A Dream, A Promise and A Side-Story

This is the story of Pestonjee Pithawala, a Parsi man who lived in a small village near Mysore. The Parsi community had (and still has) only a very small presence in Karnataka, with most Parsis in the state residing in Bangalore (now Bengaluru). How Pestonjee’s family came to settle in that small village remains unknown.

Pestonjee was thin, almost frail in appearance, with a slightly comical look about him. His mannerisms were unusual and exaggerated, and people often found them funny and amusing. He owned a small poultry farm and supplied eggs from his farm to local shops, bakeries and restaurants. He remained largely occupied, spending most of his time moving between his home and his poultry farm. Though the villagers found him strange and often laughed at him, very few actually knew him well.

He was born in 1915. Though he was a good student and wished to become a doctor, due to the financial limitations of his family, he had to discontinue his studies while still in college. Before leaving college, he had fallen in love with a young woman. He wanted to get married to her but, since she was not a Parsi, neither her family nor his agreed to their marriage. The separation affected him and he became quieter, but he accepted his fate. All his life, Pestonjee had accepted what life threw at him. He had accepted leaving his education midway. He had accepted not marrying the girl he loved. Whatever small work and businesses he undertook in his early years, most of his earnings spent on his parents’ medical expenses and the education of his younger siblings. Very little remained for himself. Yet he never resented this. He accepted everything quietly.

To the outside world, he appeared miserly and obsessively frugal. Burdened with responsibilities, he had to account for every single rupee. People saw only a man who clung to money, not a man who was dependent on every coin for survival. He knew well what others thought of him. He accepted that too.

Eventually, at his family’s insistence, he married a Parsi girl, Delnaz Mistry. Delnaz’s family was from Bombay (now Mumbai). In the beginning, he felt no particular attachment toward his wife. In every way, Delnaz was an exact opposite of Pestonjee. While he was lean and quiet, she was heavy, quite jovial and talkative. She also had an innocent and pretty face. While he did not understand it, in a lot of ways, Delnaz completed Pestonjee and he could not have asked for a better companion. She would take care of him, the house, his parents and siblings and would always have a smile on her face. A very innocent and sweet smile. When he would return from work, she would serve him food and will sit with him. She knew that Pestonjee was incapable of expressing himself except through complaints - about bad deals, losses in business, and the constant worry over money. So, instead of waiting for him to say anything, she would do the talking. Pestonjee found it strange, but he listened.

It took some time but over the years, as he lived with her and observed her nature, he grew fond of her but in his own quiet way. He would not express it, but Delnaz understood it.

Years passed in the struggle of dutifully fulfilling the responsibilities. He took care of everyone. He was a good son, a good brother but probably not a good husband. While focusing on his responsibilities, he subordinated all his wishes and never even thought of the desires of his wife. He was so absorbed in caring for his family and meeting his responsibilities that he never built a family of his own. They remained without children.

Within a brief span of time, his life underwent a series of significant changes. In 1967, his mother succumbed to tuberculosis after a prolonged struggle. Over the next two years, first his brother and then his sister completed their education and moved forward in their own lives, never to look back. Then, in early 1970, his father passed away from complications arising from high blood pressure.

At the time of his father’s death, Pestonjee was about fifty-five years old. It was then, perhaps for the first time with clarity, that he realized he had never truly lived for himself or for his wife. They had no children. Their lives had revolved entirely around duty and obligation. Delnaz had cared devotedly for his parents and siblings, managing the household with sincerity. She herself had always struggled with her health. She had put on significant weight and was suffering from diabetes. She was extremely fond of sweets and would often secretly have sweets or candies. Pestonjee knew about this and would often express displeasure but would immediately feel bad after looking at her innocent and child-like expressions. Her condition had deteriorated to the point where even walking properly had become difficult.

Pestonjee has started to feel that his life had slipped past him without any joy. They had never traveled. Not to a hill station, not to a seaside town, certainly not abroad. They had not even indulged in the simple pleasures of brief trips to nearby cities - small outings that bring quiet happiness to a couple. They had never even watched a movie together.

He had begun to strongly think that he should at least take his wife somewhere, that they deserved to see something beyond the narrow lanes of their village. But her declining health made such plans seem impossible.

Once, the thought occurred to him that perhaps he could buy a car. It was far beyond his modest budget, yet he reasoned that it might ease the operations of his business as well. Owning a vehicle could help with deliveries and perhaps allow them small journeys. He tried to convince himself that it would not merely be an indulgence, but a practical necessity.

No matter how much he tried to reason with himself that a car would help his business, one truth remained unchanged - it was far beyond his means. He could not afford it. The thought lingered in his mind as he continued working, attending to both his livelihood and the routines of daily life. Yet a quiet question kept returning - what small thing could he do to bring even a little joy into his and Delnaz’s life?

He shared this restlessness with Delnaz. She, too, admitted that she often wished they could go somewhere together. However, since they ran their own business, she did not want him to consider taking a long holiday that might disrupt their income and cause financial strain. Instead, she said that if, after a day’s hard work, they could occasionally go somewhere in the evening - even for a short while - it might help them break free from the monotony that had overtaken their lives.

Hearing this made Pestonjee feel even more determined. A car remained impossible. A scooter or motorcycle, however, appeared more feasible, even if it remained beyond his budget. But every time he considered it, another worry arose that it would be uncomfortable for Delnaz. Mounting and dismounting would be difficult. The jerks and imbalance might cause her pain. He discussed this with her, and she confessed that she had thought of the same idea. Yet she agreed that given her weight and her difficulty in walking, such an arrangement might not be practical.

Still, Pestonjee kept thinking. And in his heart, he made a small promise.

A few years later, at the end of 1973, Pestonjee travelled to Mysore in bus to deliver goods to a customer. He also had to deposit cash in bank and purchase feed for his poultry farm. After finishing all his work, he came to the bus stand. Since the next bus was an hour later, he decided to sit at a book stall and bought filter coffee from a vendor. While sipping the hot coffee, he began casually flipping through the magazines at the book stall. One colorful magazine caught his eye. As he turned its pages, he came across a photograph of a motorcycle fitted with a ‘sidecar’ – a carrier in which someone could sit and the sidecar had wheels attached to it. In the picture, a man and his wife were seated on the motorcycle, and their two children sat comfortably in the attached side carrier. The wife had a smile on her face.

