Tell me a story... - II

Continued from ‘Tell Me a Story’


The bus wasn’t expected for a couple of hours, we were told. P and I had just about exchanged dismayed looks when the errant bus rumbled into the terminus. We scrambled aboard, relieved, until we realized that we hadn’t a clue of how to reach our final destination from wherever the bus dropped us off.

“I have a map, if it helps,” a voice piped up from across the aisle.

It was the elderly man again. Helplessness trumped over mild irritation, and we decided to consult the proffered map.

‘Karnataka: One State. Many Worlds’ – read the text at the right hand corner of the map. P and I pored over it, getting our bearings. The elderly man helpfully pointed out our destination and remarked that we weren’t too far from the bus stop. We thanked him for his help, and I casually asked if he was a frequent traveler in these parts.

“This is my third visit,” he told us, “my crew’s already gone on ahead.”

What crew, we inquired.

“The camera crew,” he said. “I work as a producer with Discovery Channel, and we’re doing a segment on Karnataka.”

Appearances can be misleading, I thought. Here I had pegged him for a small town schoolteacher or even some religious sort, on account of the beads and longish hair. He certainly didn’t fit the image of an international TV producer.

Conversation flowed more freely after this revelation since both P and I work with media-related organizations. We exchanged notes about work and Discovery programmes and travel, when he told us offhand that he had a yearly routine of driving to Germany.

Drive, I exclaimed, a little too loudly!

He confirmed that my hearing was good, and that he did indeed drive to Germany taking a route via Pakistan, Iran, Turkey and so on, until he reached Germany.

”How many days does it take you?” I asked, fascinated.

“23 days, including rest days,” he replied.

But why Germany, I had to know.

Sensing that he had finally captured our attention, his diffidence receded and his manner became a bit oratorical.

"Germany has given me two things most valuable to me," he said, and then after a dramatic pause, continued, "Firstly, it's given me my doctorate - I did a PhD in Psychology at the Berlin University. And secondly, it's given me my boss."

What a workaholic, I thought. But once again I was in for a surprise.

He laughed at my stupefied expression and said, "Surely you know what I mean – I’m talking of the boss at home! I met my wife in Germany."

Apparently, they travelled to Germany for Christmas every year, she by air, and he, by road. His return route was equally convoluted and took almost 5 weeks, since he decided to spend time in remote islands along the way.

He seemed to be a devoted husband though, and couldn’t stop gushing about how he considered her words as commands from God, and of how he was perhaps the only Indian male to wake up each morning and touch his wife’s feet.

P had a giggling fit, which she quickly turned into a cough. I was amused too, but there were jaw-dropping revelations to follow.

He wasn’t in his 50s as we’d assumed. He was 73 and travelled ten months of the year, including the trip to Germany. He slept for 2 1/2 hours at night, and meditated another 2 1/2 hours. He spoke of papers he’d written and his theories of God. He painted a fascinating picture of places he’d visited. Truth and fiction seemed intertwined in parts, but that only added to the mystique of the story teller. He showed me notes he’d painstakingly handwritten – programme synopses, journal articles, and even an article on a Christian saint, ostensibly requested by the Vatican!

The bus was lurching violently on the unpaved road. It was almost two hours since we’d left the bus station in Hubli, but I hardly noticed. He insisted we keep in touch, but didn’t have a business card. I offered mine, and he said I’d be hearing from him soon.

I never did, but that didn’t matter anyway. I had my story after all.

Tell me a story...

I love listening to a good story. Especially if it’s a life story that’s filled with intrigue and achievement, agonies and triumphs, love and adventure, folly and madness, particularly madness. I can always sense when I’ve met a person with such a story. A few words exchanged, and I just know. I feel a bubble of curiosity building up, my focus sharpens and time becomes obsolete. A quiver full of questions appears by my side, and I’ve to restrain myself from shooting all of them impatiently. I can listen until the person has outtalked himself or herself, or until they seem uncomfortable to lay it all bare. I’m curious but not voyeuristic.

Listening to a good story thrills me beyond belief. I can recall and recount the details right down to the expressions long after the encounter. I feel privileged and humbled by the sharing, invigorated by the experience, which often enough is all too brief. Glancing back at this year, the moments which stand out, right next to special times with friends and family, are these encounters with ‘story tellers’.

