800 Kilometres for a Dosa

One of the most eventful road trips of my life happened in 2005.

Me and some of my MBA batchmates were working together in a company in Bangalore and, along with another office colleague, we planned a weekend trip to Udupi, roughly 400 kilometres away. The group comprised five of us: Subhasish Sahoo, Biraja Sahu, Prachi Rastogi (all three are my batchmates and ex-colleagues) and Sunil Ghorpade. Subhasish, Biraja and Prachi were good friends. Sunil, at that point, was merely a colleague from another team. Today he is a good friend. Perhaps because we survived this trip together. Or perhaps because we shared a common tormenter.

I do not remember how this particular combination of people came together or who first suggested the trip. I was invited, and I joined. 

We were to travel in Sunil's black Tata Indica. Since he was the only one with a car, I suspect that was the primary qualification required for his inclusion in the group. (Sunil - if you read this, you must know that even if that is true, it was not my idea. It is not my style!)

The plan was to leave office on Friday, 7th October 2005, drive overnight and reach Udupi the next morning. However, like most road trips, the start was delayed. We were all supposed to meet at the flat shared by Subhasish and Biraja. If memory serves me right, it was Sunil who arrived late. Eventually, we started well past midnight, technically on 8th October. In hindsight, that delay may have been a blessing because we managed to avoid Bangalore's legendary traffic jams and cruise through the city.

Despite the hour, spirits were high. We were chatting, sharing funny incidents, someone was talking about food, someone was pissing Sunil and me off. So....essentially a typical road trip with friends!

Sunil was driving and I was sitting in front passenger seat. Subhasish, Prachi and Biraja were in the backseat.

Around 4:30 in the morning, we stopped briefly. It was to empty our bladders and refill it with beer. In reality, we were lost! 

We had arrived at a junction where two roads diverged and none of us knew which one to take. I think both roads eventually led to Udupi but, much like life choices, one was probably sensible and the other regrettable. We simply did not know which was which. 

After seeking advice, debating the matter at length and applying the collective wisdom of five sleep-deprived adults, we confidently chose....the wrong one.

The road we selected had streetlights while the other appeared dark. That must have been a major factor in our decision-making process. Unfortunately, about ten kilometres later, the streetlights disappeared, the road narrowed, the darkness deepened and the surroundings began to resemble the opening scenes of a low-budget 'Ramsay Brothers' horror film.

It was a perfect setting for someone (Hello...I am Someone!) to start talking about some spooky stories. 

As the song Hotel California began playing, I shared an urban legend I had once heard. According to the story, the song possessed satanic powers. There had supposedly been an incident in which hostel students in different buildings committed suicide after listening to it. The story claimed they jumped around the same time and that the song was subsequently banned by some radio stations. While the rest listened with growing curiosity, Prachi repeatedly protested and insisted that we stop discussing spooky stories in the middle of a dark, deserted road in the middle of nowhere.

The moment I finished narrating it, the car hit something and came to a violent stop.

The headlights went out.

Suddenly, five of us were sitting inside a dead car in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by complete darkness. For context, it was so dark that I could not see my own hands. Prachi suggested that I step out and look what happened. I ignored it like Sunil and I ignored most things that Prachi said on that trip.

Unfortunately, remaining inside the vehicle indefinitely was not a viable solution. We eventually stepped out and attempted to understand what had happened. We examined the car, exchanged theories and displayed varying degrees of confidence while possessing absolutely no knowledge.

After some time, a truck stopped. The driver took one look at the vehicle and announced that a rod connecting the front wheels had bent and needed repair or replacement. To this day, I do not understand how that would explain the headlights going out. I continue to blame Hotel California.

Somehow, we managed to get the vehicle moving and crawled to the next village, which was about an hour away. We asked around for a auto workshop, located a mechanic, woke him up, got the car repaired and then drove to another town to have the wheel alignment fixed. Despite our delayed departure, we had originally expected to reach Udupi by 7AM. We finally arrived sometime after 4PM.

We were tired and sleepy. The sight of the hotel was comforting. When we reached the hotel parking, I was desperately looking for a bed and pillow. And that is precisely when Sunil and I managed to lock the car with the key still in the ignition. Nobody was inside. All the doors were locked. All the windows were shut!

We stood there staring at it, hoping it was a bad dream. It wasn't. Though it was indeed a nightmare unfolding in broad daylight.

The hotel guard suggested a workshop about a hundred metres away. We went there with no hope whatsoever. The place looked as though it only repaired vehicles from the World War II era.

We explained the problem. "Easy job," they said. I remember being sarcastic about their (over) confidence.

Two men from the workshop accompanied us back to the hotel parking lot. One walked beside us. The other, who looked about our age, walked ahead carrying a flat metal strip roughly a foot and a half long. He had the swagger of Viv Richards walking out to bat. The confidence was impossible to miss. I was convinced reality was about to humble him.

Halfway there, he turned around and asked, "The vehicle does not have central locking, right?"

"It does," Sunil and I replied together.

He did not give much of a reaction and continued to walk ahead of us...but now a little slower. The spring in his stride had reduced. I thought... There....now his bubble has burst. I mentally congratulated myself on being right. 

He reached the vehicle before us and, by the time we caught up, the car was already open!!! 

Just like that!! No drama. No struggle. No suspense.

He and his companion then walked back to their workshop, refusing any payment. He was not doing it for money. He was simply a superhero helping two helpless men.  

The car was open, but Sunil's worries remained. "If it is this easy to open the lock, how safe is it to leave the car parked here?" he asked. At the time, I thought it was a ridiculous concern. I pointed out that, by that logic, he could never leave his car unattended anywhere. Years later, after buying my own vehicle, I understood exactly what he meant.

We finally rested...briefly. Very briefly.

Subhasish had no intention of wasting valuable sightseeing time on something as trivial as rest or sleep. He produced his Bible, Outlook Traveller Weekend Breaks from Bangalore, and announced that we needed to visit a temple and then proceed to Mitra Samaj restaurant to eat the famous 'Outlook Masala Dosa'. The dosa - a family size one - had been featured in Subhasish's Bible and the restaurant had renamed it to Outlook Masala Dosa. 

Subhasish was not asking or seeking opinions. Sunil and I looked at each other and then at Subhasish with hope that he would have some pity. He showed none.

I finally objected. There was no way I was visiting a beach town and beginning my sightseeing with a temple and a restaurant. We would go to the beach first. Thankfully, better sense prevailed and we reached the beach before sunset. We could not spend much time there because darkness was approaching, but we agreed to return early the next morning to watch the sunrise over the sea.

