My father likes to brag. Specially about his athletic abilities. Truth is, he does manage to catch the toast before it falls to the floor. At half his age, I can't do that. "Keeper's reflexes", he says. The rest of us exchange 'there he goes again' glances. Mom just smiles. +
We've heard his 'I could have played for India' story a few times. About how one dropped catch in a crucial match cost him his India berth. How he quit the game after that. And became an actuary. Instead of people studying his stats, he studied theirs. +
It's true that his keeper-reflexes have saved many a pickle jar, egg, and tea cup. He has thumbed his nose at gravity so often. we jokingly call him Rakesh Sharma. He'd have preferred Kiri or Rod or Alan. +
Here's his story. Years ago, his team was one wicket away from victory. The opponents two runs away. The pitch was crumbling. Dogra bowled a beaut. The ball pitched and reared up. It took the bat's shoulder and sailed towards him. That was the India cap flying into his hands. +
Tragically, along with the ball, a clod from the disintegrating pitch flew up too. Dad's eyes stayed on the clod. While the ball mockingly wafted by him. And rolled over the rope. It was a catch Kachra could have taken. +
He hung up his gloves. Literally. They are on his wall in his office cabin. Inviting suckers to walk into a retelling of his story. They all fall for it. And he tells the story with a lot, lot more detail than I just did. +
Last night he saved a flower vase that didn't need saving. It was made of metal. Mom was arranging flowers. And she toppled the vase. An involuntary 'oops' escaped her. Dad dived heroically from the sofa. +
The vase had sharp edges. There was more blood than the injury deserved. Panicky voices were raised. Siblings hithered and thithered in Brownian fashion. Minor mayhem ensued. Some gauze, cotton, and dettol later, quiet returned. +
That's when I said, 'Baba, enough is enough. You don't have to save all falling objects. Keeper's reflexes and all is okay. The chief selector is not looking at you any longer. You are not in your 20s now... Ma, why do you encourage this hero-giri?' +
Dad tried to protest. He dismissed his injury as something that would need four, max five overs away from the field. I wasn't going to argue with a crazy man who was at the intersection of his skill sets. Insurance, cricket, and statistics. So I said, 'Ma... please tell him.' +
A resigned expression crossed her face. She looked at Dad, and said with a theatrical sigh, 'I think it's time I told you something your Baba has never let you know. And why I never stopped his 'hero-giri'. She looked just like Nirupa Roy as she went into flashback mode. +
"I was in the labour room with you. It was a very difficult and long childbirth. I was screaming in pain. Finally, you came out. A small, slithery, bloody bundle. As the doctor was handing you over to the nurse... you slipped. And Baba took the best catch of his life."
ANTHE.
• • •
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Bill Bernbach, the most quotable of all the advertising Gods, once said, "It's not a principle till it costs you money.' It is only as an entrepreneur (I wish there was a less ostentatious word for this), that I fully understood the genius of that simple sentence. +
Every now and again, you meet a moral dilemma. They are the most troubling kind. Unlike the 'sambar daalke ya alag?' variety of dilemma. I'm talking about business opportunities that come with the faint, or not so faint, whiff of blackness in the lentils. +
We live in a grayscale world. Viewed through multi-hued glasses. A world where doctored and engineered have unflattering meanings. Forget about squeaky clean, nobody even seems to be scratchy clean. Even hallowed seems like a typo for hollowed. +
This is a story about how a mobile phone saved my life. Some people say it's a true story. I am on the fence about it. +
I was driving my car down a lonely road in a jungle. At night. I was alone. I left my charger at home. My phone battery was down to 10%. The network was like an adolescent boy's moustache. In some angles you could faintly discern it. +
Did I tell you I was in a jungle? You know they have wild animals, right? I should have checked my tyres. That's what I was thinking, when my engine coughed. Trouble comes from where you don't expect it. After some Nazir Hussain style death bed histrionics, my engine died. +
He'd have to go, she thought. She couldn't stand the sight, smell, or sound of him any longer. +
18 years ago, a common love for Agatha Christie brought them together at a pavement book shop. Animated discussions about their favourite Poirot mysteries fuelled a whirlwind romance that ended in an impulsive marriage. +
He then gradually crushed her life to fit into 634 square feet of utter frustration. And when he started working from home, it felt more like 240, give or take the balcony. +
'All you need is one thing, dude. One thing that you can do better than anybody else in the world. And you're sorted', he said taking a long drag. I could tell it was good weed. It reminded me of the smell that lingered around the vestibules of Ganga Kaveri Express years ago. +
'Give me an example', I said. 'There's a guy', he continued, 'who only drives his car in reverse gear. Even in heavy traffic. That's his thing. TV channels from around the world come to shoot him.' +
'That's rubbish,' I said, 'He can't get rich doing that.' 'Oh, you want to get rich?', he murmured, 'There's a guy who can hurl a ball extremely fast and accurately at the base of three sticks placed some 20 yards away. He's making lots of money.' +
The famous adman's phone rang. It was his old art partner from decades ago. Kulkarni. Whose every scribble was frameworthy. He could hand-letter almost any font from memory. "32 point Optima bold , 10% condensed?" No problem, he ghe! +
Before it became an entirely useless skill , he could order typesetting that fit his layouts to the t. He would say 'Body copy in 12 point Helvetica, 14 pt leading, left justified as per scribble'. The last full stop would land exactly where his scribble predicted it would. +
He went through tracing pads faster than copywriters ran through their Reynolds. He would read the (not yet) famous adman's copy and say, "Very nice. Can you reduce copy by 15 to 20 words? I am thinking Bernhard will look nice, no? Fred Woodward style madhye karu ya" +
I know some people are really confused about my stories. Are they real, made up, or a bit of both? This one, I promise, is a hundred percent true. It's about a one-eyed monster called The Great Horned Yokelops, and how I vanquished him. +
'Really?', I hear you say, 'This time the poor bloke has totally lost it.'
Well, if you will be patient, I will furnish undoctored photographic evidence as well, somewhere along this thread. +
A human would describe the GHY as a ghost like figure with a giant yellow eye that dominates its body, and two magnificent horns. No arms or legs to speak of. PFA an artist's (ahem, ahem) rendition based on reported sightings. +