The digeridoo player from Australia, the demolitions expert from the Canadian NATO force in Afghanistan, the photographer-philanthropist, the Moroccan flamenco guitarist and psychology enthusiast, the divorced parlour assistant separated from her 6-year-old daughter, the pilot-musician-entrepreneur, the environmental activist and organic farmer from a small town in Karnataka, the manicurist with aspirations of becoming a lawyer, the septuagenarian producer from Discovery Channel… I’ve been enriched by their stories.

As it usually happens, the introductions come about innocuously enough. You’d never suspect there was a story waiting to unravel. I was, in fact, studiously ignoring the short, bald old man in the white kurta and checked mustard yellow pants with some kind of beads around his neck at the bus stand in Hubli, Karnataka. We were in unfamiliar terrain, and a bit disoriented even. Our bus seemed to be late, and even the bus stand attendants were unsure about when the next bus would arrive. So, when the elderly man tried striking up a conversation with us twice, we were a bit terse…

To be continued

An Encounter

He entered the hospital waiting room while the nurse was measuring my height and doing some other preliminaries.

“Have you grown taller?” he asked, smiling

I was taken aback by his friendliness as well as by the question.

“Oh, I wish,” I replied.

After the nurse had left, I asked him if he was there to see the same doctor. He said, yes, and that it was his third visit.

“You mean, he didn’t cure you on the first attempt?” I asked, attempting a bit of humour.


“I’m just here for follow ups. I had a brain tumour removed. And I’ve to follow up to ensure everything’s ok up here,” he said, tapping his forehead.

I could have bitten my tongue. But he didn’t seem to mind my weak joke. I noticed there were faint dark crescents below his eyes. Old battle scars.

“That must have been something,” I murmured.

“Well, yeah,” he said, “it was a benign one but it was causing pressure on the brain, so they had to take 80% of it out.”

“And what of the remaining 20%?” I asked

“Well, that’s still there. They’re monitoring it. It’s been 2 ½ years now, and it’s behaving itself. Who knows what the future holds…” he trailed off, still smiling.

The doctor came out of his chamber and asked me to step in. He noticed the other person in the waiting room and waved at him, recognizing him. He waved back.

He looked up and smiled when I came out. I muttered a ‘Good Luck’ before leaving.

20%, I kept thinking. Imagine walking around knowing there’s a latent volcano inside you.

I just wish I’d asked him his name.

Got a flat, mate?

The flatmate's moving out in a couple of days. And I guess I should be used to it, considering the number of them who've moved in and out in the last 23 months I've been here. When the German couple moved out - the first of the lot to do so - I felt a little bereft. I'd gotten used to their friendly yet non-interfering presence. Cursory conversations in the kitchen, polite smiles in the passage - that was the extent of our interaction. It matched perfectly with my need for solitude.

Next came the fairy-tale girls - Cinderella and Snow White. I'm not kidding about one of those names. They came in and shook up the somnolent establishment from the first day itself. I entered the house to find all the bathroom paraphernalia on the floor in the passage. "We've got a cleaner to spruce up the bathroom," said one of them, "it was such a mess." It most certainly wasn't. The Germans were neat to a fault, and I'm quite particular myself. I was partly-miffed but also partly-relieved to have orderly flatmates.

That initial burst of tidiness concealed a rather contrary sloppiness which I discovered in the months that followed. There were other quirks as well - cooking after 11 p.m., canoodling with boyfriends outside the elevator and so on. It didn't bother me much because I kept to myself.

One of them moved out shortly, and a friend's friend moved in. She'd hit a rough patch and needed support and encouragement. I introduced her to friends, extended a shoulder when needed, and also allowed her unlimited access to my fiercely-guarded bookshelf. Things changed for her, and then changed some more and she decided to head back to India.

I wasn't looking forward to adjusting to new flatmates. And as fate ordained, I didn't have to. I got a new flatmate alright, but this was someone familiar. I could walk into his room and demand a packet of chips or harangue him with laptop woes, as well as throw a fit at unwashed utensils. There were days when I didn't see him and there were days when I woke him just to have a conversation. We had fights and arguments, and days of stonewalled silence, as well as moments of quiet friendship. Who'd have thought an intolerable younger brother could make a perfect flatmate?

Life moves on, and a new flatmate might soon move in. I'm not looking forward to it, but am not dreading it either.

And the winner is...

