if -- memories from the time of B&W TVs rekindled by an instagram chat, and penned down thanks to a writing prompt

The word 'if' always reminds me of Rudyard Kipling's poem by the same name. My favourite lines are these: 'If you can meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same'. I don't recall when I read the poem fully for the first time, but I vividly remember when I heard these lines.

I was 8-years old and watching the Wimbledon Tennis Championships men's final with my dad. A young blond kid whose eyebrows were barely visible walked out onto Centre Court along with a visibly older player -- Boris Becker and Kevin Curran. As they stepped out, the commentator read out these same lines which are inscribed at the locker room exit onto Centre Court, quite sure that the younger of the two would learn a lot that day. The rest, as they say, is history. Becker was the youngest champion and the first German to win the title. He was also super cute, and I became a fan.

Cut to the present.

I've been a Federer fan since I watched him play a few feet away from me, long before he became famous. I've laughed, marvelled, had my jaws drop, jumped up and down, held my heads in my hand, chewed up my nails, cried my heart out and screamed myself hoarse. Poetry. Poetry in motion, every single time.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to an Instagram chat between Nadal and Federer -- eight minutes long, filled with affection, admiration and deep respect for one another. For those of you who may not follow tennis, it's rare to find someone who is a fan of both players. It's almost impossible. Many reasons contribute to this including their styles of play, personalities, dressing sense, etc. but the most important reason is that each has handed the other some of their most heartbreaking losses. The line between triumph and disaster has indeed been very thin.

But if Roger and Rafa can treat those two impostors just the same, what will it take for us, their fans? 

Ode to Oscy

It's been a week since Oscy passed on
And not a day has gone by
Without me thinking about something he'd done
Many a time, on the sly

Paper, plastic, rubber bands
Anything was he game for
Slinking away, silently chewing
Even a dirty diaper
He must've loved the letter C
For his favourites began with it
Cucumber, coconut, chapati and cheese
He gobbled up every bit

Whenever I went into the kitchen
Or opened the fridge door
He would instantly be there looking up at me
Or sniffing at the floor
Just in case I'd dropped something
He wasn't always particular
But if it were Parle G
He thought it was spectacular

I make it sound like he only ate
And didn't do much else
But no, he was a most active chap
Evinced by his tiny bell
Which rang every time he walked
Or sprinted around the house
True that he hadn't been wearing it for some time
But sneaked about like a mouse

Every morning when I came down
He'd be waiting there for me
To nip my ankles, ask for a treat
And stare expectantly
But what I loved even more
Was how he played when I tried to leash him up

Before I took him out for a walk

Ah, he ran around like a little pup

He wasn't wise or grumpy
But simply goofy and so sweet
He was little, yet large
With a presence that's hard to beat
Many parts of the house
Remind me of him
Especially his kitchen corner
With the light above so dim

I miss seeing him curled up
In the laundry pile
Or in his bed under the stairs
As if he'd walked a mile
From his little bowl
He drank so much water
And if that wasn't enough for him
He'd drink from a brass planter

From under the glass dining table

He always stared up

His melty eyes ensured

That our dues were paid up

With everyone at home

He had a special bond

We all miss him in our own ways

Many memories we'll hold, forever fond

It's Oscy's birthday today

A teenager he would've become

I'm sure he's celebrating somewhere

Our little rascal, and then some

rainbows

rainbows in the sky
so many after so long
bright. bold. beautiful.

