine products. I wouldn’t use his tomato sauce if I were you.

And so, for this prudent man, his shoes were few when I was a boy. One pair of sandals. An office pair or two. And two other pairs. The first was old, brown and suede; the second was black, leather with laces. Even boys have Cinderella complexes: I wanted to try them on. Of course, they were too big, in ways I didn’t yet understand.

I asked my father if I could wear them, but he, a man big yet gentle, did not want me to. Not yet. Those shoes were too precious to him, those shoes – the suede and the black leather – were his own father’s. When he looked at them, did he see his father, long gone, standing in them?

We tidy up after the dead but never fully, as if that would erase them completely. Maybe possessions are part of memory. My father cannot explain why he kept my grandfather’s shoes then and he cannot tell me why, at 79, he still has them.

But if I could not wear those shoes, my father offered me something else in return: I could learn how to polish them with him.

No one polishes shoes like men of that age. Love bestowed on leather. It is an affection for old things, it is respect for property, it is meditation with brush. It is craft: a newspaper is laid out, a hand inserted into the shoe, the shoe held at an angle. One brush to apply black Cherry Blossom paste, worked in like a dutiful painter, another brush to shine.

Hurry is banished here. Then, from an old box, a rag, whose smears are reminders of previous labours, appears. It is held taut in two hands and pulled across the shoe in a sawing motion. It is the search for sparkle. When the shoe glimmers, it is in fact being revived. Is more than leather being given life?

The years went by, I grew up into a gangly teenager and one day I must have stutteringly asked again to wear those shoes to a party and my father, lying on his bed, stroking his beard like Gandalf in glasses, agreed.

On came my grandfather’s shoes. Later, for fun, I’d even borrow my father’s shoes.

Something happens when you walk in them, as if you’re abruptly encased in adulthood, as if you’re part of some rite of polished passage. Only later you understand that these shoes cannot quite have the same meaning for you.

These shoes belonged to men born in tougher times, when the framework of a nation was being arranged, who built a life for you from nothing, who cared for their shoes because they couldn’t afford too many. The shoes of these men may have fitted you perfectly, but you, who can buy shoes now without a second thought, can never really fill them.

My father, till two years ago, polished his own shoes. I am not my father for my shoes are grimy and unpolished, but on rare days when I spread open a newspaper and prise open a polish tin and struggle to find that old shine, I smile. There are things fathers leave you which never fade.

This week I fly to India where he waits. To live far from your parents, as many do in this city, has one blessing: the journey home. It is like riding a song; it is as if no plane can fly fast enough; it is the anticipation of the moment when you swing open a bent, clanking metal gate and feel a familiar gravel beneath your shoes; it is the knowledge, not grim but real, that as your parents age you are running out of visits and that one day this journey will end.

I will find my father probably in front of his television. He loves this box of pictures and for 55 years he’s loved my mother: the first whom he yells unprintable stuff at when politicians appear, the second in whose direction he slyly mutters when she complains the volume is too high.

He has five grandchildren, one great-granddaughter, is irritatingly deaf but mostly has his health. He has almost everything and swears he needs nothing. No Christmas present, he bellows. But perhaps from a man I took so much from, and still do, I can at least take him shopping in his cold, noisy town.

You know what for: a pair of shoes, of course

On the loss of a Sporting Life

Rohit Brijnath in The Straits Times this morning on how no sporting loss more profound than loss of a life..

Grizzled writers weep over their laptops. Strangers in Australia place cricket bats outside their homes, leaning there like a salute, as homage to a fallen boy of theirs. The Indian hockey team, from a different geography, in a different sport, lay out their sticks in an act of athletic brotherhood. A tweet of grief comes my way, written by an Australian: “Driving home. On a cricket oval to my left an old man, with a fierce moustache, crying. His son dragging a bat through the grass.”

Phil Hughes, 25, the cricketer, who most of the sporting world had never met, has gone and it has staggered us. I never knew him, yet I mourn.

Loss is not a competition. There is no measuring tool to rate tragedy. For every family, every loss, of any person, of any age, is exquisitely aching. But the death of the young athlete seems different.

Partly because he is famous. We know him as a face on a screen and a voice in interviews. He tells us of his boyish ambition, he scrambles to realise his promise, we ride on his pimpled dreams. Connected by TV and Twitter, we grow up alongside them and with few others do we forge such intimate relationships. No journey is quite like this.

For many of us, irrespective of age, the young athlete represents the defiance of our own failures. Talent and circumstance tripped our greatness, but not with him. Not yet. In a way, he plays for us. Man’s youthful ambassador to some distant, untouchable horizon.

And so he lives among us, hope in sneakers. He is the poster on our walls, the scribble in our autograph book. Of course, we overdo the veneration, ego can blossom, riches can turn a man, but in the beginning, and Hughes was only 25, this much remains true – the young athlete chasing a ball, greatness swirling within his reach, is among mankind’s most innocent images. It speaks of possibility, of the pursuit of perfection, of youth unfettered. Now it has been stolen, like a page abruptly ripped from a book. A story incomplete.

Our heroes should be scientists, teachers, firefighters, social workers. But athletes liberate us in a different way, they let us travel in our own imaginations, they supersede even the Hollywood star. The actor’s flight over buildings is fake, a clever creation of computer graphics; the athlete, soaring past gravity and rivals and history to dunk, is real. He gets no second takes at match point. For that moment, our life stops. As he leaps, we will him further.

But one part of sport is never supposed to be real. It is never real war. It is never real life and death. As Tom Fordyce, who covered this same subject eloquently on the BBC website, noted, these are just exaggerated metaphors. From these sporting conflicts, in stadiums and arenas, he wrote, “everyone walks away to fight another day”. Or are supposed to. These heroes are not supposed to die. They are bruised, then they carry on. Their cars are mangled, then they limp out. They fall, then they stand back up.

But Hughes didn’t rise. Get up, you wanted to shout at the video. Please, get up.

Twenty years ago, Julian Linden, the fine Reuters writer, covered the tragic 1994 San Marino Grand Prix. In a recollection of the day, which he wrote about this April, he described journeying back to Bologna to his hotel at the end of a long day. When he got there, the receptionist was weeping.

“I asked her,” he wrote, “what was wrong but she didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak Italian so she pointed to the first edition newspaper that had arrived. The front page simply read: ‘Senna è morto’.”

How can it be, we asked then, as we do today. Invincible, we write in the newspapers about athletes. Immortal, we say. Indestructible, we chant. Of course, we know, this is not true, but the young athlete represents man at his physical zenith. He glistens with health, he can barely walk without wanting to run, he is built of ropes of muscle. In any meeting of inhabitants of this galaxy, he would be our specimen from Earth. To then see Hughes fall is to confirm what we never want to do with athletes. Dear god, he is human. No, they all are.

The athlete, as he grows, is our endless conversation. We criticise, we lament their silliness, we question their ambition. We can be cruel and they too slothful. We can over-praise and they can cheat. Later the athlete might write a book and wander with slower step among us at airports in his retirement. We never know a man fully till he has lived his life fully. And it is why the amputated story of Hughes haunts us.

Eventually, cricket will resume and writers will wipe their laptops clean. Man has to play on. New heroes will arrive, armed with new dreams. Most never make it to greatness, but it is not about gaining glory, it is about just being given a chance.

To chase potential. To make a career. To be better. To lose form, to find it again. To manage kids and captaincy. To be grey and slower. To live the athletic life.

To just play.

It’s all we wanted for Phillip Hughes. For all of them.