Gaurav Parab's Blog, page 4

The Old Drunk

Image: Charles Felix Blauvelt - Man Pouring a Drink at a Bar The Old DrunkBy Gaurav Parab
Remember the daysunder that Coca Cola signHours spent in a dazeor were they minutes ?
or was it a Pepsi board ?My memories fail todaymust be the drink pouredI am but an old drunk
You whispered about wrongsor how it was all right ?How this old mind today longsfor a clear thought
That sign long flewto a dump somewhereAnd so did youwith the only world I knew
I wonder are you finally free ?On evenings I don’t knowwhere my lips will beOr are you still chainedto this old drunk?

Roger, Rafa and Us sticking it to the Young Man.

Image courtesy Wikimedia commons: Tatiana 
By Gaurav Parab

‘Context’ is why some sporting events are watched and others skipped. A record on the verge of being broken, animosity between players, something said that one should not have said, nations at war, a first, a last, a young upstart against an icon, or the prospect of personal demons about to be slayed.
Sure, it’s a Grand slam final and to the tennis world that is context in itself but beyond the fixed set of fans, Sunday will see the entire world tuning in.
But why? After all Roger Federer sits pretty on top of the Grand Slam Winners List. Nadal, clearly, does not give a Paella about #15 or #16 as long as it is a chance to violently investigate how much a human body can endure.  No records at stake, yet the whole world will watch. No history left to create for these two long ago burnt that history walla factory to the ground. Before drowning the ground. And then draining the water.
The two get along well, always speaking disturbingly highly of each other. So no fireworks, yet we will watch.
Heck, Switzerland pretty much has being typically Swiss with the Spanish nation. Sending chocolate over and bubble wrapping the Swiss Army knives. No animosity. No context. Yet we will watch. Not for the Roger #Believe18 or Rafa #Believe you_can_still_whip_that_ physics_ defying _forehand hashtags. Not for some sports marketer crafted narrative, or video montage superimposed to a Freddie Mercury song. Yet, the world will watch.
But why? Or as the kids say, Bitch Please why will you watch? Looking over your dialysis machines and those heart pump things? Get to the point Bae. (Or whatever that person who does not come to the point is called)
My generation will watch (Surya Namaskar forever) because we did math’s theorems the old fashioned way, chalked one step at a time on patchy blackboards and not typed into user friendly apps, testing hypothesis while praying some end with Thus proved. We will watch not for the records or for the numbers but for the mathematical impossibility of witnessing old men playing a young man’s final. This one’s for our old glorious hearts and creaking knees. This ones for the road.
And as we sit in front of our television sets, our generation, including die-hard fans of one, will cheer for the other. Knowing that this is one of them books so well written that you don’t pray for the hero or the heroine – you just pray the damn thing never ends.
We will be our grandmothers, not judging the gift given at a party but chuckling it is the thought that counts. For the act of reaching the finals, for the presence and not the performance.
In a world where my generation saw other sports rapidly moving to extremes like our Beer Bellies, Tennis last week somehow stared back at time.  While athletics became more about chemistry sets, football about corruption, and cricket default set to 350+ and… golf…well no one ever gave a Paella about golf anyways, Tennis raised a Bablot and a Wilson and said excuse me. You have plans for Sunday?
And to think Tennis too has changed so much in such a short time. With skill and mental toughness – otherwise time tested qualities of yesterday’s champions now being basic hygiene for top ten players. With each having mental gurus, oxygen chambers, donkey butter toast and minds capable of getting ELO grandmaster rating points. Serve big, and volley smart. Slide like it is a tweet. Use that super computer for diet plans and game strategies. And above all, reach hulk physical levels using Ironman tech.
The disproportionate focus on fitness ironically started with the arrival of Rafa and the revival of the other legend Djoko and we saw the game change. Today, you have to hit the ball like a freight train gone rogue for anything less will be returned at frighteningly greater speeds. Today, strokes have to kiss the sideline like miniature Emran Hashmi shaped tennis balls, for anywhere else and they will be treated like miniature Amrish Puris at the end of every nineties movie. Every other shot today would have been a winner 10 years ago, but now the modern tennis player with his new organ (not Mesentry) referred to as Awesome Tireless Wheels under human feet will reach, return and be ready for the next.
At 35, Roger if it happens, will be second oldest man to win a Grand slam. At 30, Rafa has the legs of a soldier sent ahead to clear minefields by stepping on mines. Yet, the two have survived against age, against a sport they helped shape, against receding hairlines and twin sets of twins. Whisky getting better with time surrounded by casks of freshly brewed Beer. Maybe that is the context in our heads that will make the final possibly the most watched Tennis match in history. The game has changed, the warriors are still the same. What we could not do with our lives in the last few years, our heroes have done for our viewing pleasure. Turn back time. Or as they would say in a Digital world, reset time.
Roger Federer vs Rafael Nadal. Not in a veterans match, or a boxing revenge bout designed for a pay for view audience but in a real Grand Slam final after earning the right by beating a pack of well- bred young opponents. Old dogs sneaking out of a brand new aluminum kennel guarded with electronic locks. 