Wang dropped by during lunch hour today with his familiar suitcase-on-wheels. Wang's the neighbourhood DVD pirate, and with Oscarmania in the air, has made quite a killing.

"Goot movie", he mumbles encouragingly, "very goot print..." Wang's a gentleman pirate. Not only can you check the DVD quality on an office computer before making your purchase, but you can also demand an exchange if it turns out to be a dodgy print. He'll also conscientiously tell you if a movie is a "cinema print" or a "goot deeveedee copy" so that you can steer clear of the former.

If not for the fact that he was robbing them of their bloated revenues, Hollywood would have loved Wang. He promotes a Steven Seagal with as much exuberance as a Stephen Spielberg. "Very beeg movie. Everyone likes," he says for every other DVD, almost keeling over with excitement. And you can never catch him saying he doesn't have a movie, even if you're almost sure he's never heard of it.

I asked him today, "Wang, do you have Big Fish?"

"Beeg Feesh?" he echoed. His eyeballs zigzagged in their sockets as he considered my query. As his frown deepened, his eyes almost vanished into his cheekbones.

"Ah-ha!" His face lit up like a lightbulb, and he nodded furiously. He wriggled past those thumbing through his DVDs and bent over his suitcase. He rifled through a dozen or more, before turning around triumphantly, flashing his crooked teeth.


"Here Beeg Feesh," he said, handing me a print of Jaws.

Tuesday with Teresa

Continued from An Introduction to Spain

I had asked Teresa to meet me at the Regal Cinema in Colaba. As my cab reached the venue, I spotted her looking a trifle lost. She was wearing what appeared to be a cross between a kurta and a nightie. On closer inspection, I decided it was a nightie.

‘Can I hug you?,’ she asked, ‘It’s a custom in Spain and it’s been so long since I hugged someone.’

I was too bewildered to refuse. But I was struck by her candour. And her loneliness.

‘So what did you do in the last two days,’ I asked. We were standing on the steps of Regal Cinema. Except for a few stragglers, there was no one around.

Teresa began to reel off the tourist spots that she’d visited, occasionally consulting her Lonely Planet. I was impressed.

‘You went on your own?’ I asked.

‘No, the security guard in my hotel came along,’ she replied.

But she ended up seeing a lot more than the Lonely Planet recommended. Apparently the ‘Mumbai darshan’ had ended at Chowpatty. And as they sat on the beach eating bhel puri, the security guard decided he’d found the love of his life…

‘He tells me I love you and want to marry you,” she said, arms flailing again. ‘I say, it’s ok. You’ll meet someone else. But he starts hugging me. And kisses me on the cheek.’

Fortunately (or unfortunately) for Teresa someone saw this amorous exchange and alerted the police, who promptly took them both to the police station.

‘The police tell me such behaviour is not tolerated in our country. I tell them I didn’t do anything. But they say I shouldn’t go with such people,’ she said, all too rapidly.

The police interrogated her for a couple of hours. Later, one of them softened a bit.

‘He explains how I must not trust people, how I must be more careful. And he tells me, if you don’t have a friend in the city, I will be your friend.’

Uh-oh I thought. The sordid saga continues…

Thankfully that was the end. The police detained the security guard and allowed her to leave.

‘Did you complain about the guard to the hotel in-charge,’ I asked, knowing her reply fully well.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I didn’t want to get him into trouble. He’s very young boy and just very lonely.’

She brushed away all further objections and asked instead, ‘What you think of my dress?’

I made polite noises about the nightie while she raved about the colour and the print. She chattered happily. The ‘sight-seeing’ incident of the morning was now behind her.

We walked down Colaba causeway looking for ‘Indian clothes’.

We stepped into one of the export surplus stores, with clothes spilling out of boxes and racks, almost onto the pavement. I tugged at a pile of clothes, so did Teresa. One thing became clear; our tastes didn’t match. So I let her do the tugging.

She settled on three pieces, preening in front of the mirror. The owner refused to bargain, curtly pointing to the ‘fixed price only’ cardboard sign. Teresa paid up and we exited from the cramped, airless store.

‘Thank you, Layla’, she said, when we could breathe again, ‘now you must let me take you for a meal.’

Sure, I said, feeling no need to be coy and polite with Teresa. I suggested Kailas Parbat, a place well known for North Indian snacks.

