When I look at old photos of my father I'm struck by how handsome he was. He had the kind of old-school look that you'll now see on posters plastered on the glass doors of barbershops nestled deep within a locality. I suppose that particular combination of hairstyle and moustache was in vogue back then.
Now, as age does, his hair is less dense and more white. His features are less sharp as if age used the instrument inverse of a chisel and blunted his lines. He seems shorter than his otherwise tallish frame and when he laughs, as he often does, it's hard to miss the mini-fortune of gold that caps his teeth.
But, I still think he is quite the looker. And today, on his 61st birthday, I'm reminded that when people tell me I look like my father, they probably mean it as a compliment.
I'm also reminded of the largeness of that number - 61. My Dad is now old enough that when the other day he went in to get an MRI, I held my breath in tension, hoping that his stomach ache was nothing more than a stomach ache. It turned out to be kidney stones, harmless and benign. Kidney stones that turn beer into medicine.
On a Zoom call, when my brother joked that he should consider drinking some beer, my father revealed that he has been indulging in a bottle of Corona from time to time, much to our surprise. As my mother looked on in abject disapproval, we suggested he try Hoegarden instead and he made a careful mental note.
He always hangs onto every recommendation I or my brother make as if we are preaching some universal truth. And he offers a few in return too. Oh, we should watch this new show on this new streaming service. Or maybe we should check out the new movie with Ajay Devgan in it. My mother mostly cuts him off, knowing too well that our sensibilities have moved on. But, on the rare chance that I happen to watch something he has mentioned, his eyes light up and it totally makes my day.
My father is a man of simple pleasures. He likes one kind of sneaker brand, one kind of Vodka and one kind of cola. My entire childhood, I saw him use the same brand of musk-scented perfume, a fragrance that's oddly lodged in my head. How then, must I reconcile his love for motorcycles? How can someone who swears by the iPod shuffle long after they are extinct, switch mobile phones like worn bathroom slippers? And, how can someone who arranges his wardrobe on two axes of organization not treat his diabetes with a sense of alarm?
My father is a man of fascinating and frustrating contradictions. I've inherited many of his characteristics - his muted yet singular sense of dressing, his recklessness with money (I'm a smidge better), his love for junk food, his knobby nose and most of all his emotionality.
The first time I remember my father crying was when his brother passed away. They had a complicated relationship, my father and my uncle - he had a passionate and dominating personality and my father had a reserved and deferential one. The day I saw my father sob, he was bald from the last rites and clean-shaven with skin folds like the ones on an elephant. He looked like a folded version of himself. Years later, when my father cried on a phone call, filled with worry and longing for my younger brother, I had a lump in my throat. I remembered the day I learnt that men cry. And it's okay.
From my father, I learnt many things. He taught me how to take care of a good pair of shoes, how to pair a leather strapped watch with a striped shirt, what fundamental duties are listed in the constitution and what is the best way to brew Chai. From my father, I learnt that ordinary life can be exceptionally beautiful.
Today, on his birthday, I suddenly remembered the time when he bought home a carrom board and wowed us with one impossible shot after another. There is so much joy in that memory. I can nearly smell the boric acid. And, I can nearly hear my exasperation of defeat and disbelief as my father performs yet another minor miracle.
Reads (long or not)
I was always amazed by Shivnarine Chanderpaul, the great West-Indian southpaw batsman. He and Rahul Dravid seem to be cut from the same cloth, dogged defensive batsmen that persist amidst the ruin. As Chanderpaul’s son makes his Test debut, here is this masterclass in sports writing by Rahul Bhattacharya - Shiv on the shore. Rahul’s book Pundits from Pakistan is a really terrific cricket and travel book too.
I am a Shehan Karunatilaka completist, in that I’ve read all 3 of his books :p. If you are looking to read his fiction after his Booker win, I’d recommend starting with his experimental collection of short stories - Birth Lottery and other Surprises, then Chinaman and finally The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida.
Gabrielle Zevin’s new book Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow is just wonderful. It made me go through a whole gamut of emotions and it's a pretty breezy read.
I loved this essay so much that it almost made me consider running as an exercise. It’s about running, but not really. It’s about kindness. My dearest friend Akshay once told me - “The first response to a tough situation must be kindness. You must always lead with a carrot, not a stick.” I can’t stop thinking about it. Here’s the essay - What I Want to Know of Kindness. I also loved reading this exceptionally perceptive review of Jerry Pinto’s novel Education of Yuri (It’s really good!) - ‘The Education of Yuri’: Moving and uneven, Jerry Pinto’s bildungsroman is lifelike and believable.
To Watch
Pa Ranjith is a fantastic filmmaker and his films always offer plenty of food for thought. My friend Shruthi made a really nice video essay about his new film Natchathiram Nagargiradhu. Do check it out.
I’m not a big fan of Zakir Khan’s stand-up comedy. But, his new special Tathastu on Amazon Prime is very moving and a great subversion of what stand-up in India has generally been. It’s by some distance the best special by an Indian comic on a streaming platform.
Fire of Love is a fantastic Nat Geo documentary that features the heartbreaking tale of Katia and Maurice Krafft, the volcanologists duo who live for volcanos. There are the kind of visuals that make you feel small and insignificant and a really rousing soundtrack (Perhaps the best use of Morricone’s Ecstasy of Gold). Charlotte Web’s debut feature film Aftersun is one of those small, sombre movies that sweeps you up quietly and doesn’t leave your head for days.
To Listen
Here are three underappreciated Arijit songs - Ruan Ruan from Sonchiriyan, Beparwah from Shahid and Pal from Monsoon Shootout.
In a blast from the past I listened to two Alterbridge songs that I listened to death when I was a lot younger - In Loving Memory and Watch Over You.
Here’s a short poem by one of the very best out there.
there is a place beyond ambition
by Mary Oliver
When the flute players couldn’t think of what to say next they laid down their pipes, then they lay down themselves beside the river and just listened. Some of them, after a while, jumped up and disappeared back inside the busy town. But the rest— so quiet, not even thoughtful— are still there, still listening.
No art in this space but instead, here’s this beautiful quote from Joan Didion,
“I'm not telling you to make the world better, because I don't think that progress is necessarily part of the package. I'm just telling you to live in it. Not just to endure it, not just to suffer it, not just to pass through it, but to live in it. To look at it. To try to get the picture. To live recklessly. To take chances. To make your own work and take pride in it. To seize the moment. And if you ask me why you should bother to do that, I could tell you that the grave's a fine and private place, but none I think do there embrace. Nor do they sing there, or write, or argue, or see the tidal bore on the Amazon, or touch their children. And that's what there is to do and get it while you can and good luck at it.”
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