The image stirred something in him and an idea took shape.

He bought the magazine and went straight to a motorcycle workshop. Showing the photograph to the mechanic, he asked whether such a vehicle was available in the city, state or country. The mechanic explained that motorcycles with side carrier could indeed be found in larger cities. However, local workshops could also build a customized side carrier and attach it to any ordinary motorcycle at a lower cost. Though Pestonjee was extremely delighted and wanted to dance in the streets, he composed himself. Just to confirm once again, Pestonjee asked whether, if he purchased a motorcycle, the workshop could build such a side carrier for him. The mechanic assured him that it could be done. Pestonjee smiled, something which was rare. Promising to be back very soon, he walked out of the workshop with hurried steps and almost fell down stumbling on a canister of engine oil. The mechanic – Afzal bhai – and his bunch of assistants found Pestonjee’s walk and stumble quite hilarious and they laughed in the background.

For the first time in years, Pestonjee felt a surge of genuine excitement. When he returned home, he showed the photograph to Delnaz. A quiet glow appeared on her face – a glow which was a perfect blend of happiness and hope. Yet she gently and reluctantly asked him to reconsider the purchase and the expense.

“How long will we think only about money?” he replied softly yet firmly. “Perhaps it is time to think about ourselves.”

The very next day, he began searching for a motorcycle with renewed energy. A brand-new one was difficult to afford, so he contacted many people in search of a second-hand motorcycle. Eventually, he found one within his budget and in reasonably good condition – a 1942 BSA WM20 500cc motorcycle, a 496cc side-valve, air-cooled, single-cylinder, shining black motorcycle. It belonged to a Forest Officer, who had been posted in the village but was now being transferred to a distant state. Not wishing to transport the motorcycle so far, and eager to purchase a new one in his new city, the officer was willing to sell it at a modest price.

Because the officer was in a hurry, he agreed to sell it for less than its market value. Though Pestonjee wanted to get the bike inspected by a mechanic, he neither wanted to miss the deal nor wanted to prolong his wait. He immediately purchased the motorcycle.

Only then did another realization strike him. He did not know how to ride it!

Pestonjee then approached Zafar, a mechanic at a local workshop, and explained his predicament. He asked Zafar not only to teach him how to ride the motorcycle but also to keep it at the workshop until he felt confident enough to ride it on his own. He wanted to surprise Delnaz.

Zafar was reluctant. He agreed to ride the motorcycle to his workshop and keep it there but felt that teaching Pestonjee to ride would be too much effort. He also knew Pestonjee’s miserly ways and thought that he would not be adequately compensated. To get Pestonjee off his back, Zafar quoted a fee at least three times higher than what the work warranted. He did not expect Pestonjee to agree. Sensing his urgency, he also saw an opportunity to profit from the situation. For a brief moment, Pestonjee remained silent. Then, to Zafar’s astonishment, he accepted the amount without bargaining.

Zafar was taken aback. Everything he had ever heard about Pestonjee suggested that he would argue over the smallest sum. Yet here he was, accepting a high price without protest. The contrast between rumour and reality unsettled him. For the first time, he sensed that there might be more to this quiet, thin, awkward man than the town believed.

Zafar rode the motorcycle to his workshop. From the very next day, early in the mornings - and often again in the evenings - Pestonjee began learning to ride under the mechanic’s supervision. Within twelve days, he had gained enough confidence to handle the motorcycle on his own.

Zafar would frequently caution him. The motorcycle, he said, was rather heavy. Given Pestonjee’s thin frame, controlling it might prove difficult. He advised him to remain careful. Pestonjee would simply smile at these warnings. There was something he knew that Zafar did not.

Once he felt sufficiently confident, Pestonjee decided that it was time to take the motorcycle to the workshop in Mysore. Although he could now ride within the village, he was not yet comfortable enough to make the journey to Mysore on his own. So, while settling the payment for the riding lessons, he asked Zafar to accompany him.

Zafar did not know the purpose of the trip, and the journey would disrupt his work at the workshop. Yet, sensing the quiet excitement in Pestonjee’s voice, he agreed - and insisted that he would do it without charge.

Pestonjee smiled, his eyes filled with reluctance and gratitude. Zafar understood that had he asked for it, Pestonjee would have willingly paid him for the additional help.

Together they rode to the city and reached the workshop where Pestonjee had earlier inquired about the custom attachment. There, they met Afzal bhai, who was surprised to see Pestonjee return so soon. Pestonjee explained his requirements and showed him the reference photograph once again.

Zafar, who now understood what Pestonjee intended to do, was taken aback. He did not fully grasp why Pestonjee wanted a side carrier fitted to the motorcycle, but he chose not to question him. Quietly, he took his leave and got up to go to the bus stand. However, before Zafar could step out of the workshop gate, Pestonjee ran after him in his familiar, awkward manner and gave him a tight and silent hug. As Zafar walked away, he glanced back to see Pestonjee standing at the workshop gate, one hand resting on his chest, watching until he disappeared into the busy street.

Afzal bhai informed Pestonjee that building and fitting the side carrier would take about twelve to fifteen days, and that the motorcycle would have to remain at the workshop. With that decided, Pestonjee left to take care of some work in the city. However, before boarding the evening bus back to his village, he returned to the workshop, quietly hoping that the side carrier might somehow have been magically fitted by then!!

He returned to the village but the wait was unbearable. Pestonjee felt as though those fifteen days were the longest of his life. Delnaz could sense his anxiousness and was a little suspicious that something is cooking but Pestonjee managed to cook some good lies. When the time finally came, he decided to travel back to the city to collect the motorcycle. For a moment, he wondered whether he should ask Zafar to accompany him again. But by now, he felt confident - especially about handling a motorcycle fitted with the carrier. He decided to make the journey alone.

He reached the workshop by bus and saw the motorcycle standing ready. Attached to it was a matching black side carrier. The sight filled him with joy and left his speechless and teary-eyed. In his mind, he could already see Delnaz seated there comfortably.

Afzal bhai explained the structure in detail. The attachment, though fixed, was detachable. If Pestonjee ever wished to remove it, it could be separated from the motorcycle. After understanding everything and settling the payment, Pestonjee mounted the motorcycle and began his return journey to the village.