hanging together

pastel shades, and nude and neon
tiger stripes and polka dots
pitch black, pure white
logos, letters, hearts
ankle length, knee length and somewhere in between
padded and not, maybe an underwire
bikini, boy shorts, boxers,
all fluttering about gently in the breeze
content in their little spaces
but often nudging one another
swaying to the sound of the birds
intertwining briefly
as if playing Chinese Whispers
giggling at the gaffes, teasing, mocking
smelling more like rain as they dry out

hanging together

unhurried

enjoying their time out in the sun

such a pretty sight
the clothes line

reminders

everywhere i turn, i am reminded
of times that were great
and even ones that were good
why, i'll even take the ones that were better
than now

and it's not just at home

but on the streets

as i walk past stores

and restaurants

and tea shops

sometimes i pause
and think for a bit
i try to relive
i try to recall
memory, and muscle memory

those times that we chatted

even something irrelevant

those times that we hugged

and maybe when we kissed

or held hands

i have to be honest

that it's a struggle

thoughts are so powerful

and they sometimes

override memory

that's the thing

memory fades, quite quickly too

i haven't forgotten the feeling

but i have forgotten the feel

yeah, there is a difference

what helps then are reminders

pictures, as faded as they may be

 and keepsakes, no, not ones bought

but a tissue that we wrote on

or a coaster stained with booze

a shell that recorded more than the sound of the sea

a bill from a bus ride

a goofy smiley scribbled

a codeword we created

anything

something

to keep going

hoping

feeling

believing

living

loss

it's been just a week
but memories of four years
feel like a lifetime

George Michael - Untitled

George Michael was my first pop star crush. The image of him with a blue jersey, longish hair and arms crossed is so vivid in my mind--my first poster. His music played incessantly at home, in the car and everywhere else possible. 'Faith' was an oft-hummed and whistled tune in the house, even by my parents. When my friends and I listened to the album, I turned down the volume (a bit) to 'I want your sex'. 'Ladies and Gentlemen' was the last album I bought, and 'Jesus to a child' was my favourite, if I could actually choose one. Hope, in times of despair and sadness.

On a somewhat recent trip home, I found a faded and torn life-size poster that my parents had gifted me for a birthday--torn jeans, white vest, bracelets, stubble, aviators, leather jacket slung on the side and staring away at a distance with a smile. Ah, I wish I had taken a selfie with it.

He was sexy, he was cool and he had a fantastic voice that held a note time and again oh so brilliantly!

All things past, for he is no more. 2016 turned out to be his last Christmas after all.  

And what have I learned 
From all this pain 
I thought I'd never feel the same 
About anyone 
Or anything again

But now I know 
When you find love 
When you know that it exists 
Then the lover that you miss 
Will come to you on those cold, cold nights

When you've been loved 
When you know it holds such bliss 
Then the lover that you kissed 
Will comfort you when there's no hope in sight

Your music will always comfort me. mwah.

crazy little thing called love

it comes in many forms

yet, we struggle to understand it

an ideal version is what we look for 

one that fits the norms

that have been ingrained in us

a perfect other, a soulmate

someone who understands everything

who gets us in and out

right from the first date

isn't that what the movies say

not just the movies, but books too

and music, even those who rock

and comics, posters, cards and more

reinforce that this must be true

can we blame ourselves for believing it

but what happens to the rest

who have loved us and who still do

in their own way without definition

a way that, in us, brought out the best

all thanks to the multiplicity

of thoughts, feelings and experience

of what they've learnt and seen

in a gentle voice that doesn't judge

and to converse, is ever so keen

where do all these connections go

why do they get lost

is it because we sometimes pull each other 

so far apart that there is a cost

a toll that leaves us drained over a period of time

all because we want to possess, and feel, "they're mine"

