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.

The above is actual image from the movie 'Sholay'. The short easy-to-miss scene inspired the story of Pestonjee

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".

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.

Six Books In, and Counting

My resolutions for this year included 'Reading More' and 'Writing More'

Writing is limited to this silly blog. The primary intention is: stress busting, and also to speak to anyone who is reading. 

Reading, on the other hand, feels deeply productive. I am enjoying immensely and far more than I expected. I have been fairly disciplined about it too. I have already finished six books (image above) this year (one was started in late December though), and I am currently on my seventh. Actually, not exactly the seventh - I am somewhere between the seventh, eighth, and ninth as I am reading three books simultaneously! 

Hopefully this good habit would not fade away as we march ahead in the year. 

'12 Years - My Messed-Up Love Story': Ending We Once Hoped For

 

Recently, I picked up a Chetan Bhagat novel after a long time, and the book was 12 Years: My Messed-Up Love Story. I have always liked his writing. It is simple, direct, and easy to read. I do not approach his books expecting literary brilliance. I read them because they feel familiar and because they often echo emotions and situations that many of us have encountered at some point.

The story follows Saket, a divorced man in his early thirties, and Payal, a young woman at the beginning of her adult life. Their relationship unfolds through a series of emotionally charged moments that reflect confusion, attachment, and vulnerability.

The writing is fast-paced, which worked for me. I read the book in long stretches without much effort. Some parts, however, felt childish. The episode where the couple gets caught stood out in particular. It felt exaggerated and immature, and it momentarily weakened the emotional credibility of the narrative.

The ending, too, felt unrealistic. Yet, interestingly, it was the ending I found myself hoping for. There was a phase in my life when I believed such endings were possible, when I imagined that time, success, or circumstance could rewrite unfinished stories. Looking back, that hope feels naive, but it was sincere. I no longer think that way, but reading this book reminded me of that younger version of myself who did.

12 Years: My Messed-Up Love Story may not be a book I revisit, but it quietly brought back a version of my own thinking that I have long moved past. For me, that is what stayed after I turned the last page.

R Ashwin Responded 😊

A Breezy, Relatable Read: Musafir Cafe

Recently, I read a Hindi book after a long time, and the book was Musafir Cafe. I had been seeing frequent recommendations for it on Instagram, likely because I am always on the lookout for good Indian writing. I find books by Indian authors, or stories set against an Indian backdrop, far more relatable.

Musafir Cafe is a fiction novel by Divya Prakash Dubey. It revolves around a relationship between a confused man (someone I could easily relate to) and a woman with a devil-may-care attitude. The characters undergo an emotional journey, and the story is distinctly contemporary in its setting and sensibilities.

The book does have its shortcomings. Perhaps intentionally, to maintain a fast pace, the characters feel somewhat underdeveloped and the story lacks depth in parts. Certain episodes unfold too quickly, making them appear unrealistic and rushed.

That said, 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 - largely because of my naivety. Are we not all naive when we are young? We believe we understand love. We think our story is unique and our partner is different. Inevitably, my own hawai kila (castle in the air) came crashing down not long after, and I probably deserved that rude awakening. Yet, in retrospect, life felt beautiful then, much like the intensity of a first crush or first love in our teenage years.

I was so engrossed in the book that for two consecutive nights I kept reading late into the night - what some sarcastic people like my wife and friends would call early morning - until I finished it. I wanted to know what happened to Sudha and Chandar and simply could not sleep without closure.

I agree that the book is not a 'piece of art' and does not come even remotely close to being considered an outstanding or highly artistic literary work. However, the fact that it hooked me and I was restless till I completed the story shows that - I have an average taste...but that aside - the book delivers what it intended. A portion of the story hit the rewind button and I felt a strange pain in my chest, the kind I last remember feeling about 20-25 years ago, or perhaps even earlier. 

Musafir Cafe is a breezy read with a simple story, one that I believe will resonate with people who have 'grown up' but were in love during their teenage years or early twenties. If you are one of them, I would recommend reading it. 

'R Ashwin's 'I Have the Streets': Not Your Usual Cricket Autobiography

(Image Source: https://brokencricketdreams.com/2025/06/07/r-ashwins-i-have-the-streets-book-review-refreshing-honest-unexpected/)

Recently, I read I Have the Streets by Ravichandran Ashwin, which is his autobiography (Co-authored by Sidharth Monga). Having read several sports and cricket autobiographies and biographies, I was a little unsure about this book. That is because, many a times, cricket biographies or autobiographies (lets broadly call them memoirs) are not much more than match-by-match or series-by-series narrations. In a cricket-obsessed country like India, where most readers already know what happened in those matches, such books often add very little incremental knowledge and, frankly, can get a tad boring. I Have the Streets does not have such issues. In fact, Ashwin has hardly talked about his performance in International matches.

Instead, the book focuses more on his journey, struggles, friends, the local and street tournaments, how he made it to the Indian team and the efforts and sacrifices of his parents. I particularly enjoyed reading about his parents; it once again reinforces how critical parental support is in shaping the journey and success of a cricketer or any sportsperson. It also shows how Indian parents parents help their children stay humble, disciplined, and connected to core values. Rather than focusing only on match statistics or celebrated victories, the book emphasizes Ashwin’s thought process, discipline, and continuous self-reinvention. 