I cannot blame anyone else for that idea. It was entirely mine. I wanted a nice photograph of the sun rising over the horizon. Emerging out of the sea! 🌅

After the beach, we visited the temple, which was beautiful and pleasantly uncrowded. Then we finally had the legendary Outlook Masala Dosa along with lassi. On the way back to the hotel, I bought some alcohol because I suffer from a peculiar problem. When I am extremely tired, I struggle to sleep.

The alcohol did not help. Neither did the new and unfamiliar surroundings. Nor Sunil's frequent peeking from the window to check if the car was still there. As a result, I got the least sleep among all five of us. Yet, I was the one who woke everyone up before dawn. Anything for that photograph!

Nobody was pleased. But everyone came anyway.

We reached the beach while it was still dark. In fact, it was so early that the guards appeared suspicious of our intentions. Perhaps they thought we had come to have booze. Perhaps they thought we had come to commit suicide. Perhaps they thought we had come to kill Prachi. The third option was most probable.

We walked a little, found a spot on the sand and sat down to wait for the sunrise. Some of us chatted. Some yawned. Some briefly dozed off. All of us stared out towards the sea, patiently waiting for the sun to emerge....from the sea!!

We were so tired and sleep deprived that our brains were not functioning properly. After waiting for an eternity, someone noticed a shadow. A shadow??!!?? 🤔

Subhasish was standing behind us. His shadow was falling across where we sat.

And that was when it 'dawned' upon us!

Udupi is on the west coast of India. While we had been staring at the Arabian Sea waiting for the sun to rise from it, the sun had quietly risen behind us!!!  

The entire exercise had been pointless! We had sacrificed precious sleep, dragged ourselves out of bed before dawn, marched to the beach and waited patiently for a sunrise that was happening in the opposite direction.

There was a brief silence. Then came the blame game. Then came the embarrassment. And finally came the laughter. A lot of laughter.

Later, we had breakfast, and by the time we returned to the hotel, it was time to check out. After getting ready, we left for a boat ride to a nearby island before beginning the long drive back to Bangalore.

Looking back, the trip makes very little sense.

We drove more than 800 kilometres, slept for only a few hours, got lost, broke down in the middle of nowhere, frightened ourselves with ghost stories, locked ourselves out of the car, and returned home exhausted.

For what?

A temple visit. A lassi. An oversized dosa. And a sunrise that happened behind us!

But then, the best road trips are rarely about the destination. They are about getting lost on the way and having enough namooney (characters) in the car to make it memorable. After all, nobody remembers a trip because everything went according to plan.

Click for Video of Our Trip

We Won....Again!!

 

We Celebrate Athletes. We Watch Cricket.

Every time there is a major cricket tournament and an Indian athlete from another sport achieves something remarkable, a familiar debate begins. People start saying that all the money in Indian sport goes to cricket. The criticism becomes even louder when the Indian cricket team underperforms while an athlete from another discipline shines on the international stage.

I find this argument unfair and often disconnected from economic reality.

First, let us understand a basic fact. Cricket in India is not rich because of government backing or funding. The Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) is a private body. It is registered as a society and does not receive regular government funding in the way many people assume. The money in cricket comes primarily from the market, not from the state.

Why does the market reward cricket?

Because people watch it.

India watches cricket on a scale that no other sport can match. International matches, the IPL, domestic tournaments, highlights, analysis shows, YouTube clips, fantasy leagues and endless debates dominate public attention. 

In many parts of India, if two local teams are playing a match on an open ground, people will stop and watch for a few minutes. Very few sports command that kind of organic interest.

The Indian Premier League is not merely India's biggest sporting event; it is one of the most valuable sports properties in the world. The IPL ranks second only to the NFL in per-match media rights value and is among the most-watched sports leagues globally.

Because cricket attracts viewers, it attracts advertisers. Because it attracts advertisers, broadcasters are willing to pay enormous sums for media rights. Because broadcasters pay enormous sums, franchises become valuable. Because franchises become valuable, players earn more.

Brands do not pay Virat Kohli huge endorsement fees out of charity. They do it because he delivers visibility and consumer attention. IPL team owners do not invest hundreds of crores because they simply love the sport. They invest because there is a business case. The money follows the audience.

Now lets look at the example of Punjab sprinter Gurindervir Singh, who recently created history by clocking 10.09 seconds in the men's 100 metres at the National Federation Cup in Ranchi, becoming the first Indian ever to break the 10.10-second barrier and setting a new national record. It was a phenomenal achievement and a landmark moment for Indian athletics. The entire country should celebrate performances like these. We should be proud that Indian athletics is pushing new boundaries and producing athletes capable of rewriting long-standing records.

However...if I am not mistaken, the qualification standard for the men's 100 metres at the Paris Olympics was 10.00 seconds, while the world's elite sprinters regularly run in the 9.8 to 9.9-second range. In other words, while Gurindervir has become India's fastest man, he still has a mile to go in order to compete and perform at an even higher level. He needs support to continue to get better. 

Will millions of Indians now start following athletics because of his achievement and to support him? A few people might. Most will not.

For a few days, social media timelines will be full of appreciation. News channels will run segments. People will express pride. Then many of us will return to watching cricket. That is not criticism. It is the fact. It is simply (and unfortunately) how sports consumption works in India.

The same applies to many of India's sporting icons. We admire Neeraj Chopra. We admire Sunil Chhetri, Baichung Bhutia, Mary Kom, P. V. Sindhu and Saina Nehwal. We proudly celebrate their achievements whenever they bring glory to the country.

But admiration does not translate into viewership.

How many of us regularly watch Diamond League events because Neeraj Chopra competes? How many watch football leagues every week because we admire Sunil Chhetri and other Indian footballers? How many follow badminton tournaments throughout the season because we support P. V. Sindhu? The numbers are nowhere close to cricket.

This is precisely why cricket generates more money. 

Even within cricket itself, the economics tell the same story. Many people ask why Smriti Mandhana does not earn as much as Virat Kohli or Rohit Sharma. The answer is not difficult to understand. Kohli and Sharma attract significantly larger television audiences, digital engagement and stadium attendance. Greater attention generates greater revenue.

To BCCI's credit, Indian men's and women's cricketers now receive equal match fees for international appearances. That is a progressive step but to be honest, it look likes an attempt to get some brownie points and popularity votes. Central contract payments are still different, and endorsement earnings remain vastly different, reflecting the commercial realities of the game and the revenue generated by each product.

Whether we like it or not, sport is also an entertainment business.

