I don’t know their names

 

By Shevlin Sebastian

At 6.30 a.m., as I reached the gate of my house to unlock it, by coincidence, the milk delivery man also arrived on his bike. I took out the two tokens from inside the plastic packet that hung from the gate and handed them over to him. He gave me two packets.

There was an imperceptible nod at each other as we acknowledged the successful exchange.

Then he shifted gears with his foot and moved away.

At that moment, I realised I didn’t know his name. Nor did I know anything about his family. I don’t know where he lives and what he does during the day.

But I have seen him now and then for the past 15 years.

For more than a decade, the dhobi came to my house on a weekly morning. In his late forties, he had a muscular torso and a swarthy moustache. His wife, in contrast, was slim and looked docile. She always accompanied him. Then, the dhobi fell ill.

After a year, he became thin and hobbled about. His wife came and collected money for the medical treatment. But tragically, he died. Now his wife has taken his place. But I still don’t know their names, where they come from, and how many children they have. I only know they are from Tamil Nadu.

There is a grocery shop where I buy essentials. I don’t know the names of the father and son who sit next to each other at the counter. A couple of months ago, both went missing from the shop.

After a few days, I asked the staff what had happened. While the old man had surgery, the son had fallen ill from dengue at the same time. I asked where they lived. The staffer mentioned a place nearby. But I forgot to ask their names.

This is the case with the shop where I buy fruits from. I don’t know the names of the father and son.

During the pandemic, I regularly visited the ‘More’ store at Padivattom. I don’t know the names of the people who work there. What about the petrol pump attendant? The same is the case with the medicine shop owner and staff. The man who sells fish. I have known them for years, but don’t know their names.

The people whose names we are not expected to know include the postal, government and municipal corporation clerks, the bank teller, the courier company staffer, the auto-rickshaw driver, the bus conductor, the seller of lottery tickets, or the policeman at the nearest traffic junction. (Of course, it is also a fact that many might not know my name, too).

I don’t know whether this lack of interest in people is a failure on my part or it is a common affliction among the middle class. When I polled a few friends, they said they spoke to all these people. One told me, “You are a man of few words.” In other words, I don’t talk because I am an introvert.

One person whose name I know is Vasu, who sells green coconuts on a cart by the side of the main road. He proudly showed me the corporation license to trade which he had got recently. I go every day and have a green coconut. The reason I came to know his name was because I was doing an article on street vendors and the problems they faced. So I interviewed him. Now we talk often about the state of the economy, the shenanigans of politicians, and the traffic problems.

Another is the newspaper supply man Louis who comes home to collect the monthly bill. I always ask him which newspaper sells the most, and who is second and third. This curiosity will always be there since I had been in a journalistic career for over three decades.

Having said all this, Kerala is an egalitarian society, at least on the surface. So, the plumber will talk as an equal with the house owner. He arrives at work on his motorbike. He carries a mobile and you can settle the dues through Google Pay.

At the newspaper office where I worked for over a decade, from 12.30-45 p.m., in the canteen, every day, the slot was for the sweepers and cleaners. On rare occasions, when I have felt famished, I have barged in to have a meal alongside them.

During Onam celebrations, they are unrecognisable in their nice sarees and jewellery.

People from the harsh caste-ridden states of North India should come and see this.

If you hire a driver to take you to a wedding, you have to ensure he gets a meal, which is usually at the same table as the other guests. Many of them own houses and plots of land. They have a TV and washing machine. Their children study in good schools. If they are good in academics, their children will end up in white-collar jobs.

This egalitarianism is the most delightful part of living in Kerala. Of course, below the surface, there are many castes, sub-castes and religious prejudices. But in social interactions, you will not see much of this.

In this aspect, Kerala sets a beautiful example for the rest of India.

No matter that I or many others do not know the names of the people we interact with.

'The Boat Ride'

My short story, 'The Boat Ride' set in Calcutta, has just been uploaded on the Juggernaut app.