‘Oh yesterday this lady invited me to her house for Indian food…’ she said casually, as we walked down Causeway.

I was immediately suspicious, quite expecting another unpleasant episode.

Over ‘bahut bahut kam teekha’ pani puri and dahi sev batata puri, she shared about her dinner experience. She had been sitting on a bench on the Apollo pier and had struck up a conversation with another woman there. After the usual pleasantries, the woman on the bench insisted on taking Teresa home for dinner.

Teresa went on, ‘I had dal, roti, something made of brinjal, and lots of water,’ she said waving a hand in front of her mouth, as if to put out an imaginary fire.

We laughed. Thankfully, the dinner didn’t have a dark side to it. But I told Teresa that she shouldn’t trust people so easily.

‘I know, but people are so nice too,’ she said, her eyes shining. ‘I trusted you and see…’

I didn’t know what to say. I felt a bit protective about her because she was alone. But she seemed to know what she was doing and was ready to accept all outcomes. I marvelled at her equanimity.

We exchanged email addresses. And she surprised me by signing her name in Hindi.

‘I can write a little, but I can’t speak much,’ she laughed.

‘Oh, you have a year to learn’, I told her, and instinctively hugged her.

I haven’t heard from her yet. But I’m sure she’ll pop up in my inbox one of these days, relating some adventure, some experience. I only hope they’re good stories.

An introduction to Spain

I met Teresa at the 1-day Vipassana course at Gorai last Sunday. She was a plump Spanish girl, ostensibly in her late 20s and spoke English with a charming accent and with much flailing of hands. She wore a white kurta and beige cotton trousers, and said a respectful ‘Namaste’ to everyone who smiled at her.

One of the assistants asked if I could drop her off at the railway station. I agreed. Another middle aged woman in a bright yellow sari volunteered as well, presumably captivated by Teresa’s profuse Namaste’s. The three of us walked to the Esselworld pier to take the ferry to Gorai.

I didn’t want to seem intrusive, but I was curious about Teresa, about what drew her to Vipassana. She had no qualms sharing, thankfully. She said that she worked in a bookstore in Spain, and was introduced to Vipassana by a friend two years ago. But there were no introductory courses in Spain at that time, so she travelled to France. ‘I stayed at the centre for 3 ½ months,’ she said, ‘I did a 10 day course each month and assisted at the centre for the rest of the time.’

She laughed at my incredulous expression and offered by way of explanation, ‘After I did the first course, I felt I wasn’t ready to get back into the world, so I stayed there for a while.’

In the ferry, the yellow sari lady pulled out a single toffee from her bag and offered it to me. I made polite noises and declined. She offered it to Teresa who accepted it delightedly. The yellow sari lady looked very gratified and boldly pushed another toffee in my palm.

‘Your country is very nice,’ she said, ‘but not so nice for me to buy things here. If I go to buy Indian clothes, they charge me double.’

I sympathised with her, and impulsively offered, ‘Would you like me to take you to some places in town?’

She readily agreed, without any coyness. Her trusting nature amazed and worried me.

The auto drivers on the other side of the creek called out respectfully when they saw the three of us, ‘Yes medem, Boroli teshun?’ Respect turned into belligerence when I flatly told them I would only pay by the meter. Finally, one acquiesced and we headed back into the chaos of the city.

‘Obviously Vipassana made a big difference to you, since you decided to come here…’ I murmured, hoping it didn’t sound nosy.

She nodded and added, ‘But everyone in my family thinks I’m…’ She tapped the side of her head and pulled a comic face. ‘My friends say, we respect your decision, but they don’t understand it. I feel so lonely in my country.’

So that’s why she headed eastwards. She had a year’s visa, an open ticket and no plan. She was to go to Igatpuri, do a few courses, serve at the centre and then head out to the Vipassana centres in Bodh Gaya or Nepal.

‘I feel good being here. I feel happy,’ she said.

She was either supremely equanimous or supremely naïve, I decided. She’d just told me of the harrowing morning spent going round in circles and getting fleeced by cab drivers on the way to Gorai.

We were stuck in an almighty traffic jam for a while. Finally, the ‘source’ of the jam lumbered into view. An elephant!

Teresa clapped her hands and exclaimed, ‘Oooh, Ive never seen an elephant before.’ I started laughing and almost had a choking fit when she said, ‘Aaj main bahoot khush hoon.’ Even the hitherto unimpressed auto driver gawped at her in the rear view mirror.