None of this means the government has no responsibility. It absolutely does. The government must provide infrastructure, coaching, training facilities, sports science support and roadmaps for talented athletes. India still has a long way to go in many of these areas. Better support systems can help athletes compete at the highest level and inspire greater participation. But there is a limit to what governments can achieve through funding alone. They must find a way to bring in corporates into the dynamics. 

At this stage, corporates and brands may occasionally step forward to sponsor individual athletes, especially those who have achieved success on the international stage. In many cases, however, such support is driven more by corporate goodwill and social responsibility than by commercial considerations.

The economics become very different when it comes to investing in an entire sport. Brands are willing to spend large sums only when there is a sizeable audience and Return-on-Investment (ROI). Without sustained viewership, the commercial ecosystem simply cannot sustain itself.

That is why the real challenge for most sports in India is not merely producing champions. It is creating an audience. Because once the audience arrives, the sponsors, broadcasters and investors will certainly follow.

The fact is that cricket's wealth is, in large part, a reflection of our own choices. We created this market. We consume cricket more than any other sport. We discuss it more, watch it more and spend more time on it. So before blaming the government, the BCCI or corporate sponsors for cricket's financial dominance, perhaps we should ask a simpler question: do we watch other sports as much as we watch cricket?

If the answer is no, then we are part of the reason cricket has so much money and other sports do not.

Leaving It to The King

IPL Final day. RCB vs GT. Two good teams.

GT have the home advantage. They know the conditions, they'll have the crowd behind them, and their bowling attack is probably stronger. RCB, on the other hand, have the batting firepower. RCB fans would also flock the stadium. All signs point to a proper cracker of a game.

As an RCB fan, I'm excited, hopeful, nervous and anxious all at once. Yet somehow, I can't shake off the feeling that things may not go our way today.

So I've left it to one factor: King Kohli.

If he plays a great knock and takes RCB to victory, I will be happiest. If he doesn't deliver and RCB still wins, I would of course, still be happy. But if he fails and RCB fall short, I won't be too bummed. I'll just accept that maybe it wasn't meant to be.

For now, all I can do is sit back and hope the King brings his A-game tonight. Aaar Ceee Beee!❤️🖤

Our Love Language

Some couples send flowers. Me and my wife send Bubu-Dudu reels to each other. That's our love language!! And now I create some for her. 

The Real 'Darr' Was Outside the Theatre

Was listening to a song recently and got reminded of an incident from 1993.

Growing up, summer vacations more often than not meant one thing. A trip to Patna.

A large part of my extended family lived there. Several of my Buas and Phuphas, along with countless cousins. As a kid, I used to be incredibly excited about those trips. In fact, I used to be jealous that my cousins got to spend so much time together while I met them only during vacations. Summers in Patna meant large family gatherings, games, cricket, good food, ice creams, endless stories and complete freedom. Honestly, what else does a child need?

One thing that happened very often during those vacations was family movie outings. Not small groups. The entire clan. Sometimes twelve to fifteen people together or even more.

During that trip, the plan was to watch Darr, starring Sunny Deol, Shah Rukh Khan and Juhi Chawla. Even before its release, the movie had become hugely popular and was generating tremendous interest. Tickets were obviously difficult to get. So, like every large Indian family, responsibility was delegated to the younger boys.

One of my cousins was given the task of arranging tickets. I went along with him. Two of his friends joined us as well since they also wanted to watch the film with us. The four of us landed at the theatre early in the morning - probably around eight or eight thirty - because we wanted to beat the crowd and get tickets for a truckload of people.

We were expecting chaos. We had mentally prepared ourselves for pushing crowds, long queues, disappointment, maybe even failure. But to our surprise, the exact opposite happened. The ticket counter had just opened and within minutes we had all the tickets we needed. Just like that.

Mission accomplished! We found a phone booth and informed others that we have managed to get the tickets!

But then came a new problem. If my memory is not failing me, we were still around 90 minutes away from the start of the movie.

This was the early 1990s. There were practically no options to spend time that early in the morning. Most shops were still shut. Only a few eateries selling chai, samosa, jalebi and similar snacks were open. Going all the way back home and returning again for the movie felt unnecessarily exhausting. So we stood outside the theatre trying to figure out what to do.

That is when I noticed something strange.

My cousin and his two friends had started discussing something quietly among themselves. Every few seconds, they would look at me awkwardly and continue whispering. It was obvious that his friends were nudging him to ask me something, but he was unsure how I would react.

For context, I was almost fourteen years old and this cousin was around two years older than me. So he and his friends must have been around sixteen. We lived in different cities but studied in the same class, so our relationship was more like friends. Still, there was visible hesitation in the air.

Finally, I asked what was going on.

After some visible reluctance, he told me.

Before the morning show of Darr, the theatre was running an adult film in the early morning slot. And the three of them were discussing whether we should use the waiting time to go watch it. He asked me if I was okay with the idea.

A hundred thoughts ran through my head instantly.

Until that moment, I had never watched an adult movie in my life. I was not even 14. So naturally, I was nervous and deeply uncomfortable. But at the same time, like boys and men often do, I desperately did not want to appear inexperienced or scared in front of the others. Internally, I was absolutely shitting bricks. Externally, I tried my best to look calm and unfazed.

I agreed.

But not before raising what I thought was a very important concern.

Darr was supposed to start in around 75 minutes and knowing our family members, most of them would probably arrive only 60-80 minutes later. But what if, for once, they actually arrived early? They would notice that we were missing. Worse, they might see us walking out of the theatre.

That, ironically, was the real Darr. 

(For my non-Hindi speaking readers - and I would like to believe that people actually read this blog - Darr means Fear)

I raised this point partly because I genuinely feared getting caught and partly because I hoped it would make them abandon the plan altogether. To my relief, the point landed. They looked at each other and agreed that it was a valid concern. 

Unfortunately for me, they were not as Darr-pok as I was. (Darr-pok means coward)

The adult movie (I do not recall the name) had already started, so they quickly came up with what they believed was a foolproof plan. We would immediately buy tickets, go inside, watch the movie for no more than 45 minutes and come out well before our family members arrived.

I had to admit, it sounded logical. And with that, the plan was put into action.

We bought the tickets and entered the theatre. There were only a handful of people inside. We quietly went and sat in a corner. The movie had already been running for some time.

Technically, I was watching the movie. Mentally, however, I was sitting on a ticking time bomb.

Not because the movie itself was particularly scandalous. In fact, from what I remember, it was mostly terrible and had very few actual adult scenes. Whatever 'adult content' it had was mostly limited to occasional nudity rather than anything explicit. My cousin and his friends were giggling occasionally, not on the scenes but at the expressions of people sitting in that dark theatre - early in the morning!