also because we're louder

and supposedly mentally stronger

but are we really that

or are we hiding behind a mask

one that either smiles or looks tough

because both help handle the harshness

oh we've been wearing it long enough

and then one day we realise

the damage this has caused

from closing these other worlds

until at some point, when we are paused

by some circumstance or the other that lets us think, breathe and be

and look at our lives, minus all the certainty

then dawns an understanding

one that doesn't come from books

or movies, posters or cards

but only from taking a good look

at all that's happened in our past

everything that's shaped us

things that we can never change

but things that have made us

it's us, and them, and so many more

that we need to forgive for our own sake

it isn't easy, but what else do we do

so we don't make the same mistake

and more important so that we may find

the spirit that seems long gone

the one that was shaped by many

the one that will never be alone

can we bring back these worlds, one by one

back into our lives

and start slowly on the road to find

dare i say, sanity and a love that doesn't bind

Growing (up) pains - Part two

Protagonist: "Ma, I want a hair style like that guy."
Uncool mom: *stares at the pic of a guy with long weird hair* "Who is that?"
Protagonist: "He's in One Direction."
Uncool mom: *blinks stupidly* "What's his name?"
Protagonist: "Harry Styles"
Uncool mom: *thinks she's being funny* "Shouldn't it be Hairy Styles or Scary Styles?"
Protagonist:  "That's not funny, ma. He looks so cool! I want to grow my hair like that!"
Uncool mom: *horrified at what is going to come next* "What?!"
Protagonist: "Is there a way to write to them? I want to join their band!"
Uncool mom: *trying to appeal to his senses* "You know you can start your own band since you play the violin and others you know play the piano and drums?"
Protagonist: "Really? But I just want to join One Direction. Can I write to them now?"
Uncool mom: *not sure whether to laugh or pretend to be serious* "Sure, I'll check for their id."
Protagonist: runs off to the partner in crime saying "Guess what, I'm going to write to One Direction and join their band!", completely unfazed by the lukewarm response, "They're not going to take you."

As I recounted this story to a friend, she said that his joining will make them a better band for sure since they stunk at the moment. I thought "My God, it's his first band crush and it's One Direction! How horrible!", and then realised that's how my parents probably felt when I told them that I loved Wham and George Michael!

Yep, it all comes around...and how! I wrote Part one in 2011--another lifetime it seems like. Needless to say, my two cute whisperers have only grown up even more since.

Who said only tweens and teens felt growing pains!

The player and the fan age (gracefully)

Was it only yesterday that a win or a loss would leave us both in tears, and my throat, perhaps more hoarse than yours? After all, you only yelled 'Come on!' when you thought that the shot you hit was perfect or if you won a tough point. Unlike me. I said it for every point. Your down the T serves at crunch time, your backhand crosscourts and your forehand drive volleys -- I would talk about them all day to whoever cared to listen. You probably thought about those too. I mean, you wouldn't have to talk about them to those around you, would you? They see that brilliance day in and day out.

Yesterday, however, was different although it started off as usual. Something changed after the second set. Maybe it was the early break, and the knowledge that the set had slipped away because it would be too tough to fight back. Did you feel that way too? I did. Your body language showed it but you still produced flashes of genius that left people hoping -- fingers and everything else crossed. The older me would've continued to scream and cheer and sit in the same spot that won you the second set. But I didn't, because I knew -- things have changed. You realised it too.

Yet, some things haven't changed -- I'm still superstitious and I'm guessing that you are too although how your family wasn't in the same outfits as they were on Friday is beyond me. Maybe they do other things, like eat the same food or carry something in their bag.

Is it age? Is it the plethora of things that occupy our older and wiser minds? Maybe it's our children. You, wondering if it was now their time and me, watching mine (at least one) cheer for your opponent.

At the end of it, I think that we are both gracious. You, in your defeat, and me in my mental acceptance of the changes that I will need to make in addition to the ones I already have. One thing I know for sure -- neither one of us will give up as long as we feel something that is, perhaps, hard to explain to others.

And we will go on with our lives, secure in that thought. 

Same clothes, same spot -- Sunday July 12

Today's match was peRFect not only because of the genius that is Federer but also because so many people in the world sat in the same spot, did the same thing, wore the same clothes...you get the gist.

Join me. Same clothes, same spot on Sunday, July 12.