Do download it and have a read.

https://www.juggernaut.in/books/boat-ride

Those Days (Reminiscences of Sunil Gangopadhyay and other Bengali writers)

 

By Shevlin Sebastian

When I read in an online post that famed Bengali writer Sunil Gangopadhyay’s ninth death anniversary took place on October 23, my mind went back to the past: to the second floor of the Ananda Bazar office at 6 Prafulla Sarkar Street in Calcutta.

I worked in Sportsworld magazine. When we stepped through the door to go to the art or photo departments, or the library, the first thing we saw was, through a glass-paned wall, the table where Sunil Gangopadhyay worked. For years he had been an Assistant Editor of ‘Desh’ literary magazine. Ahead of Gangopadhyay but sitting sideways were three sub-editors. Among them was the famed poet Joy Goswami.

Gangopadhyay had a round face with thick lips. But what always caught the eye was his serene look.

What I remember was that when Gangopadhyay wrote, it was long-hand on yellowish writing pads. Now and then, he would pause, look up and stare into the distance. But unlike most writers, there was no struggle, no angst, no fears and anxieties. He had no writer’s block. The words came out in a never-ending flow, like water through the open shutters of a dam. You had to marvel at his gift, at his ability to write in public, without getting distracted at all.

It did not surprise me to know he had written over 200 books in his career.

At 3 p.m., there would be an informal adda around his desk. People dropped in, several of them were writers, poets and painters. Colleagues spread muri (puffed rice) over a newspaper. People would take a handful and put it in the mouth. Lots of beautiful women came. Some drew our breaths away. “Man, what do they see in him?” was one comment. Envy sped through our bloodstream, like a river in spate.

Gangopadhyay remained serene. He smiled, talked, and gestured with his hands. By then, he was a literary lion. The writing lay forgotten in front of him. I am sure when he went home, to the tenth-floor apartment at Parijat building in Mandeville Gardens, he would continue smoothly from where he had stopped. Incidentally, in late 2019, the Calcutta Corporation named the road in front of his house Sunil Gangopadhyay Road.

Many other notable writers also worked in Ananda Bazar. They included Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay, Moti Nandi, Shakti Chattopadhyay, and Ramapada Chowdhury. Sometimes, walking down the corridor, looking elegant and patrician in a white kurta and dhoti, over 6’ tall, was the celebrated poet Nirendranath Chakravarti. He was the editor of the children’s magazine, Ananda Mela. (His daughter has been equally successful. Sonali Chakravarti Banerjee is the current Vice-Chancellor of Calcutta University. She married Alapan Bandopadhyay, who is the chief advisor to Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee).

I did not realise it then, but these were all legends of Bengali literature. But they interacted with colleagues and people from other departments.

My senior colleague Subhash (Kaku) Sarcar never forgot this advice from the renowned sportswriter Moti Nandi. “When you come to the office, before you step in through the door, make sure you leave your ego outside,” said Nandi.

Even though I studied Bengali in school, I had not read their books. It would be much later that I would read Gangopadhyay and Moti Nandi in translation. Gangopadhyay developed an all-India profile when Oscar-winning director Satyajit Ray filmed two of his novels, ‘Pratidwandi’ and ‘Aranyer Din Ratri’.

Gangopadhyay had a readable style and could cast a spell on the reader.

It was a time when ideas, literature and reading were important, life-enhancing preoccupations.

All the writers mentioned have passed away, except for the 85-year-old Shirshendu Mukhopadhyay.

Are there outstanding writers now? Is there a cultural setup that is developing these talents?

Is there anybody who can write a book like ‘Those Days’ (Sei Somoy), which won Gangopadhyay the 1985 Sahitya Akademi Award?

There are many questions, but no answers since I live in Kochi now.

Eras end and remain as strands of memories in people’s minds. 

Then the people die.