Meanwhile, I was doing only one thing. Checking my watch every few minutes.

After around 25 minutes, I elbowed my cousin and whispered, “Should we leave?” 

He looked at his watch casually and replied, “There’s still a lot of time.”

Five minutes later, I asked again. Same response. This happened a few more times.

Finally, after spending about 40-45 minutes inside the theatre, my cousin agreed to leave. Maybe he got irritated with my constant questioning. Maybe even he had started getting nervous.

The moment he agreed, I practically sprang out of my seat. I led the group toward the exit like a man escaping a crime scene. My only objective was to get out quickly, reach a safe spot outside and ensure we did not get caught by any family member.

The exit opened into a narrow roofless alley beside the theatre which connected to the parking area in front.

I walked out first, almost charging through the alley. And then, in what felt like a perfectly scripted twist written by a sadistic Bollywood writer, I froze...

Around 15 steps away stood a man holding a large video camera on his shoulder. And he was recording people coming out of the theatre!!

For a second, my soul left my body.

Thankfully, this was one situation where none of us needed discussion, consensus or strategic planning. Without saying a word, all four of us instantly covered our faces and sprinted past the camera like fugitives escaping a police raid.

We did not stop running until we were at least a hundred metres away from the theatre.

Once we finally caught our breath, we looked at each other. Every single face was pale. The confident 'men' who had decided to watch the movie had vanished. Only four scared boys remained.

After waiting for some time, we cautiously walked back toward the theatre, but only after a large crowd had gathered outside. We quietly stood in one corner and noticed that the cameraman was still there and he was accompanied by a couple of others.

After asking around, we discovered who they were.

It was the crew of Ankhon Dekhi, one of the most respected investigative journalism programs on Doordarshan during the 1990s and early 2000s. Hosted by journalist Nalini Singh, the show was known for fearless reporting and social issue investigations across India.

And that day, they were shooting an episode about children falling into bad habits.

The real problem was this: my immediate and extended family never missed an episode of Ankhon Dekhi.

Eventually, the family members arrived and after some time we stopped thinking about the incident. Frankly, what else could we do? All of us watched and thoroughly enjoyed Darr.

That particular episode of Ankhon Dekhi was not aired immediately. It probably took a couple of weeks and by then we had already returned from Patna. Back then, we did not have cable TV (or dish TV) at home. Unlike today’s world of endless television channels and streaming platforms, back then Doordarshan was pretty much our only source of TV entertainment. Yet for the next several weeks, I kept inventing excuses to prevent my family from watching Ankhon Dekhi.

The day the episode finally aired, I do not think I watched it myself.

I found out later that the episode thankfully did not contain the blockbuster scene that could easily have converted my life into a full-fledged horror movie.

At the beginning, I mentioned that listening to a song reminded me of this incident. The song is Jaadu Teri Nazar from Darr. I love the song but even today, whenever I hear it playing somewhere, I instantly get transported back to that morning in Patna. 

Looking back now, it is funny how terrified we were. Four boys acting like fugitives after watching forty minutes of a terrible adult movie. But at fourteen, reputation, fear and imagination combine in strange ways. And for a few weeks in 1993, I genuinely believed my life could be destroyed by Ankhon Dekhi.

A Proud Bihari at Cellular Jail

Someone recently shared a photograph listing the political prisoners from Bihar who had been incarcerated in the historic Cellular Jail. The implied suggestion seemed to be that the relatively small list reflected Bihar’s limited contribution to India’s freedom movement.

The picture immediately took me back nearly twenty years. I had seen that very list before.

Back in 2006, right after my marriage, my wife and I travelled to the Andaman and Nicobar Islands for our honeymoon. I had dreams of a far more glamorous honeymoon destination, but budget had other plans. So, we settled for Andaman and Nicobar Islands and the plan was to visit Port Blair and the Havelock Islands. Havelock Island, home to the famous Radhanagar Beach, was rated among Asia’s best beaches by Time magazine in the early 2000s. Another reason I was fascinated by Havelock Island was a rather unusual one. Not many are aware that the waters around the islands are known to have saltwater crocodiles...and I love the first half of the movie Khoon Bhari Maang! Sadly, never got an opportunity! 

While in Port Blair, we visited beaches (not too many), nearby islands (for example the Viper Island),  enjoyed bike rides, admired sunsets, and took far too many photographs. But unlike most honeymoon itineraries, one place I was determined to visit was the historic Cellular Jail in Port Blair.

We first went to watch the Sound & Light Show in the Cellular Jail. It was enjoyable, though twenty years later I must admit I remember the Cellular Jail itself far more vividly than the show. We decided that we will visit the Cellular Jail again the next day in the morning and take a guided tour. 

Cellular Jail leaves a deep impression on you. Tiny prison cells, stories of unimaginable torture, hunger strikes, force-feeding, and the haunting realization that many of India’s bravest souls spent years there under brutal conditions.

During the tour, we climbed up the highest point of the jail. It was a dome-like watchtower overlooking different wings of the jail. It had large boards that displayed the names of prisoners, categorized state-wise. We began scanning for familiar names. Unfortunately, most of us know embarrassingly little about the people who actually fought for our freedom and thus we could find only few familiar names on those boards.

One thing stood out immediately though. The boards for Bengal and Punjab (especially Bengal) were overflowing with names.  

Unsurprisingly, the Bengali tourists around us looked visibly proud while reading through the long list of names from their state. They were also passing comments on fewer names on other boards.    

And then we reached the board for Bihar, my home state. My wife pointed that the board had surprisingly few names. Someone nearby laughingly remarked, “Looks like Bihar did not participate much in the freedom struggle.”

Now, as a proud Bihari, I felt duty-bound to respond.

So I replied loudly so that people nearby can listen, “To get your name on this board, you not only had to fight the British, you also had to get caught. The low number simply proves Biharis were smart enough not to get caught.”

There was silence. I think only my wife appreciated the response and smiled.

Of course, the remark was made entirely in good humor. I have the highest respect and regard for every freedom fighter who fought for India's independence, irrespective of their state, ethnicity, caste, creed, or language. Their sacrifices cannot and should not be measured region-wise. 

Still, I must admit, as a Bihari, the opportunity to respond with a sharp line in defense of Bihar was simply too good to waste. 