How this came to happen no one knows and no one will. A mathematical impossibility thus proved. Unlikely to happen again in our lifetimes, so like Haley’s comet we will watch. And tomorrow, as the ball soars in the air, in that fraction of a moment before it is hit for the first serve our entire generation will stick its tongue out and say we are not done yet.   

Newspaper Statistic

By Gaurav Parab
Let me write a poem which I promise is short,About a newspaper story we would not think of a lot.They said it happened sometime yesterday,While I thought of what to watch, what to play.The paper said rifle shots crisply rang out in the air,As I thought of what not and what to wear.He was outnumbered and his bunker was cold,But he stopped them in their tracks I am told.As I straightened my tie and went on my way,Another nameless soldier died in his fatigues yesterday.I promised you this poem will be very short,About a newspaper statistic we would not think of a lot.
Do take a moment to pay your homage to martyrs from the Indian Army. 

Why you should bother with the Olympic Games

By Gaurav Parab

 Vanderlei Cordeiro de Lima lights cauldron, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index...Trivia alert: A feint is a fencing attack made with the purpose of provoking a reaction.
A self-proclaimed opinion maker recently tweeted that the Olympics was a waste of money andopportunity. This was a tweet from the same person who also posted about why bother with theOlympics. On this evidence alone, this individual would have made a good fencer dealing largelyin feints and flicks. She may even have won a medal or two, given her steely determination of notbeing prone to selfies, photo ops and distracting opinions. Cough. Cough.
Read the rest of the article at Sportskeeda

Harry Potter and the boy he inspired

Every Potterhead has his or her own set of Harry Potter moments. I have three that stand out. Let me start with the most recent and then I will explain why this means so much to me.
Moment # 3 - Pleased and humbled to share that I am one of the judges of the HP and the Cursed Child contest where Potterheads across the country are competing to win a JK Rowling signed copy of the Eighth Harry Potter story.
Moment # 1 was when as a teenager I picked my first HP from one of those here today - gone tomorrow stalls on FC Road back in '99. A hundred or so pages into the book - I found myself in this remarkable world and truly under a spell. Let’s call it a Flagrate – a spell that brought with it the singular truth that my life's calling is to keep attempting to create my own little worlds. Try a bit of magic when I am ready. Be a writer.
Moment # 2 was meeting this quirky, beautiful girl in college who was as big a Harry Potter fan as anyone I knew. And we made a deal. Now that we were through with all the books that had been written till then - we would see the movies together at the same cinema hall in Pune. That's exactly what we did over the years and this girl, somewhere in our journey cast a spell of her own and we ended up as man and wife.
Now you know why I am so excited about moment #3. This represent a chance for me to give back to the HP universe, one that inspired me to take up my life's work and also helped in finding the love of my life.
How amazing it is to be able to share this insanity with others who in different degrees have also seen their lives and their beliefs being shaped by the tale of the boy who survived and who now has grown up?
Sigh. A toast of Firewhisky to everyone and to life.

Ah, before I forget. Flagrate is the one that brings with it the ability to write on objects.

Rustom listed as one of 15 books that should be made into a movie !

Scoopwhoop, a leading Internet Media company, that curates India specific stories listed Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora as one of 15 Indian Books that Bollywood should adapt. At the risk of sounding like a hopeless fanboy - work from some of the best artists of prose and rhyme like Nobel Laurete VS Naiupaul, DSC prize winner Cyrus Mistry, Anita Desai (shortlisted for the Booker thrice), Manu Joseph, Amitav Ghosh (shortlisted for the Man Booker) and other equally amazing writers are part of the list.
I was speaking to a reporter a year back on Rustom and had jokingly mentioned that the book will give Leo his first Oscar win if Danny Boyle ever gets hold of it. That was never mentioned in the interview. Post today,looks like it might give Leo his second or third.Anyone listening? Do you have any friends in the movie industry ? I am sure movie rights to the other books on the list are already taken. Your move. I am a nice guy with an open mind.
Do read the complete list here" - http://www.scoopwhoop.com/15-Indian-B...