Only the books remain, and, hopefully, they will resonate with today’s Twitter generation.

If not, no surprises.

As Osho said, “Nothing lasts forever.”

An erotic short story on the Juggernaut app

And as my former boss told me, tongue-in-cheek, this is the closest I am going to get to former porn star and Bollywood personality Sunny Leone

The life and times of Roger Federer

By Shevlin Sebastian

In July, 2004, I was in Athens to cover the Olympic Games for ‘The Week’ magazine. One day, after a tennis match, I slipped into a small hall. Roger Federer sat on a chair on a small wooden stage. He was wearing a white T-shirt and shorts and white sneakers. The organisers had placed chairs in a semicircle. Just as casually, I plonked myself on one in the first row.

It was a laid-back press conference. The questions began in three languages: English, French and German. Federer answered with fluency in all the languages and had a perpetual smile on his face. He was a man who let off a lot of positive vibrations.

I cannot remember whether I asked any question or remained tongue-tied. Later, when Federer stepped out into the corridor, competitors from other disciplines mobbed him, but he remained patient and smiling. He enjoyed the small talk and the pats on his back.

So, it was no surprise I would be an early reader of ‘The Master — The Brilliant Career of Roger Federer’ by New York Times columnist Christopher Clarey.

Clarey, like Federer, had travelled all over the world, covering several Grand Slams and Olympic Games and other big-ticket events.

Clarey also had unparalleled access to Federer. Over the years, he did around twenty one-on-one interviews, lasting many hours, in places as diverse as Buenos Aires, Dubai, New York, and a small village in Switzerland. He also did interviews with eighty people who know Federer well. These included players, coaches, family members, agents and company executives.

As a seasoned journalist, Clarey has an easy-to-read style. The book details how Federer showed early promise. Recognising his talent, his parents encouraged him, and so did the coaches at the local club. Soon, Federer set out on the long and arduous journey to become World No 1 and a legend in the game. Today, he has 20 Grand Slam titles.

Clarey confirmed what I had intuitively felt in Athens. Federer enjoyed meeting people. He had gone to Buenos Aires to play exhibition matches just so that he could imbibe the culture and get to know the people better.

Whenever he went to a city to play, his wife and children accompanied him. Between matches, they would go to museums, parks and amusement centres. Unlike most players who stay cocooned inside their rooms, especially during the hours before a final. Federer was different. Once, on the day of the final of the US Open, he took his children for a stroll in Central Park in New York.

The result of this relaxed attitude — he became the men’s champion.

“What fascinates me about Roger then and now is that he lives in the present. He has an exceptional ability to take things as they come. He lives the moment, experiences it fully, takes pleasure in it, and finishes it, then moves on to the next,” said Marc Rosset, former Switzerland No. 1.

It is an unbelievable lifestyle. Flying from place to place in a hired jet, living in the best hotels and houses money can buy and yet, despite all this, according to most intimates, Federer remained grounded and unaffected by the fame and the money.

“Everybody likes to have more money, but not everybody can deal with it. I think Roger deals with it very well,” said Severin Luthi, Roger’s coach.

It is a tough individual sport. Writes Clarey: ‘Tennis does not allow a champion to coast. Every match is a fresh chance to stumble. The awareness of that sharpens the mind, quickens the steps and staves off ennui and existential dread.’

If you are a tennis fan, this book is worth a read.

There is little chance anybody from India can become World No 1. We simply do not have the system to nurture talent from kindergarten all the way to the world level. Those who make it in individual sports do so despite the system. Think Prakash Padukone, to name one. Somehow, unlike in the West, we do not realise that if you nurture talent, and it becomes world class, everybody makes money: the coach, agent, player, federation and the sponsoring company.

In fact, Nike had made an early investment in Federer. When he was only fourteen, they signed a deal with him worth $500,000 over five years.

Today, thanks to their sponsorship of Federer, and other top-flight sportsmen, the company has an annual turnover of over $50 billion.