Cricket, Goosebumps, and a Scooter on a Quiet Street

Cricket has given me many unforgettable moments over the years, but the ones that stay with me most are the moments that gave me goosebumps. Moments filled with disbelief, joy, tension, pride, relief, and sometimes even tears. Many of them were famous victories, some achieved against all odds, and each of them left behind memories that still feel vivid even today.

And strangely, one of the most special goosebump moments I have experienced related to cricket did not happen during a match at all. It happened much later, on a quiet street, after a famous Indian victory. Even today, whenever I think about that moment, it feels almost unreal.

My relationship with cricket began relatively late. I truly started following the game around the 1992 World Cup. But once the cricket bug bit me, it became a lifelong passion. Since then, cricket has become deeply intertwined with friendships, celebrations, heartbreaks, family moments, and memories of growing up.

The matches and innings I mention here are based purely on top-of-the-mind recall and are in no particular order. I am sure I may have missed several special performances and unforgettable moments that evoked equally strong emotions over the years. But these are the ones that instantly come rushing back whenever I think about cricket and what it has meant to me emotionally.

The 2002 NatWest Final against England remains one of the defining moments of Indian cricket for me. I was pursuing my MBA then and staying in a flat with friends. After Sachin Tendulkar got out, many of us lost hope and some even left. But a few of us stayed back as Mohammad Kaif and Yuvraj Singh slowly pulled off the impossible. As India edged closer, the same friends began returning one by one. I firmly believe the victory changed Indian cricket.

There was the famous Silver Jubilee Independence Cup final in Dhaka in 1998, when Hrishikesh Kanitkar hit the winning boundary against Pakistan off the penultimate ball. I still remember running barefoot onto the streets after the win. We burst crackers, danced, and celebrated like the entire city belonged to us.

Sachin Tendulkar’s back-to-back centuries in Sharjah against Australia in 1998 still feel unreal in my memory. I remember sitting in front of the television...completely stunned. It felt less like cricket and more like witnessing something magical. Every shot carried a kind of authority and beauty that is impossible to fully describe even today.

VVS Laxman’s 281 against Australia at Eden Gardens in 2001 was another unforgettable experience. There have been bigger innings in Test cricket history, but I do not think I have ever seen a more beautiful innings. The partnership that Laxman and Rahul Dravid stitched together was not just great cricket - it was resistance, artistry, and belief unfolding together. They simply refused to surrender.

Sachin Tendulkar’s unbeaten 241 at Sydney in 2004 is another innings deeply etched into my memory. Many people had started writing him off then because of low scores and a visible pattern in his dismissals. Then came that masterpiece of discipline and control. I remember crying when he reached his double century.

And then, of course, came the 2011 World Cup victory. Like millions of Indians, I wanted India to win but I also wanted India to win for Sachin Tendulkar. The man had been waiting for a lifetime. When India finally lifted the trophy after 28 years, it felt deeply personal.

Virat Kohli’s unbelievable innings against Pakistan at the MCG in 2022, and India’s historic Gabba win in 2021 are all memories that still give me goosebumps.

And above all, as a lifelong Royal Challengers Bangalore supporter, the 2025 IPL victory remains deeply emotional. After 18 long years of waiting, heartbreaks, near misses, trolling, and endless jokes, RCB finally lifted their maiden IPL trophy. It felt like emotional closure after nearly two decades of loyalty and hope.

But despite all these unforgettable matches and innings, one of my most cherished cricket memories did not happen during a match.

It happened after one.

It was after the 2003 ICC World Cup match between India and Pakistan in Centurion. Sachin Tendulkar’s unforgettable 98 against a terrifying Pakistani pace attack - that included Shoaib Akhtar, Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis - led India to victory in one of the most emotionally charged matches Indian cricket fans have ever witnessed. Like millions of Indians, I was ecstatic.

After the match ended, I took out my two-wheeler and went to a friend’s place. From there, we went to another flat where a few of our friends were staying together. I wanted all of us to step out and celebrate the victory properly. I wanted everyone to take out their two-wheelers and ride towards Hussain Sagar in Hyderabad.

But, apart from me, everyone was reluctant.

“Do we really need to go out?” some of them said. The match was over. The excitement, for them, was already beginning to settle.

We were still standing outside on a dimly lit street when something happened that I can never forget.

Out of nowhere, a scooter slowly appeared from the other end of the road. A Sardarji was riding it. His young son was standing in front of him. His daughter was standing at the back seat, holding an Indian tricolour in her hand. And all three of them were shouting:

“Indiaaaaa… India!”

The street was still mostly quiet. No one else was celebrating...at least in that part of the town. But this family did not care. They were celebrating as if India had won the World Cup.

There was something magical about that sight.

Even today, whenever I see the Indian tricolour flying, it gives me goosebumps. But that moment felt different. For those few seconds, it did not even feel real. There was something incredibly pure about that sight - almost divine.

I can never forget the sight of still the little girl standing fearlessly on the back seat of the scooter, waving the flag proudly into the night while holding onto her father’s shoulder. I still remember the father driving carefully, slowly, protectively. I still remember the energy in their voices as they shouted “Indiaaaaa… India!”

It was such an ordinary scene. And yet, it captured something extraordinary.

I immediately pointed towards them and told my reluctant friends, “Look at them!....Shame on you guys!!”

That sight changed everything. Within minutes, all of us took out our vehicles and headed towards Hussain Sagar. The entire city had come alive by then. Necklace Road was overflowing with people. Roads were jam-packed. Thousands had gathered to celebrate India’s victory. The celebrations that night were unforgettable.

But even today, years later, what remains with me most vividly is not the crowd, not the noise, not even Sachin’s innings.

It is that one scooter in a dimly lit street.

A Sikh father. Two happy children. A waving tricolour.

And three voices shouting into the night: “Indiaaaaa… India...”

One Rule for Kohli, Another for SKY?

When Virat Kohli retired from T20 internationals after India’s 2024 T20 World Cup victory, many (including yours truly) believed the decision was not entirely voluntary but was also influenced by the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) and the team management’s desire to transition toward a younger T20 side. Though I was sad, the reasoning sounded logical and not out of place. I had the same opinion. T20 cricket has evolved into an extremely aggressive format where, these days, even 200 is no longer considered safe. I recall when Manish Pandey scored the century in IPL in 2009, the total team score was around 160 runs and it was considered a good score back then. Players from Kohli’s generation had to adapt to this format later in their careers, whereas today’s youngsters are growing up naturally suited to this style of cricket.

That is why Kohli’s retirement, while emotional, did not feel entirely unreasonable. The argument was simple - T20 cricket is now a young man’s game, and India must prepare the next generation. 