He rode cautiously at first, still unsure of himself. But as the miles passed, he realized that the added carrier made the motorcycle more stable. The risk of losing balance felt much lower than before. Encouraged, he allowed himself a brief moment of boldness and picked up speed.

As the wind rushed against his face, a faint tear formed in the corner of his eye. It could have been the force of the air. Yet it was not only that. He felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, a sense of liberation. A quiet freedom. And beneath it all was the knowledge that he would now be able to take Delnaz out, to give her at least the small joy they had not even known was possible.

By the time he reached home, it was night. He parked the motorcycle outside but said nothing to Delnaz. He wished to surprise her in the morning. After dinner, they retired for the night.

Sleep, however, would not come easily.

Several times he stepped outside to check on the motorcycle. Like anyone who brings home something precious, something earned with effort and sacrifice, he felt both excitement and a faint fear of losing it. The anticipation of revealing the surprise added to his restlessness. Again and again, he went out to ensure it was safe, that everything was as it should be.

At last, morning arrived. As the first light filtered in, he turned to Delnaz and gently said, “Come outside… there’s something I want to show you.” He led her outside and finally revealed the surprise. The moment her eyes fell upon the black motorcycle and the neatly attached matching side carrier, she stood still. For a few seconds, she said nothing. Then her eyes filled with tears.

She wanted to embrace him, but theirs was not a marriage of physical expressions of love. Often, they spoke through glances alone. Love between them had long ago settled into something quiet and understood. That morning, their eyes met, and everything that needed to be said was said. Both were deeply happy and were almost giggling in their excitement.

Pestonjee declared that he would not go to work that day. Instead, they would dress up and go out together. Delnaz’s natural instinct would have been to suggest that the ride can wait but she knew that her husband had waited long enough. She immediately went inside to get ready.

He bathed and dressed with care, as one does for a special and rare occasion. He chose a traditional white Parsi ceremonial outfit - the kind worn at weddings - a long white coat-like garment over white trousers, with black cap and white shoes. He knew that black shoes would have been better and appropriate with the outfit but he did not have a pair of black shoes.

While waiting for Delnaz to finish dressing, he stepped outside with a cloth and carefully wiped the motorcycle, polishing it as though it were something sacred. As he checked it over, he noticed that the petrol tank was nearly empty. He did not want any inconvenience once they set out, especially not for his Delnaz.

He went inside and told her gently, “Take your time getting ready. I’ll just go and fill some petrol.”

He rode out, refueled the motorcycle, and began heading back home. On the way, he decided to take a slight detour to check on his poultry farm. That was not required and the work could have waited. However, he did not have work in his mind. He merely wanted to give Delnaz enough time. In her excitement, she would likely try to hurry, though her health would not permit it. He wanted her to dress at her own pace, without feeling rushed.

He turned towards his poultry farm, parked the motorcycle outside, and went in to inspect things. He spoke casually with the workers, asking unnecessary questions. In truth, his mind was elsewhere.

While he was speaking, he suddenly heard a sound from outside - the unmistakable ignition of a motorcycle. For a moment he did not know how to react and he stood frozen. Then panic overtook him. His reactions, often slightly exaggerated and comical, startled the workers. He ran outside as fast as he could.

Upon reaching the street, he once again froze. He saw one man seated on his motorcycle and another in the side carrier. Suddenly, the engine roared and the motorcycle surged forward.

He once again ran – in his typical awkward way - towards the motorcycle shouting “Arre pakdo, arre pakdo, yeh mera motorcycle le kar jaa raha hai” (Stop them! Stop them! They’re taking my motorcycle!)

They laughed at him as they sped away.

For a few desperate seconds, Pestonjee ran behind them, shouting, trying to reach them, trying to stop what was clearly happening before his eyes. But he was no match for a moving machine. Within moments, they were far ahead. Soon, they were nothing but distant shapes. And then they vanished completely.

He stopped running.

His legs gave way beneath him. He sank to his knees on the dusty road, breathless and stunned. He could not fully comprehend what had just happened. He closed his eyes hoping that it was a nightmare. It was not and yet it was. The dream he had nurtured had been taken from him in an instant.

What happened to him afterward is not known. How Delnaz reacted when she learned of the theft is also unknown. Whether their lives changed after that day remains uncertain.

What is indeed known from the police and from local gossip is that the two men who stole the motorcycle were petty thieves who wandered from town to town committing small thefts. It was almost routine for them. While some accounts suggested that the thieves were not entirely devoid of a humane side, they often committed such acts thoughtlessly, rarely considering the harm they caused their victims.

They were best friends and were known as: Jai and Veeru.

Cheating: Lessons from the Last Bench

Whenever my daughter has a test or exam, I wish her in a light-hearted way. I tell her, "do not cheat but if you must cheat, do not get caught"! 

Recently, on one such occasion, she asked me if I have ever cheated. Of course, being a responsible father, I lied and told her that I have never cheated. However, it reminded me of some of the funny incidents that have happened to me related to cheating in tests or exams.

During my MBA, we also had to study Information Technology - including C++ programming and UNIX. To this day, I am not entirely sure why. Perhaps the college wanted to prepare us for every possible career path. 

For the exam, I had studied hard but had understood very little. In a moment of desperation, I wrote one program on a small piece of paper and kept it in my pocket. I also wrote another program on the desk where I was to sit. I had no idea what would be asked in the exam. My objective was simple: if nothing else, I would at least know how to begin and end a program. Yes, I was that bad in the subject.

The exam began. I turned the question paper over. Two questions were exactly the programs I had in my pocket and on my desk. JACKPOT!!

As soon as I saw those questions, I got down to business and started writing the answers like a well-prepared student. My friends, Dilip Kriplani (sitting on my left) and Ritesh Kumar (sitting in front) were obviously struggling and were looking at everyone with an expression of hopelessness and defeat. And then they saw me…and were shocked!

Ritesh asked me if I know the answers and I nodded. With disbelief written all over his face, he started pestering me to share the answers. I asked him to wait. This continued for few minutes and Ritesh got restless. He turned and grabbed my foot and violently shook it.

The invigilator saw that.

She walked over and scolded him: “If you do not know the answers, you may leave. At least do not disturb this boy who is writing so diligently. You should learn from him.”