What? Superstitious? ME?

of friendship and crazy minds

long chats late into the night
crazy talk all through the day
lots of faces in the room
both familiar, and not.

similarities and differences galore
a range of experiences
of life, love and friendship.

at different times we met
and groups we formed
but what firmly remained
was the sameness.

each relationship so unique
each bond so special
was it you that enabled that?

where do we go from here
when do we meet again
it may be soon or not
life's too busy at times.

but, it doesn't matter
because whenever it is
we know what to expect
the sameness, the craziness
thank goodness for predictability, sometimes.

written June 11, 2015

9/1/2002

New York and September said in the same breath often bring back memories of the twin towers -- 9/11/2001. But not for me. 9/1/2002 is what I remember, because that's the day I saw my two idols Pete Sampras and Roger Federer at the US Open.

It was my first time at the Open and I had grounds passes for fourth round play. As tempting as it was to buy an Arthur Ashe stadium ticket to watch the top seeds in action, my inner voice reasoned, "Why should you pay so much to sit so close to the heavens?". Ah, the smart inner voice saved me at least $40 then but that wasn't all as I would find out later. So there I was, armed with a $20 pass to roam around the USTA Center at Flushing Meadows all day long.

What started off as a bright, sunny day when I left my home in not-too-far-away Connecticut turned into a cloudy, grey cover that threatened to burst at any moment. No amount of hoping and praying could hold off the rain in. It began to pour around noon and it was relentless. I hallucinated that I were at Centre Court Wimbledon, at that Cliff Richards were singing but no! It was only piped music -- Nelly's 'Hot in here', Enrique Iglesias' 'Hero' and I think there was some Shakira, too. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. No one was enjoying the party and organisers finally announced that if rain didn't let up by 5 pm, play would be called off for the day and ticket money refunded.

There were loads of sighs, "I can't believe this shit" and much worse expletives. Deciding to have some fun on an otherwise gloomy day, I walked out to the refreshment stands to get a beer. I wish I could say that I bumped into Sampras and Federer while at the stands but no, that's not what happened. It was something even better. In a sheer moment that can make one believe in many things unbelievable, the rain slowed to a light drizzle and the sun came out, first slowly peeping from behind the clouds, and then in all its glory!

Dare I hope?

No, not yet but there was a sudden flurry of activity -- covers removed from the courts, water sucking machines (or were they vacuum cleaners of some sort?) doing their thing, ball kids with towels wiping everything they possibly could -- and the crowd was slowly getting back into it, cheering everyone and everything on. I ditched my beer and rushed to the Louis Armstrong Stadium, or was it the Grandstand court (they are adjacent to each other), which was starting to fill up and grabbed a seat in the front row near the service line, just watching and taking it all in. In some time, the announcements about court assignments began, and that's when the excitement kicked up another notch.

Usually, the schedule of play including which courts would feature which players is published ahead of time but because everything was so delayed due to the rain, the backlog was massive and there were readjustments galore. Even the top seeds weren't safe inside Arthur Ashe stadium. I only cared about one match -- Pete Sampras' very delayed third round against Greg Rusedski -- and when it was called for the court where I sat, I knew that it was my reward for having turned my back on the beer!

I didn't know how much longer Sampras, my 2nd tennis idol after Ivan Lendl, would continue to play. Rusedski had said that Sampras seemed a step too slow before the Open began and I remember wanting to punch his face if I ever came close to it, and here was my chance! Well, I could at least heckle him, couldn't I? Nervous excitement filled me, much like when I used to ready up for my matches, albeit on a much smaller scale.

Amidst all the music and announcements, all of a sudden the players walked out on court, Rusedski first waving to everyone followed by Sampras with his usual half smile and bent head. I had tears in my eyes -- not sure if it was the emotions or the pain from the pinch I had given myself to confirm that I wasn't dreaming. Sampras hit one perfect serve after another and volleyed with such precision that I felt like it was going to be his year again, irrespective of what the critics said. I don't remember how long they played, but I had screamed myself hoarse in the 4 sets that it took for Sampras to win. Sadly, I didn't get a chance to punch Rusedski's face; even first row seats court side didn't get me that close.