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Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora by Gaurav Parab [Hachette] was listed by the Times of India and Business Standard as one of 5 weekend reads , The Hindu calls it a Genre bender, The Statesman ‘An Almost Perfect Debut, The Lucknow tribune calls it a debut to remember, The Pioneer calls it Cinematic, The Vistara Air inflight magazine a Good Book on the Shelf, the Sakaal times says its ‘sheer brilliance in storytelling’ while the Bangalore Mirror calls it an unforgettable story. It is available in leading bookstores and online here

Gypsy Soul to Blame

As cliched as it sounds, a part of me - correction - a very big part of me seeks immortality over everything else out there. I have come to realize how fleeting is the joy and convenience money and fame bring. I have no interest in them.
What I would love in my time here on earth and afterwords is a state of permanence to my thoughts. Like an organ donor, so I can live through the passing along of my thoughts to others long after I am gone. When I close my eyes, I see that I am a small boy walking a cobbled street and I stop at an unknown point in the road marked by a crisis-cross conflict of shadows. The boy pauses and questions the evening about how it let these shadows slip through in the absence of light? When no answer comes, I looking up to find the source. There are statues of giants to my left throwing defiant figures of black on the ground below my feet. Umberto Eco, Harper Lee, Hemingway and others who have taken the difficult journey I have wanted to take. Nasty folks, messing with my mind.
Rustom was me sending test signals to the limitless universe. I was a boxer taking small jabs at my destiny, unsure if I was strong enough to make minor dents in the minds of my readers. Plant my belief system. Make them view things the way I do. Sucker punch them into thinking it was a thriller, when it was but a sinister and selfish attempt at propaganda of my belief system.
It is very clear to me that the second and third could be my last shot at living beyond my body and bones. And that is why I am being so stubborn and hugging them so tight and not letting them go till I am certain about them. Maybe my grip is so firm that I will suffocate them out of shape to a tragic death. Or maybe the pressure will be catalyst enough to force the second book out as an explosion of thought and originality. Who knows? The thing with every book is that it is but a trial where every reader is a judge.Time will tell.

This is also the reason why I am taking small steps away from my present state. Correction, maybe I am taking small steps towards a different future. More on that in the months to come. It is also evident to me that in all probability they will be the last books I write before I move on to some thing else, if life allows me. After all, there is only so much time we have. Like that country song goes, I got a gypsy soul to blame.

First Two Chapters of Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora Free!

Dear Friend,

Thank you for your support to Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora. Each reader of this blog has in his or her way helped my baby reach a diverse audience. Some of you have read the book and shared your feedback, some of you have bought it but haven't come around to reading it yet, while some of you know that the book exists, while have no idea what it is about.

For those of you who have not read the book, or don't read books unless they know what breathes between the covers here are the first two chapters. Absolutely free. This is where you stand up and start a slow clap.

If you like this, do order the book online here or pick it up from a bookstore close to you. Your money is very important to me. Like really important.