I gave Ritesh a 'cunning smile'. Ritesh clenched his teeth! After the invigilator left, Ritesh turned back again and said few 'polite' words in frustration. Dilip and I tried very hard not to laugh - and failed.

I completed the two programs and, using them as templates, even attempted a third one. It turned out to be correct!!

While this is a funny incident (at least in my mind), when I think of cheating, a different incident comes to my mind. An incident where, unlike the previous one, I was at the receiving end.

We were in the final semester of MBA. By the final semester, everyone starts to focus on placements rather than case studies, assignments, tests and exams. For me and my best friend - Vikas Khaitan - nothing had changed as we had stopped worrying about those trivial things much earlier than others.

There was a test coming up (I do not recall the subject) and, like always, we had not prepared at all. I must add that one key difference between Khaitan and me is that I would at least suggest that we should study. He never suggested these things and in fact would completely dismiss such suggestions. On this occasion as well, I suggested that we should at least make an effort to study for the test but Khaitan dismissed the idea immediately. 

However, he came up with a compelling proposal and plan: his roommate, Vikram Tewari - studious, sincere, and always prepared - would sit with us, and we would copy from him. As I said, the proposal was extremely compelling and 'somehow' I could not refuse it!! We told Vikram about the plan and - being a nice guy (or may be because we were very nice guys) -  he agreed.

On the day of the test, Khaitan declared the seating arrangement: he would sit in the middle, Vikram on his left, and I on his right. This meant I would be entirely dependent on Khaitan’s copying speed. I voiced my concern. It was duly ignored.

The test began.

Vikram raced away like a Formula 1 driver from his pole position. Till this time, Khaitan was still settling down and 'setting things up'. After few minutes, I leaned to check on Vikram, who by then had almost reached the end of the first page of his answer sheet. Then I looked at Khaitan and there he was....drawing borders – slowly and carefully - on his answer sheet. Page after page.

I felt a cold wave of panic.

At that very moment, Khaitan started writing. I was relieved. He wrote one sentence. Then he paused. He reached into his bag and pulled out a pink highlighter. He then proceeded to highlight the borders and the only sentence that he had copied so far!!

By this time, Vikram had completed one full page and was staring at Khaitan's answer sheet in disbelief. For the first time, I was not alone in my anxiety. 

That is how the entire test went. Vikram would complete a page and then wait. Khaitan would copy at a leisurely pace, decorate his answer sheet, and occasionally admire his own formatting. I tried my best not to shit bricks and not to slow Vikram down, but I had little control.  

That day, I learned an important lesson.

No, not that one should study before an exam.

I learned that if you are going to depend on someone else, choose your position carefully. From the next test onwards, I made sure I sat directly next to the studious person.

A Belated Read and an Anticipated Watch

Musafir Cafe by Divya Prakash Dubey was published in 2016, but I discovered it only at the beginning of this year. Sometimes books arrive in our lives later than their publication date, yet at exactly the right moment - and this one felt like that. I read it, thoroughly enjoyed it, and even found myself compelled to write about it on this blog.

https://squash2scotch.blogspot.com/2026/01/a-breezy-relatable-read-musafir-cafe.html

What stayed with me most was how relatable and emotionally resonant the story felt. As I mentioned in the blog post, "I found the story relatable and emotionally resonant on multiple levels. It transported me back to a phase in life when everything felt exciting and beautiful..."

Recently, I learnt that Musafir Cafe is being adapted into a movie or series for Netflix. Naturally, this has made me quite curious and excited. I hope the screen version manages to retain the emotional connect, simplicity and charm that made the book special for me. I hope the adaptation also "hits the rewind button and makes me feel the strange pain in my chest - the kind I last remember feeling about 20-25 years ago, or perhaps even earlier".

Not My Natural Reaction

You said that you wanted to go. My natural reaction would have been to ask you to stay. However, these days, my natural reactions - out of love, affection, care, and concern - are being questioned and disliked. 

So I stopped myself. 

And I little piece of me died inside.

The Day I Dread, Long Before It Comes

A dear friend’s daughter left for Australia today to pursue higher studies. I do not know about the friend but somehow it is making me extremely emotional. I of course know the kid, but I am not even remotely close. We have hardly interacted. Yet it is making me emotional. She is still in transit, and I cannot stop myself from thinking about her, how she will manage everything, how she will cope up in a new country, and a new environment. She is a confident girl, and I know that she would be able to manage everything well. Then, why am I freaking out?

Or is it that I am thinking about MY little one? One day she would also step out of the house to explore the world. We have been over-protective, and I know that day I would be crying buckets and shitting bricks! 

Am I thinking all of that in my subconscious mind? May be. 

I do understand that eventually everyone has to find their own path. There is no escaping that truth. Growing up, I lived largely in a cocoon-like environment of military cantonments - with structured lives, protected spaces. When I finally stepped out into the real world, I was not ready. I struggled. A lot. But I survived. I adapted. I settled down. 

So logically, there is no reason why today’s kids - despite their carelessness, indiscipline, lack of life skills (wait… I seem to have accidentally switched on my Typical Dad Mode) - will not manage the challenges that come their way. In fact, they probably have far more exposure, confidence, and resilience than we ever did.

But I am scared. And I dread that day.

Cost of Closeness

If an angel were to grant a wish, many would ask for wealth, comfort, or joy. Others would wish for health and happiness for those closest to them. 

At other times, I might have chosen the same. But not today. Not at this moment...

At this very moment, my wish would be different. I would ask for the ability to conceal my emotions - my angst and pain - when they are caused by those I love, and for the power to not utter a word when an inner storm is stirred by their words or actions. 

The deepest suffering rarely comes from strangers.

नहीं रखता दिल में कुछ, 

रखता हूँ ज़ुबान पर

समझें न अपने भी कभी.....

What Blogging Means to Me: Shouting in a Deserted Street

I recently wrote a blog post and shared it with friends and family before publishing it. Since the topic was mildly controversial and referenced specific people, I wanted to be factually accurate and politically correct. 

They read it, approved it, and encouraged me to go ahead. 

The trouble is that most of them did not take any time in giving me the go ahead. Knowing some of them, I wont be surprised if a few just wanted to see what happens next!!! 