The many non-stadium courts that make up the USTA Center had matches of top seeds aplenty. Lleyton Hewitt, the defending champion, was playing Jiri Novak. I watched for a bit but even Hewitt's fist pumps and "Come on!", couldn't keep my attention. My thoughts kept drifting back to the match that had just finished. So I got out of there and headed to the refreshment stand, and on the way passed by a board that said M. Mirnyi versus R. Federer. I had watched Mirnyi (who was called the Beast) at another tournament and found his serves to be deadly and ground strokes really smooth but Federer, I had heard of only in passing.

Must've been serendipity. The players had only then come in for a changeover and the ushers were letting the crowd get in and out. So I walked in and sat on the bottom most steps of the gallery. The instant I watched Federer serve, I knew I had found idol number 3. There was no effort, it was just poetry. As I continued to watch him play, his one-handed backhand, which I have a penchant for, almost made me tear up again. Unfortunately, Federer lost that match but as the cliche goes, won many hearts that muggy summer night with his genial smile, cute pony tail and razor sharp game.

As I had predicted (to myself), Sampras went on to win that year and Federer had to wait until 2004 for his first US Open title.

I've often wondered what would've happened if it hadn't rained that day and play wasn't delayed. What if I were a Hewitt fan and had stayed to watch his entire match with Novak therefore missing seeing Federer play? And what if I had got tickets to Arthur Ashe stadium instead of just the grounds passes? I would've been closer to the heavens but wouldn't have seen the Gods!

It's taken me 13 years to document this experience, and it was largely inspired by Rahul Jacob's article titled 'The joys of being a McEnroe and Federer fan' in the Business Standard, June 27 2015.

'The' moment

It seemed to her like it was only yesterday when she was chasing after them to keep their routine irrespective of what day of the week it was. A change in bed time or meal times had repercussions for the next day. How would they handle that? How would she handle that?

Fast forward to today and there they were...all plonked on the bed in front of the TV at almost midnight watching Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban eating corn puffs and chips! When did they change so much? When did she change so much?

Many moments came to mind but nothing struck her more than that one moment - when he came into their lives and they became family. Related or not, family they had become and nothing could change that. Each one counting on the other for different things but all, knowing and secure, that they were together. That moment was the change. That was when she (and they) had let go.

Oh was this the beginning of the wonder(ful) years?

Wishful thinking - Part Two

I wrote this for my daughter.

And now, this.

I wish I could be fearless. I wish I could be innocent.

I wish I could be amused by climbing up and down stairs a hundred times a day.
I wish I could be amazed by tractors and diggers everytime they pass me by.
I wish I could be so tickled when a goat bleats.
I wish I could call my teachers 'aunty', smile and get away with everything.
I wish I could cry to get someone's attention and be picked up.
I wish I could laugh uncontrollably right after.
I wish I could show my love by licking someone's nose.
I wish I could just snuggle cutely into a blanket at any time of the day.
I wish I could forget as easily when I've been yelled at.
I wish I could smile so wide everytime I see someone I love.
I wish I could love without limits.

I wish I could make my little one understand how thankful I am to him for letting me experience all this.

I wish that it would last forever.

Wishful thinking

I wish I could be fearless. I wish I could be innocent.

I wish I could want to shake hands with a spider and lizard.
I wish I could touch pigeon poop and be amused by it.
I wish I could laugh uncontrollably seeing a dragonfly zoom by.
I wish I could smile at every kid that I see.
I wish I could be amazed by falling rain.
I wish I could pretend to be cooking and feed the world.
I wish I could be honest about everything that I understand.
I wish I could cry out loud every time I don't get what I want.
I wish I could hug and kiss every time that I do.
I wish I could hide in my mother's arms when I don't want to see someone.
I wish I could have my father swing me upside down and pull at his beard.
I wish I could make my little one understand how thankful I am to her for letting me experience all this.

I wish that it would last forever.