The hordes at ‘Bolivari station’ (as Teresa called it) played the usual ‘avoid-subway-dodge-traffic’ game. I looked at Teresa to see if she was overwhelmed by it all. She seemed caught up in the adventure of it.

The yellow sari lady couldn’t keep up with the conversation in English, so I stopped every few moments to translate. Suddenly Teresa asked her, ‘Aap khush hai.’ The yellow sari lady blinked in surprise.

Teresa turned to me, ‘Is that an inappropriate question?’

I guessed the yellow sari lady had a problem understanding the accent and translated. She looked surprised again, like the question had never occurred to her, and said bemusedly, ‘Main khush hi to hoon. Khush na hone ki kya baat hai.’

She went away shaking her head. Meanwhile, Teresa was captivated by the food stalls at the station. ‘Do you want to have a juice?’ she asked. I looked warily at the nimbupani wondering if she had the stomach for it. She seemed keen, so I suggested a Frooti. She sipped it and smacked her lips, marvelling, ‘In my country the juices are so watery. This is so tasty and thick.’ I couldn’t help laughing, because I disliked Frooti for the same reason.

‘So we meet on Tuesday?’ she asked a little anxiously. ‘If it’s out of your way, I could come to Bolivari’.

When I assured her that it was no problem, she thanked me and then hugged me.

‘Um… hasta la vista,’ I murmured. She threw back her head and laughed.


Next: Tuesday with Teresa.

An evening with R

Everyone in college referred to him as ‘the mad Bawa’. And truth be told, R did act a little crazy. A permanent fixture on the last bench – when he did attend, that is – he’d compose songs with banal lyrics, and suddenly start singing them in class, startling professors and classmates alike. His antics had everyone in splits and many a boring lecture was livened by a teacher’s attempts to rebuke him. But R’s heart was in the right place, even if his head wasn’t. And he and I became unlikely but thick pals.

One day, after drifting for several years, R announced that he was going to appear for the IAS exams. Understandably, this pronouncement was received with rapidly lowered jaws, hoots of disbelief and even hysterical laughter. The guy who barely scraped through college was going to take on the toughest exams in the country. He really had to be crazy!

We met a couple of weeks later outside the public library where he spent a good part of his day, arriving with the first rays of the sun and leaving only when the staff forcibly ejected him. The gold-rimmed glasses gave further testimony of his newfound zeal.

“God, I stink,” were his first words to me. “Here see…” he thrust his armpit into my face. I turned my face away and laughed. Same old R, I thought.

But as the evening unfolded, I was forced to rearrange my views about him. His insights on racism, politics and Indian history astounded me.

“Jews have been persecuted by the Romans, Nazis and even Shakespeare,” he thundered. “Ever noticed how he constantly refers to ‘Shylock, the Jew’?” He didn’t just read 5 newspapers every day, from cover to cover, he even annotated them, adding his own insights. He dashed off fiery letters to editors for factual inconsistencies, using words like circumlocution and obloquy. Could this be the same R who struggled to pronounce ‘industrialisation’ during a college seminar, I wondered? Important dates, famous speeches – he was quoting them verbatim!

“You know I’ve always liked learning”, he said and when I snorted in disbelief, he hurriedly continued, “It’s just that I hated cramming. Now that I understand what I’m studying and can write stuff in my own words, it’s actually fun to study.”

“Fun, yeah!” I nodded stupidly.

In fact, I did a lot of nodding that evening. Firstly, because it took me a while to adjust to this new avatar. And secondly, because on seeing my incredulity turn to admiration, he just didn’t want to stop.

“One of my dreams now,” he admitted, “is to lecture at college.”“Maybe I could even counsel the kids, giving them my own example.” We both burst out laughing.

It was a crestfallen R who called me a few days later to tell me that he hadn’t cleared the preliminary exams. As I sympathised with him, he brightened up and said, “Now I’m more confident than ever of passing the next attempt.” And I believed he would. After all, I had seen miracles happen…


P.S I'd written this some time ago. Since then R had a change of heart and got into business, a very successful one. However it was that one evening which changed my perception of him as a class jester forever.

Help! The teens are taking over

Episode 1: Mind that Doll!

I was flipping through a magazine at work yesterday, waiting for the muse to descend. And that’s when I spotted her.