But...if that was truly the philosophy...and there was no ulterior motive...then the same standards must apply to everyone equally. Which brings us to the curious case of Suryakumar Yadav aka SKY.

SKY is currently 35 years old, the exact same age Kohli was when he stepped away from T20Is. If age and transition were the criteria then, how can they suddenly stop mattering now? The argument cannot change based on convenience or personal preferences within the system. If players like Bhuvneshwar Kumar or Mohammed Shami are no longer seriously considered for T20 cricket largely because of age and long-term planning, then the same logic must also apply to SKY. Selection policies cannot have different versions for different individuals.

Some may argue that SKY must continue because in March this year, India won the last T20 World Cup under his captaincy. But if success is the yardstick, then Kohli should never have been nudged toward retirement in the first place. He retired immediately after India won a T20 World Cup and after being the Man of the Match in the final. More importantly, his recent IPL performances clearly show that he still has plenty to offer to T20 cricket. If a player performing at that level could be moved aside in the name of transition, then success alone cannot suddenly become the justification for extending someone else’s T20 career.

This is not about disrespecting SKY or denying his contribution to Indian cricket. It is about consistency and fairness in selection philosophy. In few months, SKY would be 36 years old. India has enough young talent emerging every IPL season to build the next T20 core. If the management truly believes that the future of T20 cricket belongs to younger players, then that principle must apply uniformly, irrespective of success, captaincy, dressing-room influence, or proximity to the current leadership. Otherwise, the message becomes very clear - some players are asked to move on because of policy, while others continue because of preference.

The 'Divine Light' is Guiding Your Wife

Dear Jagdev,

The day I wrote that blog (The Laughter, The Arguments, The Regret and The Relief) about you, something strange happened. I suddenly realized that I had your mother’s phone number saved on my phone. I do not remember when I got the number or how long it had been sitting there quietly in my contacts. I did not even know whether the number was still active, whether she was still in India or whether she had moved abroad to stay with one of your sisters.

After thinking about it for a while, I decided to call. And to my relief, she picked up.

I gave her a brief background. I told her that you and I were classmates in school and that I had met her a couple of times between 1994 and 1996. Naturally, she did not remember me. Why would she? I was just another boy from your school days. Tall, intelligent, good looking (all that just in my mind) but just another boy. 

I told her that I had only called to check how she was doing. And suddenly she started crying uncontrollably. Honestly, that shook me. I am sorry to make your mother cry.

Somewhere in my mind, very foolishly, I had assumed that after all these years the pain would have softened a little. But listening to her cry, I immediately understood something that perhaps only parents understand fully - time may teach people how to continue living, but it does not erase loss.

After a while she handed the phone to your elder sister. We spoke briefly. It was a polite and slightly awkward conversation because she too did not really recall me.

After disconnecting the call, I sent them the blog I had written about you. Along with it, I requested if they would be comfortable sharing the contact details of your sisters and your wife.

There was no immediate response. And honestly, that was understandable. They were probably wondering who I was - someone who had suddenly called after decades, spoken emotionally about you and then shared a web link. In today’s world, where people are naturally cautious, I could understand their hesitation completely.

Then today, two days later, I received a few messages from your mother’s number. They were probably sent by your elder sister. She had read the blog and commented warmly about it. And then she shared the contact numbers of your younger sister...and your wife!

I could not stop myself from immediately messaging your wife on WhatsApp.

I introduced myself and shared some background. She too was understandably cautious in the beginning. In fact, one of the first things she asked me was how I had got her number. Sadly, the sheer number of spam calls and random messages people receive these days has made everyone naturally suspicious of unknown callers, especially from India.

I explained how I had received her number through your family and that probably calmed her nerves a little. I asked her how she was doing and how your daughter was doing. She shared a couple of pictures of your daughter. After that we exchanged a few more messages. Then I shared the blog I had written about you.

She read it. And asked me if she could call me.

Honestly, while I genuinely wanted to connect with your family, I was not expecting that at all. Somewhere in my mind I had assumed they may feel uncomfortable speaking to a stranger from your distant school days.

So when she asked if she could call, I was pleasantly surprised. And then we had a video call.

She was there. And so was your daughter. And for the first time, I spoke to her.

Noor. Which means 'Divine Light'. Such a beautiful name. 

It was a lovely and emotional interaction speaking to your wife and daughter. Your wife was very emotional and, so was I. Life without you has clearly not been easy for them, but your wife is doing an exceptional job raising Noor. Noor is extremely pretty, bright, graceful and doing really well. She is growing into a wonderful, confident and lovely young lady who will make both her parents immensely proud. I told her that you often talked about her and you loved her a lot. 

While writing this, I am thinking that somewhere, somehow, you must already know all this. You must already be watching them with pride.

And today, after speaking to them, I felt something I have not felt in a very long time whenever I thought about you...

Relief. A deep sense of relief. As if a large rock - almost my size - has finally been lifted off my chest. I am so happy!

I will stay in touch with them and, like always, they will remain in my prayers. If they ever need me, I will always try to help in whatever way I can.

God bless you, my friend. And God bless your family.

After the World Goes Quiet...

Someone shared these lines with me recently, and they resonated with me deeply.

These days, I find it difficult to sleep. When the day ends and everyone retires to bed, the night and the silence sit beside me and give me company. They know too much. The thoughts we avoid during the noise of the day. The things I never say out loud.

I dread the silence, because when the world finally goes quiet, it becomes unbearably loud.

The Name Crisis

A couple of days back, I was chatting with my schoolmate Gandharv on WhatsApp. Gandharv and I studied together in Class 12th. To be precise, we attended class 12th together as neither of us studied!! Ours was a friendship built on bunking classes, mischief in school, shared academic irresponsibility and the continuous agony of our respective parents.

I have written about Gandharv earlier this year in my blog post titled, 'A Tale of Two Soft Drinks: A Heist Gone Wrong.' He now lives in Dehradun with his family.

Back to the incident. Gandharv needed my suggestion on something and we were exchanging messages. In the middle of the conversation, I wanted to mention his daughter's name. Only trouble was that I could not remember her name!!

In my defence, I have met his wife and daughter only once. But this is not normal for me. I am usually pretty good with names. Yet my brain had suddenly transformed into a server from 1997. No matter how much I tried, I simply could not recall her name. And I felt awkward to ask him. What kind of question is this, "what is your daughter's name?" Friends should not be asking this question.

In desperation, I turned to my wife. Women are generally better at remembering such things. Birthdays, names, what someone wore in 2014, exact wording used during an argument six years ago… they remember everything.