In the mid-2020, in the pandemic's depth, Forbes named Federer as the world’s highest-paid athlete with an annual income of $106.3 million, of which only $6.3 million was official prize money. He was ahead of football players Cristiano Ronaldo, Lionel Messi, Neymar and basketball greats like LeBron James and Stephen Curry.

As the Bangkok-based fan Varghese Kalathil told me, “There will never be another player like Roger Federer.”

Fragments that hold you in thrall

 

The UK-based writer Farrukh Dhondy has written an absorbing autobiography

By Shevlin Sebastian

When I first read the title, ‘Fragments Against my Ruin’, I could not understand it. But a Google check revealed it is a line from TS Eliot’s poem, ‘The Waste Land’. Just wondering whether the title will be a put-off for would-be buyers.

The cover is predominantly black, but the voice of Farrukh throughout the book is upbeat.

But these are minor quibbles. This has been one of the easiest reads in recent times. That’s how smooth the writing is thanks to Farrukh’s story-telling gift.

It is a story of a Parsi boy who grew up in an upper-middle-class household in Pune and went to London to do his degree in natural sciences from Cambridge. Thereafter, he settled in England and had a successful career as a journalist, writer, activist, teacher, TV commissioning editor and scriptwriter.

It is a book rife with many anecdotes of Farrukh’s encounters with the famous and the distinguished like TV personality Oprah Winfrey, serial killer Charles Sobhraj, activist Coretta King, actor Malcolm McDowell, singer Cat Stevens, documentary filmmaker Anand Patwardhan and the Bollywood director Subhash Ghai. He also had an unexpected friendship with the Nobel Laureate VS Naipaul, the writer.

His analysis of Naipaul’s writing style is perceptive. “Vidia’s works are in windowpane prose,” he said. “You are invited to see through it to the object or emotion beyond. The contrast is with writers who use stained-glass prose, where the picture in the glass is the proffered object of attention rather than what one can see through it.”

One memory took me back to my late teens.

As Channel 4 Commissioning Editor, Farrukh had commissioned a documentary series on blacks called ‘Black Bag’. He had appointed an experienced white producer Bernard Clark to supervise a group of inexperienced black filmmakers.

Alkarim Jivani, a journalist at Time Out Magazine, came to interview Farrukh.

One question he asked was: “What would you say to someone who said you were acting like a colonial despot, putting a white man in charge of blacks?”

A phrase from his Poona days came to Farrukh’s mind.

“‘I’d say, ‘Kiss my cock and call me Charlie’,” said Farrukh.

This was, wrote Farrukh, a rude expression passed on from British troops of the Raj.

I had to laugh aloud. This was a sentence we used often in my college days in Calcutta.

The situation becomes even more hilarious.

Farrukh writes: ‘Two hours later, Eva [Farrukh’s secretary] said that the director of Programmes, Liz Forgan, wanted to see me. I went down to her office on the second floor. John Willis, the programme controller, and my direct boss was seated in the office. Liz asked me to take a seat.

“Did you tell Alkarim Jivani to kiss your cock and call you Charlie?” she asked with an absolute straight face.

‘No, I didn’t!” I replied and told them both he had asked me what I would say to someone who accused me of behaving like a colonial despot, and I had replied that’s what I would say. I repeated the riposte with an equally poker face.

John burst into laughter. He couldn’t hold it. He nearly fell off the chair.

Liz broke into a huge and alluring grin, as she often did. “Please, Farrukh, don’t say these things to journalists,” she pleaded.

Every time I passed him in the corridors of the channel, John would, sometimes quite solemnly, repeat the phrase.’

Despite the flippancy, Farrukh had a sharp nose and intuition to know what ideas would work and what would not. So, when his ex-wife Mala Sen wrote a book called ‘India’s Bandit Queen: The True Story of Phoolan Devi’, Farrukh felt it would make an excellent film.