When the post finally went live and nothing happened, some of them sounded oddly disappointed. They asked why no one was reacting. I explained that I am not Chetan Bhagat or Amish Tripathi, and hardly anyone reads my blogs. That explanation disappointed them even more. But frankly, I was surprised they had assumed otherwise.

Since the expected 'explosion' never occurred, the next suggestion was even more interesting. I was advised to actively send the blog post to various people - including those who might be offended by it! 

Needless to say, I refused. 

For me, blogging serves two very simple purposes.

First, if there is a topic I feel strongly about - something that has been bothering me, unsettling me, or occupying too much mental space - I write about it. It could be a rant, a strong opinion, something that moved me or even plain cribbing. Writing helps me take it out of my system.

Second, once I publish a post, my opinion is out there. It feels like standing in the middle of a street and shouting at the top of my lungs. That, to me, is liberating. Now, whether the street is crowded or completely empty, it does not matter. Its irrelevant. I have shouted. People could have heard me. If they chose not to be there in the street, that is not my concern. 

And for some posts, I genuinely do not mind the street being empty!

What some of these friends expect is - since shouting in the street did not result in a Kambal Kutai (i.e., royal bashing) - I should now go knocking on doors and shout directly into people’s faces.

Sorry doston but I am not that stupid!! 🙂

I am happy shouting in my deserted street.

I Asked for an Image, Got an Experience

Creating images with AI can be both amusing and frustrating. While clear prompts are essential, even precise instructions do not always guarantee the desired outcome. In a recent attempt to generate an image using Gemini, I found the process unexpectedly cumbersome, frustrating but also hilarious! Below is my actual chat with Gemini, which illustrates the challenges I encountered during the image-generation process.

Me: Create an image of 2 friends running away from a shop with soft drinks bottles in hand. They are nervous. There is a scooter (lambretta) in the parking lot.Two male friends. One tall and one short. Running away from the shop. Each has a soft drinks bottles in hand.

Gemini: 

Me: Only one bottle each. Glass bottle.

Gemini:

Me: No. Each guy has only one bottle

Gemini:

Me: One guy is holding 2 bottles. Please remove one bottle

Gemini: 

Me: Now his hand is gone. Please fix that

Gemini:

Me: 😡😡😡 

A Tale of Two Soft Drinks: A Heist Gone Wrong

Watching a reel earlier today reminded me of an incident from 1997. My friend Gandharv and I had just cleared our Class 12 examinations and were roaming around the city (Ranchi), collecting admission forms for CA and CS courses. It is considered a 'deadly' combination for commerce students and people who know me, him or both would be surprised that we were interested in those two courses. To be honest, we had zero understanding of these courses but were were looking to get details regarding them because (a) we were clueless (b) Parents had begun asking the inevitable question about what would we do next and above all (c) it was a legit excuse for getting some fuel money and pocket money from home and roam around the city!

We were travelling on my scooter - the legendary Vijay Super, the Indian cousin of the even more legendary Lambretta. We did collect the forms. In at least one office, the official we spoke to gave us a condescending, almost suspicious look, as though he had already concluded that inka koi future nahi hai aur yeh maa-baap ke paise barbaad karenge (they have no future and will only waste their parents’ money)!!

After spending a fair amount of time in the city, we decided to stop for refreshments. Since we were using my scooter and fuel, Gandharv offered to pay - a fair deal. In any case, I had exhausted both my fuel and pocket money; my pockets were empty.

We went to the GEL Church Complex in Ranchi, a well-known shopping complex and a popular hangout spot in those days. At one of the confectionery shops on the first floor, we ordered two soft drinks - possibly Thums Up or Pepsi. Bottles in hand, we stood in front of the shop, engrossed in conversation.

At some point, Gandharv started walking, and I followed, still talking. We walked about ten meters away, turned around, and came back to the shop. We repeated this once more. On the third occasion, we walked even farther, almost reaching the staircase. Everything was perfectly normal.

Suddenly, in one swift motion, Gandharv placed the empty bottle down and sprinted down the stairs. I had no idea what had happened or what prompted this sudden action - until I saw him gesturing frantically for me to run as well. It then dawned on me that Gandharv had not paid for the soft drinks and had just fled!!

I neither had the courage to face the situation nor the money to resolve it. By the time I could decide what to do, Gandharv had crossed the parking lot and was already crossing the road in front of the shopping complex. I ran - more accurately, I galloped. In my nervousness, I fumbled with my scooter keys and dropped them. Picking them up, retrieving the scooter, starting it, and riding away felt far too slow and unsafe, so I abandoned that plan and ran after Gandharv, who by then was about 150 meters ahead.

When I finally reached him, I shouted words that cannot be written here and told him that he should have at least warned me. I then threw the scooter keys at him and announced that he would now have to now retrieve the scooter - and bring it back safely. The consequences of my army father’s wrath would have been far worse than getting caught by the shopkeeper.

He had no choice but to reluctantly return to the shopping complex. In his nervousness, he pulled the fuel knob - something that was meant to be turned - with force. And poor Vijay Super’s fuel knob gave way and now there was no way the scooter would have started or at least gone the distance. So now he had to run back but this time - with the scooter.

He did manage to return safely. Perhaps the shopkeeper had not even noticed the two jokers running away without paying. 

It was a great relief.

There was only one problem - the broken fuel knob. Since Gandharv had broken it, he had to get it repaired - which, like an honest and true gentleman, he did. Ironically, the repair cost him more than the two soft drinks he had tried so hard not to pay for.

More Than Six Sixes: Yuvi, the Fighter Within and Beyond the Boundary

Recently I read The Test of My Life, the ‘autobiography’ of Indian ex-cricketer Yuvraj Singh. While a lot of cricketers write autobiographies and take some help from more accomplished writers, this book must have required much more than ‘some’ help from his co-authors. The writing is vivid, soulful and engaging, making it easy to visualize events. The simple language ensures an effortless and immersive reading experience. Yuvi’s was extremely skilful with the bat, but I really don’t think he is even remotely as skillful with the pen! So, credit for the writing would go to the co-authors - Sharda Ugra, a respected sports journalist and author known for insightful cricket writing and Yuvi's friend, Manager and ex-journalist, Nishant Jeet Arora is also a co-author.

