Wind beneath my wings

 

Parenting cannot be taught or learnt in advance, even though there are many hundreds of “How To” books on the topic. It’s learning on the job.

My father was at the tail end of the brood that his parents looked after, and one would expect that he benefitted from the cumulative learning thus acquired. And that this learning would be deployed for the wellbeing of his own trio (I have a feeling I was the accident of the family but that’s neither here nor there.)

As a child – and even after reaching man’s estate for that matter - I did not have any yardstick for comparing the way my father exercised his fatherhood over me and how others exercised theirs. I did have expectations honed by an intensive study of global cultures and practices (mainly Archie comics and Wodehouse books) but I soon realised that these were good only in theory.

I grew up as part of a large family of which a substantial number was elder to me. So, while respect was accorded to divers uncles and older brothers, who were treated like “father figures”, the relationship duality (that of give and take) functioned only with my father. He spoke, I listened. He commanded, I executed. He roared, I slipped under the covers.

I suppose that today my father would be considered a “hands off” parent, content with leaving the minutiae of daily upbringing to his wife and mate (the same person, I hasten to clarify.) He had a sense of responsibility towards not just his immediate family but to our extended family. He played the role of father figure to a whole raft of children in the family both onshore and offshore and bobbing somewhere in the merry throng was his direct heir (the genes ensured that I stood tall in the crowd.) Being a man of huge intellect and with a silent, brooding and somewhat forbidding demeanour, to approach him for anything was an act of courage akin to putting a hand on a sleeping tiger.

He was not one to lavish words or gestures of affection. He preferred to show that he cared through concrete action. Action for which he expected no recognition or thanks. He was the quintessential man in the shadows, content doing his duty as he knew best for his Quartet (mom and us siblings) and others. And when he felt he had done what he could by everyone around him, he slipped out quietly through the door. Three years ago, today.

So, while Mom provides the ailerons to give direction to my life, Dad continues to be the wind beneath my wings. And since a father expects no thanks, I will not thank him. I will only keep walking on the path he showed me. And hope that when I meet him again he will complete that story of the former secretary to the Jamsaheb of Nawanagar and the Morris Minor car.

Nostalgia is a bitch

 

An aunt recently wrote about the travails of moving house. She wrote feelingly about the dilemma of keeping or leaving things, of the weight of memories triggered by a forgotten photo that fell out of a bunch of dresses. While moving is par for the course for individuals or families in certain walks of life such as the armed forces, government service (especially in India), the diplomatic corps and the “global manager”, who move houses the way others change shirts, most of us go through life with perhaps one move at best.

Even this one move can be an extreme life moment, one that leads the mover to frequent bouts of lachrymosity and walks backward into the mist of time. I have been there. Even 18 years after moving, to a larger house (with my own bedroom!), I still pine for the old family house where our family of five squeezed into a tiny “half flat” and made it home, full of warmth and fun. As a matter of policy, I have stopped going to the area in which it is situated. The rush of memories makes me dizzy.

Nostalgia is a by-product of houses which have become homes. Of strangers who briefly became acquaintances, if not friends. Of a pastiche of visuals, edges blurred by time, which instantly raises a lump or a smile and vanishes into the ether. Nostalgia is a crutch for the displaced, offering a tiny ray of comfort for those who leave home by force, due to war, famine or other catastrophes.

I have lived in 5 different countries in my career. And the cities that I have graced with my presence – Kolkata, Paris, Amsterdam and Lagos among others – have all given me an armful of nostalgia, through which I can rummage and pull out a memory or two at any time. But in nearly sixteen years in Dubai, I have moved houses eight times. And nary a nudge of nostalgia from any of them. That’s because these were all functional abodes - I have lived in hotel apartments (or serviced apartments if you like) for the majority of my time in the desert. These do not lend themselves to roots or memories.

Neither does Dubai. Dubai has no time for the luxury of nostalgia. The past has been consumed and spat out. It is full of “carelessly discarded yesterdays” as the author Bill Bryson wrote (in a different context and on a different continent). The Dubai of yesterday is as nothing compared to today and will be completely obliterated by the Dubai of tomorrow. Which is good. Erasing a whole lot of yesterdays, where there is nothing but emptiness, is a smart move.

My brand of nostalgia is a blend of people and places. Even a mention of a tiny monument in Paris (o wondrous city of lights) tugs at the heart strings. But I barely made any friends there. Amsterdam is where I discovered the ease of mixing with people of other cultures. But I barely remember the sights. London is family and sights and sounds. And smells. Of wet earth, of Earl Grey tea, of that peculiar fragrance that is probably a famous air freshener brand which I have found nowhere else.

And what of Mumbai and the people there, you ask? Well, it will always be Bombay for me. The city and its people (friends, families, strangers) shaped me and made me fit for purpose. Whose raffish, no-time-to-stand-and-stare attitude brushes aside those who cannot move fast. But it’s where I created my own space and memories. And we are all a product of our memories, n’est-ce pas?

Nostalgia requires a large dollop of sentiment, of a willingness to go back in time. And an unconscious desire to hurt, because it pains us to know that the past will not return. Nostalgia bites hard just when you try to look into the future and try to move on. It chains our present and future to its sagging bosom. And that’s why nostalgia is a bitch.

The Moving Finger Writes…

This is neither a tribute to Omar Khayyám nor am I trying to copy Agatha Christie (the other Agatha mentioned by a fellow author is neither here nor there).

Yes, I did say “fellow author”. For I have joined the hallowed, serried ranks of those who write. Of those who put thoughts on paper for a reader, who write not in ledgers but books.

In keeping with modern trends and thoughts, my first book is what's called an "e-book", a Kindle edition made possible by a certain bozo called Bezos. It might lead to untold riches and fame. Or it might not. But that is not the point, n’est-ce pas!

People are at a loss to react to a statement such as “I am an author”. The reactions range from “awter?” (awful writer) to “aawter?” (aaw he’s a writer!!). You also hear a shuffling sound as people try to subtly move away from you, fearing a sales pitch, or worse, an offer for a free reading!

But my readers do not have to worry. I do not intend to force my output on unsuspecting people or those who read nothing more taxing than the cereal boxes at breakfast. I know my readers are more discerning, and will go through vale and meadow, climb through boughs and tramp through deserts, to get my book. (Actually, all they will need to do is log in). For the princely sum of 99p or equivalent in coin of the realm of their country my readers will get access to a book that will elevate, entertain and amuse.

Everyone can be a writer, but to be an author requires a tenacity of purpose, above-average dermal thickness, the ability to look beyond the here and now, and the inexplicable desire to enrich people’s lives through engaging prose. Ah well, it could be verse.

The story doesn’t end there. This is merely Volume 1. The worth of an author, even an e-author, can only be seen if he is voluminous. So, there will be Volume 2. Possibly a Volume 3 and Volume 4. Followed by a compendium.

So please log in and get engaged. And help a struggling author in his quest to spread sweetness and light! You could also listen to a song about paperback writers by a group of 4 lads, while tapping on the keyboard.