One day, he invited the director Shekhar Kapoor and the producer Bobby Bedi to a pub. He asked Shekhar whether he would direct the Phoolan Devi film. Shekhar replied he could only decide after seeing the script.

Farrukh was under pressure. His boss, Michael Grade, had allotted 1 million pounds for the film, and he had to show the script and the director was in place. But the script had not yet been written.

Farrukh told Shekhar he would write the script.

He said, “By the time I drain this beer, Shekhar, please say yes or no, so I can start phoning other directors in India. But, of course, you are my first choice.”

Shekhar bit his lip and stayed silent till Farrukh’s pint of beer was down to its last inch.

“Ok, I’ll do it,” said Shekhar.

The film was made. But before it could be released Phoolan Devi made a hue and cry about the depiction of rape. After several weeks of protests, Farrukh flew down to India, met Phoolan’s husband Umed Singh and gave him a cheque of 40,000 pounds. Phoolan immediately withdrew the case and said she was fine with the film.

When it was released, the film made an impact. It won the National Award for Best Feature Film in Hindi, and the Filmfare Critics Award for Best Movie and Best Direction. It premiered in the Directors’ Fortnight section of the 1994 Cannes Film Festival and was screened at the Edinburgh Film Festival.

The film earned ₹221 million worldwide.

This is one of many absorbing anecdotes in the narrative. Overall, this is an interesting book about an interesting man.

The Golden Pen

 

The biography of legendary Bollywood lyricist Anand Bakshi penned by his son Rakesh is an engaging read

By Shevlin Sebastian

Pics: The cover of the book; (from left): Singer Mukesh, Anand Bakshi, Lata Mangeshkar and RD Burman in the 1960s

For a book in English, it was unusual to see a Hindi title: ‘Nagme, Kisse, Baatein, Yaadein’ — the life and lyrics of Anand Bakshi.

There were two reasons I picked up the book, which is written by Anand’s son Rakesh. Over the decades, on LP’s, CDs, cinema and television screens, and YouTube, I had always seen the name Anand Bakshi next to the word, lyrics. I realised I knew little about him.

Second, the photo on the cover was eye-catching. The far-away look in the eyes of a young Anand, the curly black hair, the thick ring, the long nose, and the thin, but determined lips. The author’s photograph is by Amit Bakshi. This could be a brother.

The book is an enjoyable read. The one drawback is that there are a lot of Hindi lyrics, but in some sections, there are no English translations in brackets. So, if your Hindi is not strong enough, you can miss out.

It is a story of a poet who chased a dream but faced rejection for a long time. Anand, a refugee from Pakistan, quit his job in the Indian Army and went to Mumbai. In his first attempt, he made no headway and returned home to Delhi.

He made a second attempt, and success eluded him. Anand had a wife and daughter back home. His in-laws stopped supporting him. His parents were dejected. The pressure to return grew intense. He had run out of money.

One day, in 1958, the jobless lyric writer sat at the Marine Lines railway station, writing poetry in a notebook. A Western Railway ticket checker, Ustad Chittar Mal Swaroop, asked him whether he had a valid ticket. Anand replied in the negative. Chittar Mal asked him to pay a fine, but Anand said he had no money.

Chittar Mal noticed Anand had written some poetry. He asked Anand to narrate it. What Anand did not know was that Chittar Mal was a lover of poetry. Anand’s poems impressed the railway employee. When asked about his life story, Anand told him he was on the verge of quitting and returning to Delhi.

Chittar Mal stared at Anand. Then he said, “I live alone in Borivali. My family lives in Agra. It gets lonely, and I would like the company of a poet. You stay with me. I don’t want any rent. You narrate your poems to me. When you get work, you can look for your accommodation.” So, that very day, Anand began living with Chittar Mal at 24H, Jawala Estate, SV Road, Borivali West.

Little did they both know then, but Anand ended up staying with Chittar Mal for the next four years. That was how tough it was to gain an entry.