So, with a lot of hope, I asked, “What is the name of Gandharv’s daughter’s?” But, like most times in my life when I seek useful assistance, she was of no help.

I did not know what to do. And then, my eyes fell upon my daughter!

Now this creature possesses a very unique talent. She can remember absolutely anything and everything, provided it has no connection whatsoever with academics. So I asked...again with a lot of hope..., “What is the name of Gandharv Uncle’s daughter?”

Without blinking. Without hesitation. Without even taking half a second. She confidently replied, “Pahal.”

The speed and certainty of the answer gave it unquestionable authority. This was not a guess. This was “I know EXACTLY what I am talking about” kind of confidence!

I felt immediate relief. My wife was stunned...because my daughter had met Gandharv and his family only once and that too in 2018...when she was seven years old! Naturally, my wife immediately switched to sarcasm mode (also her default mode): "So you are able to remember this but you cannot....blah blah blah blah blah"

Like always, I stopped listening. I was too busy feeling proud of my genetically gifted offspring.

I immediately typed my message to Gandharv and included his daughter’s name with full confidence. Message sent.

Then came Gandharv’s reply. “Yeh Pahal kaun hai bey?" ("Who is Pahal?”)

I froze. I stared at the message for a few seconds. Then I slowly turned toward my daughter.

“You gave me the WRONG name?!!”

My wife, who like always derives tremendous joy whenever I embarrass myself, had already started giggling uncontrollably. I was giving a dirty look to my daughter.

And then came her response. The greatest question ever asked in human history. With absolute nonchalance...

“Who is Gandharv Uncle?”

At that moment, it became clear to me. She has no clue. None whatsoever!

Mankind is making so much progress. Artificial Intelligence, quantum computing, reusable rockets, UPI payments… but all are pale in comparison to the confidence with which children can give completely wrong information.

I cursed myself for trusting this space cadet....and asked Gandharv,"what is your daughter's name?" 

The Laughter, The Arguments, The Regret and The Relief

My first memory of Jagdev goes back to Class 10 in school in Ranchi.

The session had already started a few weeks back and one of the classes was going on when a teacher walked into the classroom with a very lean, quiet Sikh boy and asked him to take a seat. That was Jagdev. If my memory is not failing me, he was wearing all whites - so maybe it was a Saturday - and had a green patka (A patka is a smaller, simpler form of turban worn by Sikh boys and sometimes by Sikh men during sports or casual activities).

To everybody’s amusement, instead of sitting in the boys’ section, Jagdev crossed the entire width of the classroom - straight to the first bench in the girls’ row - and sat there calmly. The entire class found it hilarious. Jagdev, however, looked completely unfazed.

I do not think we became friends immediately. In fact, when I think back about Class 10, I do not remember too many incidents involving him and me together. We must have been cordial - like everybody else in the class - but not particularly close.

He stayed in the main Dipatoli military cantonment on the outskirts of Ranchi and I stayed in the officers’ quarters in the middle of Ranchi. I am not even sure whether those were technically separate cantonments or part of the same military establishment. The two places were several kilometers apart and, in those days, friendships depended heavily on physical proximity. There were no mobile phones, no internet and no social media. Once school ended, everybody disappeared into their own part of the city.

Things changed a little in Class 11 when both of us joined the Commerce section. Ours was a smaller section with around fifteen or sixteen students while the Science and Arts sections were much larger. Smaller groups naturally create more interaction.

I started visiting his house occasionally. His family was warm and welcoming. His father had risen to officer rank in the army and they lived in officers’ quarters. Jagdev had sisters and he was the only son in the family. I could sense that he was deeply loved and probably the most naughty and pampered member of the household.

He was introverted. He spoke very little. But whenever he did say something, it was either unintentionally funny or unintentionally awkward.

And sometimes both.

The Haircut

One of my strongest memories from school involves Jagdev and a very unfortunate haircut.

When Jagdev had joined the school in Class 10, he used to wear a patka. At that point, like most Sikh boys from traditional families, he had long hair and had probably never imagined cutting it.

Then suddenly one day he decided to chop it all off. I still remember him telling me that with his hair gone, he was probably no longer welcome at his grandfather’s house in Punjab.

Why did he do it? I honestly do not know. Maybe he wanted to blend in better with the rest of us. Maybe he was tired of standing out. Or maybe, like most teenage boys, he thought a new hairstyle would dramatically improve his appeal among girls. High hopes!! That did not happen at all.

Initially, everything was fine. After the first few days, everyone got used to seeing Jagdev without a patka or turban. The novelty faded away and life moved on.

And then fashion happened.

Back in those days, a particular hairstyle had become extremely popular. Boys kept their hair longer on top while shaving or trimming the sides and the back almost to zero. Jagdev decided to go for it.

The result was unforgettable.

Since his scalp had remained covered by long hair and a turban throughout his life, suddenly exposing it fully revealed skin that was unbelievably white. It looked so strange and unexpected that the entire class found it hilarious. Even teachers commented on it. It made Jagdev awkward and conscious.

The next day, however, something miraculous happened.

Jagdev entered the classroom and his scalp looked completely normal. The shocking whiteness had disappeared overnight. For a brief moment we were genuinely wondering how he had managed that....Till he started sweating.

Slowly, very slowly, thin black streams began appearing near the sides of his head. That is when we realized the truth. To darken the exposed white skin, Jagdev had applied black liquid shoe polish all over his scalp. And now, because of sweat, the polish had started dripping down. People laughed uncontrollably. Even Jagdev eventually saw the funny side of it and started laughing himself.

Even today, after so many years, the incident brings a smile to my face.

Another thing that I remember from that entire haircut disaster is that Jagdev started getting a lot of flak from teachers for his new hairstyle. So, in what we believed was a great act of friendship and solidarity, some of us decided that we too would get the same haircut. I do not remember how many actually went through with it, but I definitely did. The hairstyle looked ridiculous on us. I blame the barber.

Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge

Another memory from those days is when he suddenly came to my house and insisted that I accompany him for a movie. The movie was Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge.

Both of us had already watched it, but he wanted to watch it again. He had truly loved the movie while I had found it just “okay”. So I was a little reluctant, but looking at his enthusiasm I joined him. He watched the movie like a complete fanboy and lived every moment of it. I could make out that the movie had made a significant impact on him. That remains one of my key memories of Jagdev from school days.

Shared Stupidity

There were also the usual immature school incidents that now seem ridiculous and funny in hindsight.

Once Jagdev made a remark to one of the girls in our class which offended her badly. She was furious enough to complain to our class teacher, who also happened to teach us Accountancy.