While the book touches upon Yuvraj’s childhood, his family, the role his father played in shaping his cricketing journey, his domestic performances before making his debut, the limited opportunities he received in Test cricket, his friendships, and his relationships with fellow cricketers, its primary focus remains an honest and deeply personal account of his battle with cancer.

Who is Yuvraj Singh? I recall Yuvi as one of the cleanest hitters of a cricket ball. Every cricket fan, of course, remembers the six sixes he smashed off Stuart Broad in an over during the 2007 T20 World Cup. He is also one of the few Indian cricketers to have won three ICC events: the Under-19 World Cup in 2000, the ICC T20 World Cup in 2007, and the ICC World Cup in 2011. And he did not just win them - he was Player of the Tournament in the Under-19 World Cup (2000) and the ICC World Cup (2011) and missed the same honour in the 2007 T20 World Cup by just one point. While his performances in 2000 and 2007 were outstanding, it was in 2011 that he truly carried the team, winning us the World Cup with a series of splendid all-round performances, both with bat and ball. I call him the man who won us the 2011 World Cup. (It triggers my father, who immediately jumps in to defend Sachin Tendulkar’s performances - and rightly so, as he too had a great tournament. We are both big fans of Sachin, but I firmly believe it was Yuvi who truly won us the World Cup.)

I also recall Yuvi as a gun fielder. Before he burst onto the scene, Indian fielding was largely mediocre. It was he, along with Mohammed Kaif, who truly raised the bar.

If I had to pick an all-time India limited overs cricket team, I would always include Yuvi.

Post the 2011 World Cup, when it emerged that he had played the entire tournament under extreme physical duress due to a tumour between his lungs - unaware at the time that it was cancer, a diagnosis that came much later and almost too late - the respect for his World Cup performances only grew stronger.

Hence, I was keen to read about his cricketing journey as well as his personal account of battling cancer. I read the book with great interest and came away with several key takeaways. They have been discussed below but in no particular order.

I was quite impressed that even while battling the disease, he did not blame his luck or ask the inevitable ‘Why me?’ Instead, he reflected on how he had never attributed his successes to luck either. He never asked the God 'Why me' when he scored big runs, took wickets, had the big moments, won the awards. If he had never questioned why good things came his way, he felt he had no right to question why adversity did. It is so natural and easy to blame luck and play victim. It is not fair and It does not help. It is important to pick ourselves up and fight.

I feel Indian cricketers are often unfairly criticized for having a flamboyant lifestyle - going to nightclubs, being seen with girls - and I find it extremely unjust. What a cricketer (or anyone) does in their personal time is nobody else’s business. Everyone likes to have a good time, yet some are branded as ‘bad boys’. On this Yuvi makes an interesting point in the book that “It is well-known that I love having a good time, isn’t it? I’ll tell you what. I go into clubs and restaurants through the front door, not hiding through the back, because I believe at a certain age, it is fine to want to go out and have fun and be normal. It is normal to be normal”. I completely agree. We demonize parties and people who enjoy them for no good reason. Yes, if the cricketer goes out for form then talk about his poor performances and drop him if required. However, if a player is able to balance both, no one should have an issue. There is a difference between being fun and being indisciplined. We somehow fail to segregate the professional and personal lives of celebrities.

The book is also a reminder of how often we fail to see the pain behind a smiling face. I remember during his cancer battle, Yuvi had started sharing messages and pictures on Twitter, often showing him smiling and laughing - and honestly, it was such a relief to see. Yet, I don’t think any of us truly understood what he was going through. The book reveals how weak he had become, his desperate urge to get back to India and to the dressing room, and the self-doubts that had started creeping in. We never realized this because Yuvi chose not to show it. I found it deeply relatable.

I was also impressed by the professionalism of the doctors and experts Yuvi consulted. When his cancer was detected, he had initially planned to get treatment in London and had met a senior doctor, Dr. Harper. However, before chemotherapy began, the family decided to shift the treatment to the United States - under Dr. Lawrence Einhorn at the IU Simon Cancer Center in Indianapolis [The reason for the change in location is also interesting and divine]. What struck me was Dr. Harper’s reaction. He did not question the decision or -  intentionally or unintentionally - instill doubts. Instead, he said that the treatment in London would have been identical, but "if it happened to my son, I would send him to Dr Einhorn." I cannot imagine many doctors in India responding that way.

It reminded me of an episode in my life - back in 2007 - when I consulted several doctors in New Delhi for a spinal tumour my father had been diagnosed with. Some doctors in Kolkata had said surgery was the only solution but warned of high risks, including paralysis or death. That of course psyched out my father and all of us. I travelled to New Delhi to consult doctors there. I wanted opinions on the next steps, the type of treatment, and where to get it done. Almost all the doctors insisted the treatment should be under them; one even started showing videos of the surgeries he had performed. When I mentioned that my father was seriously considering the Army Research & Referral (R&R) Hospital, most of them discouraged the idea. Eventually, my father was successfully operated on at R&R Hospital, and the surgeon there was highly professional.

Reading about Yuvi, I could imagine the relief and confidence he must have felt with Dr. Harper’s words - a level of honesty, respect, and professionalism that is rare and deeply reassuring. 

One more thing I found extremely relatable was how Yuvi, before his cancer diagnosis, ignored all the warning signs his body was giving him and delayed tests and treatment until it was almost too late. He kept convincing himself it was just exertion, lack of sleep, something he ate, or some minor medical issue. When the tumour was finally detected, and before it was confirmed malignant, he ended up trying acupuncture on the advice of a so-called well-wisher with their own agenda! Honestly, that’s probably the most bizarre tumour treatment I’ve ever heard of. Yet, I found it completely relatable, because I too suffer from FOFO - Fear Of Finding Out.

The book also discusses in detail the role of his father, Yograj Singh, himself a former Indian cricketer. Yograj comes across as a temperamental man who speaks his mind and does not care for political correctness. While I’ve never seen him play, everything I’ve read and heard suggests he was a fairly decent fast-bowling allrounder - a rare breed back then, and one that remains rare even today. Why he did not play more for India remains something of a mystery. He attributes it to politics, which could well be true. It could also be his temperament. After all, honest and straightforward people don’t always win popularity contests.