She looked cool, aloof yet mind-blowing even in a school uniform. Although, if that was a uniform, then the school could only have been, ‘St Lucifer School of Higher Seduction’. The white shirt was missing several vital buttons and the skirt was intriguingly abbreviated. Her pout certainly didn’t convey, ‘Dang! Jasma got more marks than me in History.’

She was Babydoll - the toast of the music video circuit. She was only 18 but her list of achievements was considerably longer than her skirt. She’d bagged a role in an international music video which also featured Beyonce (of Destiny’s Child). But she was to do more than strut her stuff. A trained classical singer, she was to lend vocal talent to the song titled, ‘Simple Things in Life’. Bollywood had been seduced too. She’d signed a film, ‘Daag: Shades of Love’ which was a ‘sensitive love story” in which she had a ‘hardhitting role’.

The part that intrigued me was her reply to the question, ‘What were you doing before your discovery?’

She replied that she was studying Psychology in College and that, ‘Industrial psychology always interested me.’

My eyebrows flew up. Industrial Psychology is about as interesting as watching a remix video featuring Anupam Kher. Of the 6 papers in the BA Psychology, IP was the second most tedious and mind-numbing.

My eyebrows stayed suspended while she explained why Psychology interested her.

‘I think it’s because psychology is all about reading the human mind, it’s about analyzing behaviour. And I’m very judgmental, so I think that’s why I love it.’

Jeez, what was I thinking when I chose to major in Psychology? Ah yes, I thought it would help clear the clutter in my mind…


Episode 2: Hack & Hacker

In the evening, I stopped to browse at the Oxford Book Store. As I walked in, I saw that irksome notice, ‘The Cha Bar will remain closed on account of ….’ I didn’t need to read further. It always meant the same thing – an event featuring a boring, pompous oration by a wannabe author/director/playwright with journos hanging on for trite soundbites.

I hated being deprived of one of the few real indulgences in life – sitting in the Cha Bar, sipping on a Latte and snacking on the armful of books gleaned from the shelves.

I scowled as I passed the agog audience and cast unclean looks at the speaker who was droning about Internet and dotcoms.

I walked off in a huff and as I waited for the guard to hand me my bag, the speaker’s words floated towards my unwilling ears… ‘I want to thank my publishers for speeding up the publicity of the book, when I told them I was returning to the U.S…’

My eyes fell on the notice I’d ignored earlier and my jaw skidded to the floor.

The ‘wannabe author’ was Ankit Fadia, a 19-year old computer hacker who’d just written his third book! Between foiling the attempts of Pakistani hackers to deface Indian websites and tutoring computer experts in the CBI and FBI, he’d sold 80,000 copies of his books. Now, he juggled classes at Stanford University, lectures on corporate network security and book release functions.


Earthlings, needn’t fear a superior alien species taking over the planet. The teens are doing a pretty good job!

What's worse?

An insight: People who carp and whine about life being full of problems have no real problems at all...

A couple of days ago, I visited my friend Ro. One of her twin boys, K, was just back from a week long stint in the ICU. In the last five months that they've been here, little K has been hospitalised almost every month for a variety of infections. During the last ICU spell, the hospital didn't permit parents to stay overnight. So when K was back home, he became a little insecure about being kept on the bed. He cried if he wasn't carried all the time. During the time I was there, his eyes were heavy with sleep, but he'd fight it off and keep an alert watch. He still had the remnants of a bad cold and his tiny frame heaved feebly as his lungs threw up copious amounts of phlegm.

'Poor boy is going through so much,' cooed Ro, stroking his curls. 'But you're going to get better, you're going to be a strrrrong boy,' she nodded and smiled at him. And K beamed in response, his eyes flashing.

She turned to me and said, 'We're so fortunate that he's mentally alert. At least we know he'll get better. We might have to do a couple of operation, but he'll be well for sure.'

I was astounded by her attitude as usual. And then she told me of the woman who's 3-year old son shared the ICU room with K. Chatting with her, Ro discovered that she had twin sons as well. But the child who was at home was stricken with cerebral palsy.

'I tried telling her that things would be ok,' said Ro, 'but she shrugged and said that it was irreversible'.

'But would you believe it,' continued Ro animatedly, 'she was saying that she was fortunate that she lived in a joint family where everyone took turns to look after the palsy-afflicted boy. And then she started telling me of someone in a worse situation!'