I recall that when Ashwin started playing for India, several questions and doubts were raised. The general sentiment was that he had made it due to backing from certain people in the board, his association with CSK, and, of course, MS Dhoni’s support. The book quashes all those myths. 

His action was also quite different and attracted attention and debates. I remember a discussion with friends where I confidently pointed out that Ashwin had an “ugly” action compared to other off-spinners who supposedly had more “flowing” and “rhythmic” actions (whatever that actually means). I even cited Erapalli Prasanna as an example of a beautiful action. I remember the discussion and my arguments but honestly, I am not sure I had ever actually watched Prasanna bowl!! (Its okay, who has not made up stories to win arguments?!!) Ashwin’s tendency to tweak his action frequently and almost pause in his delivery stride made me think he was more of a 'containing' bowler, perhaps better suited for limited-overs cricket. 

Did my impression of Ashwin change later? Of course. 

While he was successful and miserly in limited overs, he turned out to be a completely different beast in red-ball cricket - not only as a bowler but also as a capable batter. Five Test centuries is no small achievement! 

Over the years, it also became evident that Ashwin is a thinking and 'street smart' cricketer: constantly analyzing his own strengths and weaknesses, studying the batsman, and adjusting accordingly. He would not shy from trying everything. He would modify his run-up, arm speed, release height, flight, length, and more. In order to stay ahead of the batsmen, he also added several variations to his arsenal - the sodakku ball (carrom ball), arm ball, top-spinner, even leg-spin. He had the ability to bowl six different but robust variations in an over. 

Ashwin also received considerable flak for 'Mankading', a controversial cricket dismissal where the bowler runs out the non-striker for leaving their crease early. The term itself annoys me, as it unfairly gives a negative connotation to a perfectly legal dismissal and, in the process, maligns a great Indian cricketer, Vinoo Mankad. I see absolutely no issue with this form of dismissal. A non-striker has no business leaving the crease early to gain an unfair advantage. All arguments about it being against the “Spirit of the Game” are, quite frankly, horseshit! I fully supported Ashwin during the controversy - after all, what is sport without the hunger to win - but the issue was that I supported him while sitting on a couch at my home and somehow he did not come to know about my complete, total, unwavering, and unequivocal support!!! 

I was so impressed by Ashwin skills and overall attitude that I often say that Ashwin is one of India's best test captains - that we never had. Once again, no one has ever heard that as I say that from the same couch!

Coming back to the book, I found the book extremely engaging, relatable and compelling. I am usually a slow and somewhat strange reader (as covered in a recent blog), but this book was genuinely hard to put down. I finished it quickly and enjoyed every bit of it. The book offers interesting personal insights and genuine stories rather than just a dry sporting memoir. 

It is also and an 'easy read' i.e., the author has not switched on the 'Shashi Tharoor mode' and the language is simple and effective. I would highly recommend this book to everyone, especially young and aspiring cricketers or sportspersons, and their parents.

Overall, I Have the Streets stands out as a thoughtful sports memoir. It is ultimately a story about perseverance, learning, and professional growth—making it relevant not only to cricket fans but also to readers interested in personal development and high-performance mindsets.

Finally, one aspect I particularly liked is that the book ends with India’s ICC World Cup victory in 2011. This leaves ample room for a 'sequel'. Ashwin achieved so much after 2011, right up to his retirement and he is still quite young. So a Part 2 (and even Part 3) of his story is plausible and if it happens, it will almost certainly be worth reading.

Reading, Rest, and the Elusive Pursuit of Sleep

Sleep has been a long-standing challenge for me. For several years, I survived on barely 3.5 to 5 hours of sleep a day. While I am now averaging a little over five hours—which is a meaningful improvement—I would like to push this to six hours or more in 2026. As expected, this is easier said than done. Old habits, after all, are remarkably persistent. Late nights spent watching podcasts or playing chess have been part of my routine for far too long.

Well-meaning experts around me suggested a familiar remedy: avoid screens after 10 p.m. and replace them with reading. No television, no laptop, no mobile phone—just books.

On paper, this advice suited me perfectly. I have always enjoyed reading, even though I rarely seem to “find the time” for it. I am also, apparently, an unconventional reader. I read four or five books in parallel. Much like music, my reading depends on mood and timing. If I have thirty minutes, I pick up a short story. On some days, it is fiction; on others, military histories or sports biographies and autobiographies. Occasionally, depending on the mood, I turn to Hindi books, which I find easier to read.

Taking this advice seriously, I began reading more in 2026. Today is only the 12th day of the year, and I have already finished three books—one cricketer’s autobiography and two works of fiction—and I am well into my fourth. By any reasonable standard, this feels like a personal victory.

Unfortunately, it is also a problem.

The purpose of reading was not to increase my book count but to help me sleep on time and sleep enough. Instead, I have discovered that books are no less dangerous than screens when they are good. A couple of nights ago, I started reading at 10:30 p.m. and stopped at 5 a.m.—only because my vision became blurry. The night before that, I managed to put the book down at a comparatively respectable 3:30 a.m.

So yes, reading is a good habit. It is just not the solution I was hoping for.

For now, I intend to exercise patience—and, hopefully, discipline. I will continue reading, but with one important constraint: no fiction at night. Good fiction is simply too hard to abandon mid-chapter. Whether this revised strategy succeeds remains to be seen.