Now this particular teacher already disliked our group because we bunked his class quite regularly. So the moment he realized he finally had a legitimate reason to thrash one of us, he arrived in the classroom with the speed and aggression of a man who had been waiting for this opportunity for months.

Back then teachers could thrash students and easily get away with it. In fact, many parents probably considered it part of a teacher’s responsibilities. Nobody questioned it too much. Sometimes I miss those days (this is for a specific reader..my daughter)!

Until the teacher stormed into the classroom, most of us had absolutely no idea what Jagdev had done. The teacher entered, walked straight up to Jagdev and slapped him immediately before even beginning the lecture. The entire classroom froze for a second. Then he announced to everybody what Jagdev had apparently said to the girl.

The girls in class were scandalized. The boys - like boys - found the entire thing hilarious.

There stood our friend getting thrashed while the rest of us idiots struggled desperately to suppress our laughter. Some were giggling with heads down. Some were hiding behind notebooks pretending to be serious. We all ran the risk of becoming the next target.

School friendships are strange. At that age affection rarely expresses itself through emotional conversations or loyalty. More often it hides itself behind mockery, laughter, leg-pulling and shared stupidity.

Lost Touch

After Class 11, Jagdev left school. His father got transferred to Delhi (if I am not mistaken) and, like countless friendships in army/cantonment life, we lost touch completely. That was normal in the 1990s and before. People vanished from your life without closure. My father served in the army and I had already experienced this cycle repeatedly while growing up.

Reconnect-Disconnect-Repeat

Years later, social media happened.

Somewhere around 2012 or 2013, old classmates found each other again on Facebook and WhatsApp.

Jagdev was in Australia by then, living with his wife and daughter and working with Harvey Norman. I was in Malaysia with my own family.

Unfortunately, adulthood had changed all of us. In school we bonded over jokes, cricket, movies, girls and harmless stupidity. Now everybody had political opinions.

Jagdev and I often found ourselves on opposite sides politically. Initially the debates were manageable, but gradually they became personal and unpleasant. He would sometimes comment aggressively on my posts or on posts by some of my friends or colleagues, even though he did not know them personally. Heated exchanges became common.

To be honest, even in school we were never inseparable friends. After reconnecting online, we were more like old batchmates rediscovering each other.

Yet, when he blocked me on Facebook after one argument, I found it deeply strange. I could never understand how school friendships could become casualties of political disagreements.

Then one day he disappeared from the WhatsApp group too. For a couple of years, we did not interact.

Then one day in 2016, I randomly called him.

I have noticed something strange about myself over the years. I can remain angry with someone for a long time, but eventually the specifics fade away. That is a good habit in me. Unless I have felt insulted, I forget about the specifics of any argument or fight. I do not recall who said what. That makes it easy to overcome any bitterness. Sometimes all it takes is one normal conversation to rebuild a bridge.

That day I was sitting at KL Sentral in Kuala Lumpur when I decided to call Jagdev.

We spoke for a very long time. He spoke about spirituality and about a Guruji he had started following. He said he sometimes felt like leaving everything behind and staying in an ashram. He had actually discussed it with his Guruji but was discouraged from doing so. 

I asked him if everything is alright.

He told me that his marriage was going through a difficult phase. His wife had moved out and was staying separately with their daughter. I do not know the full story and therefore I cannot judge what happened between them. I told him that while I do not know the specifics, it seems that the issue is not something that cannot be resolved through communication and understanding. 

During the conversation, what I could clearly sense was the pain of separation from his wife and especially his child. Jagdev came across as a sensitive person and he sounded emotionally shattered. I realized for the first time how deeply he loved his daughter. 

I believe that daughters change men. They make even strong men vulnerable in the gentlest possible way.

That conversation affected me deeply and I prayed for him.

In the months that followed, he again went into a shell and unfortunately we again lost touch. I did try to reach him a few times but could not.

Regret

Probably the first time I regretted a social media argument was sometime in 2017.

Years earlier he had unfriended and blocked me after a political argument. Later he had again sent me a friend request on Facebook. I ignored it. Not because of ego. Not because I hated him. I think I simply felt hurt that somebody could throw away an old school connection over silly online debates.

Now I realize I was being equally silly.

In mid-2017, I got the news that Jagdev had passed away in a motorcycle accident in Punjab. It was a hit-and-run case. 

He was visiting his family in India. During his trip, he bought a motorcycle and had taken it out for a ride at night. A car hit him and sped away. He lay injured on the road for some time before help arrived. (source: a friend of Jagdev, who I reached out on Facebook when I heard the unfortunate news)

And just like that, a school friend was gone...forever.

Honestly, when I heard about his death, grief was not the only emotion I felt. I felt regret for losing touch. I felt regret for not accepting his friend request. I felt regret for not speaking to him more often.

But, above all, what haunted me most was the thought of his daughter. In 2017 she was just a toddler. I kept thinking that when she grows up, she may not even remember her father’s face clearly. She may never fully know how much he loved her.

And that thought broke something inside me. That silly argument and not accepting his friend request haunts me and will haunt me forever.

I made a silent promise to myself that if I ever get to connect with his daughter, I would tell her that her father truly loved her and cared for her deeply.

Relief

A few weeks ago another friend and classmate from school - Jinish Thomas - who is stays in Australia told me that Jagdev’s wife and daughter are doing well. They are in touch with Jagdev's family in Punjab and even visited them. He told me that Jagdev's daughter is growing up well. She is doing well in studies and extracurricular activities. She is happy. 

Hearing that gave me immense relief.

Jinish shared a video of Jagdev's daughter where she is wishing Happy Diwali to everyone. I felt that she looks like Jagdev but Jinish said she looks more like Jagdev's younger sister. I do not recall the face of Jagdev's sister so I cannot comment. But the video made me very happy and relieved.

I do not know if I will ever meet her in person or connect with her digitally. But if I do, I will tell her this -

"Your father loved you and cared for you deeply. More deeply than words can explain."

Jagdev, I miss you, my friend. Life took us in different directions and somewhere along the way we allowed silly arguments and distance to come between us. But when I think of you today, I remember the awkward, funny, sensitive boy from school days and the father who loved his daughter deeply. I will always pray for your daughter’s happiness, strength and well-being.

--------------------

The above is my FB post in 2017, when I heard the news. Much of what I had written, remains true even today. I still regret the silliness of those arguments and the distance that followed. But after hearing recent updates from Jinish about his daughter doing well, growing up happy and staying connected with Jagdev’s family, I finally felt a sense of relief. Somehow, that mattered to me more than I can explain.