Apparently this woman was expecting triplets. But the doctor's insistence on delivering the babies without a caesarean meant that one baby died at birth and both the surviving babies had cerebral palsy.

I wonder what this woman would have made of her situation. But I've reason to believe she would have considered herself fortunate because of someone who was worse...

An Insight (contd.): People who carp and whine about life being full of problems have no real problems at all. People with the real problems are busy counting their blessings.

Allez, Lance, Allez!

‘Since when have you been interested in sports?’ asked my dad, surprised, as I beat him to the newspaper today and turned to the last page.

For someone who professes zero interest in any sport, I’ve been scanning the sports pages with an uncharacteristic zeal lately. The reason: Lance Armstrong, the cyclist who’s racing to an unprecedented 6th consecutive win in the most arduous sporting event in the world - the Tour de France.

I’d heard of Lance Armstrong fleetingly as a cancer survivor-turned-Tour winner. But it was only when I recently read his biography that I understood just what cancer survivor meant.

Oddly enough, his book is titled, ‘It’s Not About The Bike’. I say odd because his life story reads exactly like a bike ride on the Alps – tortuous uphills, heart-stopping downhills, insane hairpin bends and blinding pain.

Born on the wrong side of the tracks and raised by a single parent, Lance fortuitously discovered a talent on the bike. He raced out of a life of mediocrity and into the elite corps of cycling. In 1996, at age 24, he was the number one ranked cyclist in the world. He had everything – a dazzling career, a lucrative contract, a spanking new home. And then cancer knocked.

For Lance, life didn’t come to a standstill, it catapulted downhill. One day he was diagnosed with testicular cancer with metastasis to the lungs, and the next day he was in surgery to remove his testicle; a week later, the cancer had invaded his brain. He had less than 50% chance of surviving. Could life get worse? Apparently, yes. He discovered too late that he had no health insurance. And his key sponsor, Cofidis, was sidling towards the exit.

Even if he did survive chemotheraphy, there was every chance that he would never cycle again. And if Lance Armstrong wasn’t a world class cyclist, who was he? He writes, ‘I was brought low; this disease would force me to ask more of myself as a person than I ever had before.’

4 cycles of chemotherapy decimated the cancer, poisoned his blood and changed him irrevocably. “Getting cancer was the best thing that ever happened to me,” he writes. It not only made him more appreciative of life, but also motivated him to start the Lance Armstrong Foundation for cancer research and awareness.

Now, many people survive cancer, god be praised. But not one among them goes on to participate and win the world’s most gruelling test of human endurance - the Tour de France.

Initiated in 1903, the Tour de France covers 2,110 miles. That’s 21 days of cycling covering the circumference of France, mountains included, in the heat of summer. ‘It’s a contest in purposeless suffering’, he writes, ‘But it may be the most gallant athletic endeavor in the world.’

And here is what his statistics read like:

'93 - Did not finish
'94 - Did not finish
'95 - 36th
'96 - Did not finish
'97 - Did not enter
'98 - Did not enter
'99 - 1st
'00 - 1st
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As today’s Times reports, ‘… only a disaster in the last stage could stop the American… from sealing his record sixth Tour de France victory.’ He’s won three consecutive stages this year, excluding the penultimate stage win. And he has an impressive 4 minute, 9 second lead over his nearest rival. In short, he’s coasting to victory.

But here’s the part of his story that I found most interesting. When he was declared clean of cancer, he didn’t just throw off his catheter, jump onto his bike and ride into Tour legend. For one long, painful year, he battled something more confounding than cancer and chemotherapy – survivorship. ‘In an odd way, having cancer was easier than recovery – atleast in chemo I was doing something, instead of just waiting for it to come back,’ he writes.

After surviving cancer, riding a bike seemed so trivial. He’d have nightmares about cancer returning, he’d get overtaken by old ladies riding on a bicycle. When he finally pulled himself together and announced his return, sponsors didn’t fall over themselves to sign him. And after a punishing training schedule, when he started winning races, critics accused him of taking drugs. But despite being the most tested athlete in the world, he’s never failed a dope test.