After several attempts, Anand got an appointment with Roshan Lal Nagrath, who was a leading composer in the 1950s. He was supposed to go to the composer’s house in Santa Cruz at 10 a.m. But the previous night, it began to rain heavily. By the morning, the streets got flooded. The local trains and BEST buses stopped plying.

But Ananad was not deterred. He walked from Borivali West to Santa Cruz, a distance of 19 kilometres. It took him three hours. When he rang the bell, Roshan, on opening the door, looked at the completely drenched Anand and jokingly said, “Are you a man or a ghost?”

Anyway, Anand impressed Roshan when he recited his poems. So, Roshan told Anand to write the lyrics for ‘CID Girl’ (1959). Anand’s first song from that film became a hit. Thereafter, Roshan and Anand worked on many films together.

Several years later, when Anand established himself as a lyric writer,

Roshan’s son Rajesh was making his debut as a music composer. This time Roshan asked Anand to write the lyrics for the film Julie (1975). The songs, Bhool gaye sab kuch, yaad nahi ab kuch and Dil kya kare jab kisi ko, kisi se pyar ho jaye became super-duper hits and remain popular even today. That’s how life turned 360 degrees. The composer who gave a break to a novice then asked him for help on the son’s debut album.

Anand had hit songs for five decades, working with multiple music composers like SD and RD Burman, Laxmikant-Pyarelal, Naushad, Kalyanji-Anandji, Anu Malik, AR Rahman and others. Some of his most famous songs could be heard in the films, Bobby, Amar Prem, Aradhana, Mera Gaon, Mere Desh, Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge, Pardes, and Taal.

He had written the lyrics for 4000 songs. And he remained a success right till the very end. The songs he liked the best were from Amar Prem, and he was proud of the one line that became immortal: ‘Kuchh to log kahenge logon ka kaam hai kehnaa’.

Anand died in Mumbai of multiple organ failure on March 30, 2002, at the age of 71. He had remained friends with Chittar Mal over the decades and always remained grateful to his friend. Chittar Mal died in 2001.

Enclosed are quotes from the book:

Good songs exist in good stories.

The actor is the face of the song.

Success and failure are solo journeys. Except that in success, we have the support of people, whereas, in failure, few stand by us.

There is something inside me superior to my circumstances, stronger than every situation of life.

You must adjust to everyone and deliver to everyone.

(As director Subhash Ghai said, ‘Anand’s best quality was not his ability to write profound thoughts in simple, everyday words, but his discipline and respect for time. He never delayed a single song that I asked him to write.”)

I decided I would never show off my talent and success because something within me told me that the day I misuse the gift that was granted to me by God and time, I would be nowhere soon. Never abuse a blessing or gift. Be humble.

I have seen the most formidable and talented people fail overnight — because of an unhealthy attitude towards their work and their success. Because they did not respect what time had brought to their threshold.

Time has never stopped for any power, any emperor, any culture, and any civilisation. Perhaps time is God.

Time has a design for every man and woman.

I let time take its decisions for me.

I will write till time wants me to.

One day, the show will end. My end — every kind of end — is only logical. As I overtook the others, one day, some others will overtake me, sweep my fans off with their new or better styles. Life is a chakra that keeps turning.

Destiny is all-powerful.

I wanted to be someone whose words, however simple, touched the hearts of every man, woman, and child.

Age does not matter in a profession. Talent, discipline, punctuality, hard work and purity of heart matter. 

The Death of A Rain Tree

By Shevlin Sebastian 

Just like that, workers of the Forest Department chopped down the massive rain tree at Padivattom, Kochi, near my house, in the name of development. According to news reports, over 250 trees will be cut,  because another section of the Kochi Metro is coming up. This will connect Jawaharlal Stadium in Kaloor with Smart City 2, comprising 11 stations and covering a distance of 11.2 kms.

The branches of the rain tree provided a welcome canopy during hot summers and rainy days.