It is easy, therefore, to see why many view Yograj Singh as a frustrated and bitter ex-cricketer. Yet, what cannot be denied is that Yuvi would not have become the player, match-winner, and warrior he did without his father’s relentless effort, strictness, absence of indulgence, and constant demand for more. In many ways, Yograj Singh gave Indian cricket a gem and played a crucial role in our World Cup triumph.

I will admit, I personally lack discipline, and while reading the book I found myself wondering what it would be like to have someone like him pushing me to fix my flaws. Even imagining it was terrifying!

Lastly, the book made me think about something Yuvi himself acknowledges - that his recovery and comeback would not have been possible without the support of the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI). The BCCI stood firmly by him, protected his privacy, monitored his progress, kept track of his treatment, and took care of the financial aspects. It was also because of the world-class facilities and support available through the BCCI that Yuvi could make a comeback.

I cannot help but imagine that had this happened to an athlete from a ‘less privileged’ sport, the story might have ended very differently. Without financial backing or institutional support, survival itself would have been a challenge, let alone a return to professional sport. The BCCI is often criticized for being political, power-hungry and overly capitalistic, and to a large extent that criticism is valid. But it is also true that it has built a system capable of genuinely taking care of its cricketers and stakeholders. And for that, credit must be given where it is due.

Towards the end, Yuvi talks about his comeback journey, and it was genuinely moving to read. I admit that my own memory of his comeback is a little fuzzy, and I cannot recall too many standout innings after his return. But reading this section made me realize that the comeback was not really about numbers or scorecards. It was about simply finding his way back.

He writes about how difficult it was to lose the weight he had gained, rebuild fitness, and push his body every single day. There were moments when his mind asked him is all the effort worth it, what else does he want to achieve, what does he want to prove. But he came to an important realization - that the mind’s questions were actually the body’s protest. "A few hours of rest and the body would be silenced and the mind could easily win the debate." That line stayed with me. (Just stayed with me; do not think that I am going to hit the gym tomorrow!)

While training at the NCA, he recalls hitting Ishant Sharma for a six - probably his first six after cancer, even if it was with a tennis ball. That one shot gave him immense joy and confidence. He describes it as 'muscle memory' kicking in, as if his old life was linking arms with the new one.

Later, after making his way back into the Indian team, he remembers a moment against New Zealand when Daniel Vettori floated one outside off stump. Without overthinking, his body took over. A decisive step across the crease, the bat coming down, arms following through, and the ball sailed over wide long-on for a SIX.

Was it a big deal for someone who had hit countless sixes in his career? Maybe not on paper. But this one was special. It made him (and me) emotional. It symbolized that there was life after cancer. The life post his cancer battle is his second life and Yuvi did not just return to cricket - he learned to cherish each baby steps in his new life - the first match, the first six, the first Player of the Match award, the first 200-plus score in domestic cricket. By any measure, it was a remarkable comeback.

Eventually, Yuvraj Singh retired in 2019, and he recently mentioned in an interview that he stepped away because he no longer felt backed or respected. He had hoped to be selected for the 2019 World Cup but was overlooked. I can understand the disappointment - everyone wants a final hurrah (his father actually wanted him to continue for another 5 years!!). At the same time, it is also fair to acknowledge that by 2019 he was 37 years old and no longer the fit, destructive batsman he once was. His non-selection for that World Cup was not entirely surprising.

What I do find unfair, though, is that he was overlooked for the 2015 World Cup. He should have been picked purely out of respect and as a salute to his contribution. His domestic performances were not poor, and he could easily have been included. Big-match players like Yuvi have a habit of surprising oppositions when it matters most. The fact that he was not considered in 2015 only reinforces a familiar feeling - that we are an ungrateful nation.

I strongly recommend The Test of My Life for its honesty and emotional depth. It is a deeply moving and relatable account that goes far beyond cricket, offering valuable life lessons on resilience and discipline. While cricket fans will naturally connect with the sporting journey, the book is equally relevant for anyone who has faced illness, adversity, self-doubt, or major life setbacks. It is particularly worth reading for those seeking perspective, strength, and inspiration in difficult phases of life.

On Respect, Recognition, Biasedness and Overreaction

Recently, I came across clippings from a television interview of Mary Kom on 'Aap Ki Adalat with Rajat Sharma'. The interview attracted widespread criticism, largely due to the tone she adopted and certain remarks she made while speaking about her ex-husband. As someone who has long admired Mary Kom, I found the interview deeply disappointing.

Mary Kom’s achievements need no reiteration. She is one of the most accomplished athletes in Indian sporting history: a six-time World Amateur Boxing Champion, an Olympic bronze medalist, Asian Games and Commonwealth Games gold medalist, and a recipient of India’s highest sporting and civilian honors, including the Padma Bhushan, Padma Shri, Rajiv Gandhi Khel Ratna, and Arjuna Award. Beyond boxing, she has served as a Member of Parliament and is widely regarded as a pioneering figure who helped bring visibility and acceptance to women’s boxing in India. 

Several of Mary Kom’s major awards and victories came after she became a mother, and this is widely regarded as one of the most remarkable aspects of her career. Her journey from humble beginnings in Manipur to global sporting acclaim is inspiring enough to have warranted a biographical film. I have been a big fan of Kom.

It is precisely because of this stature that her remarks felt jarring. Publicly discussing personal disputes is rarely dignified, and in this case, it seemed unnecessary. More troubling was the manner in which she questioned her ex-husband’s role and contribution, making statements along the lines of “what kind of man lives off a woman’s money,” alleging that he withdrew money without her consent, and mentioning that he never had a successful career. These remarks were tasteless.

One could argue that this was a case of being caught off guard by the media. People who are not media savvy, can get sucked into a drain in front of cameras. Television seeks headlines and can exploit personalities; Mary Kom did seem to have been drawn into that trap, which did not favor her long-term reputation. However, after watching the clips, it is difficult to attribute everything to lack of media training. The remarks did not seem accidental; they appeared to reflect genuine beliefs. There seemed to be a clear lack of respect for her ex-husband as he did not earn much and, during their marriage, remained dependent on her earnings.

The videos and comments of Mary Kom triggered several thoughts and emotions. For example, it immediately reminded me of a remark made by actor and stand-up comedian Chris Rock that “Only women, children, and dogs are loved unconditionally. A man is only loved under the condition that he provide something.”