It’s true, however, that Lance has an unfair advantage over his rivals. His heart is almost a third larger than that of an average man. His muscles produce less lactic acid. His VO2 Max levels (the maximum amount of oxygen the lungs consume during exercise) are twice as much as a healthy man. But what gives him the edge is his extreme commitment to the sport. When his rivals take a break in winter, he rides alone in the sleet and gale-force winds. His trainers have to beg him to take a day off. In an interview he talks about his schedule, ‘People ask me what are you doing on Christmas Day? What are you doing on January 1st? Riding your bike? Absolutely.’ When asked whether it was necessary to adhere so rigidly to his training schedules he counters, “Depends whether you want to win. I do.’

I hope you do too, Lance.



Update: Vive la Lance! Six time winner of the Tour de France!

Ro, you rock!

One of my closest friends, Ro, arrived from Sydney last week with 8-month old twins in tow. I was excited about meeting the new mum who I hadn’t seen in three years. And of course, the handsome TWINS!

I called the day after she arrived. Her sister said, “Ro is feeding little K. She’ll call you in two hours.” It seemed like an inordinately long feeding time. I didn’t hear from her so I tried again the next day. “Ro’s suctioning little K. She’ll call back,” I was told.

I could understand Ro’s inaccessibility. Twins can be a handful. And when one of them has a rare dysfunction of the vocal chords, a preoccupied mom is but natural.

The twins were a few weeks premature. J had no problem adapting. K however hit a rough patch. Like most kids, he bawled as he made his entry. But unlike most kids, no sound issued from his throat. What followed was a battery of tests and a tracheotomy to insert a tube into his lungs. The tracheotomy also meant he had to be fed through a tube in his nose.

“Lee!”, she yelled delightedly when I visited her yesterday. Her ‘telephone-wire’ curls were the same. The warm smile hadn’t changed. Only the dark crescents under her eyes were new. Little J was waiting to be introduced. I gazed at the cuddly ball with cheeks that spilled out over his shoulders. He flashed me a toothless smile and then gave an almighty yawn. I was in love.

K, an equally gorgeous but less plump version of J, was vigorously kicking his tiny feet in the air. It seemed like he was doing an airborne marathon. The tube in his nose was held firmly on his cheek with adhesive tape. The tracheal tube stuck to his neck like an amulet. And from it, his breath issued with a rasping sound.

I then understood why Ro never came to the phone. She sat with a box of tissues wiping the secretion from K’s throat. When he couldn’t cough it out, she had to suction the tube with an apparatus. She had to watch that his restless fingers didn’t dislodge the tube from his nose. And she had to hold and cuddle him when he cried tearfully but soundlessly.

I watched the feeding ritual. The formula was poured into a syringe attached to the nasal tube. The feed was drained in half an hour. But K had to be held for an hour and a half after that, to ensure that he didn’t throw up, since there was a danger of the reflux entering his already-weakened lungs. This procedure had to be repeated at each of the four daily feeds. Sometimes by the time they finished one feed, it was almost time for the next.

Ro’s dad laughingly told me of how they’d sometimes find her asleep, her head resting on little K. Once, her aunt found a way around that by tying her head to a cushioned bedpost.

“How’re you holding up Ro?” I asked her.

Without a trace of sorrow or self pity, she replied, “I’m taking one day at a time. I just want K to be well.” Doctors had given her mixed opinions. One said it was almost certain that K’s cords would recover by themselves. Another callously and decisively told her to give up hope. But she tenaciously believed that a miracle could and WOULD happen.

“I’m so grateful that my parents were with me all this time”, she said over and over. “And I’m so lucky that J and K are such adorable, peaceful, un-fussy babies”, she said looking at them fondly. Grateful? Lucky? Earlier, she’d mentioned the tubes irritating K’s trachea, causing him to cough up blood. What lay ahead – endless visits to paediatricians, multiple opinions, see-sawing hopes. But here she was using words like grateful and lucky.

I looked around at the room filled with baby things and half-unpacked suitcases. I wondered where the half-finished manuscript would be. Ro, a gifted writer, had been one of 6 people (and the only Indian) in Sydney who’d been selected for a Writing Mentorship Programme. She’d completed the first draft of a book – her FIRST book - before the twins changed her world. Now, she and her family are back in Mumbai, to start afresh. One day at a time.

International Women's Day? It's really a year long celebration.

Wishing Well

May your best day in the Old Year
Be your worst day in the New Year.


- Old Scottish prayer


Wishing all of you wonderful people a happy new beginning!