For years, a few parents with their children stood under its branches, in the early mornings, waiting for the school bus.

While some came in cars, others arrived in two-wheelers and those who lived nearby walked it. We smiled and greeted each other while the children milled around us in their uniforms and bags.

The tree remained a soothing presence, even as our minds and bodies felt stressed, as we tried to balance jobs, marriage, parenthood, and household responsibilities.

The children began as toddlers and ended up as teenagers. Now many of them have moved on to colleges and post-graduate studies. I haven’t gone to the bus stop in the early morning for a few years. I am out of touch with those parents, too. What are their children doing now? 

I am sure new parents and children are going through the same routine at the same bus stop. The cycle of life continues from one generation to the other. When I saw the fallen tree, I realised time had passed. 

The time when children listened to whatever we said, observed and picked up their attitudes and nuances of behaviour from us. Now they have independent minds and are on the way towards independent lives. Some of us are facing the ‘empty nest’ syndrome, especially wives who were so enmeshed in their children’s lives that they forgot their husbands.

I remember meeting one woman, in her sixties, who told me she felt shocked when the children no longer needed her. Like most mothers, she had focused completely on the children. It is the most fulfilling job of their lives, no matter even when they say they had fulfilling careers. 

She realised the relentless tick-tock of the clock had now pushed her to a new space. A space where children do not exist except on once-a-year visits, voices through the phone, in online chats, and as images or videos on WhatsApp.

Why is she shocked? All she has to do is to look back. She also had to leave her parents and stayed in touch only occasionally. This woman told me she had to work very hard to rebuild her relationship with her husband. Her husband, a sporting man, took her back into the marital embrace. Not all men are accommodating. Marriages have broken up because of this neglect.

But how can you blame a woman? These children have come out of her womb. Hence, she feels a biological and emotional imperative to protect and nurture them. In the early years, it is the mother’s nurturing that is so vital for the all-around development of the child. It is time-consuming and exhausting. More so, if the woman has a career. Former PepsiCo Chairman & CEO Indra Nooyi details this aspect in her recently released memoir, ‘My Life in Full: Work, Family, and our Future’.

Here is an extract:

“I’ll never forget coming home after being named President of PepsiCo back in 2001. My mother was visiting at the time. “I’ve got great news for you,” I shouted. She replied, “It can wait. We need you to go out and get some milk.”

So I go out and get milk. And when I come back, I’m hopping mad. I say, “I had great news for you. I’ve just been named President of PepsiCo. And all you want me to do is go out and get milk.” 

Then she says, “Let me explain something to you. You may be President of PepsiCo. But when you step into this house, you’re a wife and mother first. Nobody can take that place. So leave that crown in the garage.” 

The death of the tree also reminded me of the various deaths I am coming across now. Parents, uncles and aunts, friends of our parents, and relatives. They are all exiting the planet one by one.

One feels a keen sense of mortality. In our fifties, we can no longer pretend life will go on forever. There is a finite nature to it. Sometimes, you feel sad your time is limited.

Some have regrets about the career they chose. A few recounted mistakes that hampered their professional growth. Some underwent financial stresses. 

Others have emotional sorrows. I remember a friend, who passed away a year ago, had told me, “I made the biggest mistake of my life by having an affair. It destroyed my marriage and affected my children. I am no longer with this woman. It was a total loss for me.”

It is a time when we look forward as well as look back. There is a desire among some of us to embark on a second career. 

But surely, a day will come when we will become a physical blank. Like the rain tree at Padivattom. There is a lot of sunlight there, but sadly, I saw blocks of concrete where the tree once stood. 

The vanishing tree is a metaphor for our lives.

We will become dust-laden photographs on the wall. And nobody will look at us. The next generation will be busy with their lives like we had been once. Now our destination is getting closer. Depending on your religion, it’s six feet under the ground or 100 grams of ash floating in a holy river.