It also raised a hypothetical question. What if the comment was made by a successful man for his wife who, quit her job and set aside her passions to take care of home and children? What if the man had said that his wife was not successful and had belittled her contribution? What if the man had questioned her for withdrawing money or spending money without his permission?

All hell would have broken loose. The backlash would have been swift and severe, ...and rightly so.

This also brought to mind a personal anecdote involving two people I know. One of them is an entrepreneur - intelligent, driven, and successful. After a strong career in financial services, she pivoted to start her own business, which is now doing well and receiving media attention. She is married to someone I know, and both are part of a common WhatsApp group. Lets just call her - Sierra Kilo.

On one occasion, Sierra Kilo shared a news item or media coverage related to her business in the WhatsApp group. It naturally triggered a wave of congratulatory messages. Everyone applauded her success. One member of the group – the second character in this anecdote – congratulated her 'and her husband' in his message. In my view, it was a jovial, light-hearted, and seemingly harmless comment, likely sent out of courtesy since Sierra Kilo's husband is also a member of the group...though it certainly could have been avoided.

He referred to the husband as a “sleeping partner,” which, in my interpretation, served a dual purpose: to include the husband and at the same time, not take anything away from Sierra Kilo. I DO NOT believe the term was used in a formal business sense (Sleeping partner (also called silent partner) refers to a person who invests capital in a business but does not take part in its day-to-day operations or management). She, however, did not appreciate the message and objected on the WhatsApp group, clarifying that the business is a 'sole proprietorship'; she is the 'only Founder' and she runs it 'single-handedly'. 

It did not need clarification but its okay.

However, the matter did not end there. She subsequently wrote a 200+ word LinkedIn post on the subject. In it, she questioned why, when a woman entrepreneur succeeds, people say, “Congratulations to you and your husband.” She questioned why “educated, well-meaning individuals struggle to fully acknowledge a woman’s independent professional journey?”. In her words, “I was taken aback. But only briefly. Because, truth be told, this isn’t new. So I did what I always do – tuned out the noise, focused on the work, and kept going.”

The post got some ‘Likes’ and supportive comments, predominantly from women.

I found the <over>reaction immature, over-the-top and reflective of a tendency to frame the situation through a victimhood lens, while simultaneously projecting an image of being brave and unfazed.

What about the common phrase men have heard for generations: “Behind every successful man, there is a woman”. This has been said about business leaders, sportsmen, and almost every man 'who made it'...if he had a female partner. It has even been suggested that gallantry award winners from the military could fight for the country as there was a woman taking care of the home. How many men have posted about it and tried to play the ‘Victim Card’? How many say that why are you taking some credit away?

I feel that whenever it is said that “Behind every successful man, there is a woman”, it is meant as a compliment for the woman, acknowledging their emotional, domestic, or logistical support. I admit it is a big support and must be acknowledged. That is why, most logical men would never take offence, whenever they hear this.

This brings the discussion back to Mary Kom. Was her husband not providing similar support? I cannot claim personal knowledge of their marriage, but in several earlier interviews, Mary Kom herself openly credited her husband, Onler Kom, for standing by her, managing the household, and caring for their children while she trained and competed. She had repeatedly said she could not have achieved what she did without his support.

Why, then, does that support no longer merit acknowledgment? Is it because they are no longer together? Because the gap in their public and financial stature has widened? Or because personal grievances have reshaped her perception of his role? Whatever the reason, it appears that she is no longer comfortable sharing even a fraction of the credit she once willingly attributed to him. That is entirely up to her but she has no business mocking him in front of millions.

Let me make it very clear that the intention of the post is not to bash women (yeah right...too little too late) but I admit that I am getting dangerously close to that territory. I am just sharing my views on avoiding over-reactions, acknowledging your partner (if and wherever possible), being respectful and .....not having the 'Feminism ka Suleimaani Keeda'. (Oh no! I was this close to de-escalating the situation and I screwed up again!!)

On a serious note, my observations are not about any particular gender; I fully acknowledge that men are often insensitive and frequently discount women’s contributions, at times quite blatantly. Another real-life example illustrates this, involving people I know (examples, it seems, are closer than we often think).

A woman I know is married into a family that appears to be well-off (not certain as I am yet to ask them for their bank statements). They are into several businesses - including a two-wheeler dealership, possibly with multiple outlets. She and her husband slogged their asses off to establish and grow the two-wheeler business. While it may have appeared to several people (or they assume) that the husband has done everything, I know for a fact that she also managed several aspects of the business along with managing home and kids. I am not alien to the automotive industry and I had several discussions with her and was always impressed by her understanding and inquisitiveness. They were also planning to expand into a four-wheeler business, and both devoted immense effort over the years to make it happen.

Despite her relentless work and juggling of responsibilities, which included businesses, home, children, husband’s health, in-laws, another person (I know him too) repeatedly made disrespectful remarks. He would often suggest that she is all set, what does she have to worry about, she can chill and enjoy the fruits of her husband’s hard work and enjoy his wealth. 

Highly insensitive (Buddy, you make all of us look bad). In this case, a question similar to the one asked by Sierra Kilo - why educated, well-meaning individuals struggle to acknowledge a woman’s hard work - is entirely valid.

So, stupidity clearly has no gender.

Anyways, much has been said already. Ultimately, this discussion is not about taking sides or keeping score. Contributions, whether professional, emotional, domestic, or logistical, should neither be belittled nor exaggerated to suit a narrative. Acknowledging a partner’s support should not feel like a dilution of one’s own achievement. Genuine insensitivity should be called out but at the same time, if you do not like a comment, do not over-react turn it into a public outrage. 

The real maturity lies in balance: recognizing effort and support where it exists, calling out bias where it is real, and resisting the urge to turn every imperfect interaction into a larger battle.

(NOTE: If you are curious about how the individuals in the two anecdotes responded, here is what followed. The man in the first instance chose not to react to Sierra Kilo’s response; he was taken aback but decided to let it pass. In contrast, the woman in the second instance addressed the remark directly and firmly at an appropriate moment. She is no abla naari - in fact she is quite the opposite - which is precisely why I fondly refer to her as Jwaala Daaku!!)