Part 1Rustom Iraqiwalla
Chapter 1: When Rustom Ran

He managed to run away twenty years after the first attempt. It was typical Rustom Iraqiwalla. Slow, impulsive and unexplainably beautiful.
The first time was different. It was an adventure. He had read a comic, whispered in a dog’s ear and then walked through a door. Five minutes later, Rustom was dragged back by an astonished aunt who found the boy stopping a Tuk Tuk near the front gate. The Aunt was long dead now and the gate was long run over by the road that crept closer to the family mansion with every new municipal budget. Rustom too was older and now he had a family. They called him Rusty. Times had changed,but the bird inside still rattled the cage.
It took him ten years to ask Jennifer to be his wife. As a baby, he came out two weeks late. His mother gave him a digital watch on his third birthday which he forgot to wear every time.
A beautiful man-child. Organized. Dysfunctional. Intelligent.Foolhardy. Stinking rich yesterday. Dangerously poor today. A sum of contradictions.
Rustom had been sitting and smoking in silence for two hours. It had become a routine since the letters started arriving. Sometimes he would sneak up to Sara’s room to watch her sleepinside her crib. Then he would return to his room again and light another one. The letters were the trigger. He knew he could not be impulsive about the matter. He made up his mind. He changed his mind. The Fali myth was no myth. It was real and it left him afraid. There was only one thing left to do. Rustom made his plan and then he ran away.
A couple of hours later Rustom was inside a train. I will figure the rest later, Rustom told himself. The collapse had been so quick and so overwhelming that the only thing he wanted to do was get away. He yearned for distraction, so Rustom played a game with himself. He pretended that his past was being erased as the train cut through the corridor of trees and electricity towers. Woosh. Woosh. Jennifer. David. Woosh. Woosh. Bombay. Factory. Woosh. Woosh.
He thought about Myra. Her hair made a swooshing sound when she moved her head. It was long and silky like the rest of her. Fuck. Fuck, Rustom repeated aloud. So much for havingthe wrong surname and genes.
But for Fali’s gift, Rustom would have taken the flight. Now, he was forced to travel by train. He had looked around the first-class cabin for a few minutes before concluding that this wasn’t really that bad a thing. The empty cabin gave him much-needed time alone. No nagging Jennifer and no orders to bark on the cell phone. It felt strange when he looked at his empty hands. Usually, they held Sara or his phone. Today, Rustom’s child was home and his phone lay on the collapsible table in front ofhim. Out of habit, he had already checked it a few times. No one had called. No one could. He had changed his SIM. Only the driver knew his new number. He was finally free to thinkin peace and make a plan. Then the phone beeped.
1 unread message. Rustom tapped it open, a little unsure, and a whole lot afraid.
Know your future, call 45678. World Famous Astrologer.
Fuck you. From now on, I am making my own destiny.
Rustom was pale and gaunt with long curly hair. He was tall for the railway bunk that had been designed for the average Indian. Yet, Rustom discovered that he was not tall enough to completely fold his legs at the knees and be done with it. When he drew his legs up they left empty space. When he stretched them, they overshot the bunk. He found it all very uncomfortable. Irritated, Rustom walked to the lavatory to look at the door-sized mirror to confirm if he really was inside this strange train and running away from home. He noticed the wrinkles at the corners of his green eyes and grinned. The women said it added to his charm. He quickly regained focus. Yes, the end was near.
Rustom got down from the train at the next station for a smoke and walked past the train driver. The driver, a middle-aged man with a round belly and a bald spot, looked away in disgust. Years ago, the driver would have liked to be that stranger who looked like a man out of those aftershave commercials on TV – a rich spoiled chora who used fairness cream. Rustom glanced at the driver and he wished he was him, a typical working-class man with no worries and no Davids to repay. I’msure that man’s wife is a good cook.
Rustom would only think of the driver once again. The driver would never think of Rustom for the rest of his life.
Rustom returned to his cabin. He was running from David whose patience would run out in a week’s time. The deadline was close to living up to its name. Rustom then thought about the one thing he had been avoiding thinking about – the money. He slapped his forehead, like one slaps it on forgettinga birthday. How? How… did we ever run out of money?
Even after throwing away a fortune to horses and a generation of escort girls – the Iraqiwallas always had money. They were the ones the neighbours hated and the local extortionist admired. The rich Parsi family with that strange name who paid up without even being asked. Bit by bit the smart ones carved their share out and went their own way. Rustom, whose great-grandfather had created the family business empire, was now left with a shell of ribs and bones. And now on Rustom’s watch, they were broke. How…how…did they ever run out of money?
Rustom pulled the railway-issued blanket up to his chin. He fell in and out of light sleep as he dreamt about the parties and the scent of each woman he had known. He felt their moans and heard the secrets they whispered in his ears. He dreamt of a cocktail of banknotes with a red cherry on top. There was a bra lying next to the bundle of notes. Then he saw their faces. Each of them was smiling but their eyes were serious. They called him a bastard and then smiled at each other.
Rustom woke in the middle of the night and stretched his hand below the bunk to feel his bag. It was filled with enough cash to let him live easy for the remainder of the journey. He groped till he felt the steel of the chain around the bag. Then he fell asleep and this time Rustom Iraqiwalla dreamt of the horses.
A few hours later, although it only seemed like a minute to Rustom, the bag was poked by the end of a policeman’s stick. Rustom was also poked gently. ‘Wake up. This is the last stop of the train. Wake up…’ the old constable’s eyes squinted till he noticed that the occupant was a fair-skinned young man. So the constable quickly added a Sir.
‘…Sir. Wake up, Sir.’
Suresh, the constable, had been working the beat for the last thirty years. He knew only the rich were allowed to have fair skin and be good-looking. And they were mighty pissed if they were called anything but Sir or Ma’am. Suresh had learned other things too but he was too shy to share his theories. The  poor are not allowed to own thoughts, he told his young son. The only thing he looked forward to, and he had been doing so right from day one of his job, was retirement and his pension. Now he had only a month left to stay out of trouble.
Rustom ran his fingers through his disheveled hair and muttered something that Suresh could not catch. Rustom felt the sticky plastic of the bunk underneath him and looked up to see the beady-eyed policeman with a large smile on his face.
‘Where are we?’ he asked.
‘Sir,’ Suresh repeated in his heavy South Indian accent. ‘End of journey. You leave train now, pleassse. Train leave for cleaning now. Good morning, and you go to station to drink filter coffee.’
Rustom nodded and whispered a thank you. Reaching into his cargo pants, he took out the keys andunlocked the chain that had kept the duffel bag safe through the night. Suresh now stood at the entrance of the cabin, still looking at Rustom and his bag, not quite ready to take a chance. When he could not control himself any longer, Suresh asked in his gruff interrogation voice, ‘Bag has what, Sir? No funny business here, Sir.’
Rustom got up and stretched. He picked up his bag and walked into the corridor, sidestepping the constable. Suresh was left standing behind him. ‘Nothing,’ Rustom replied as he stepped off the train. ‘No funny business.’
‘Brat,’ murmured the constable as he walked on to check the next bogey. They would never speak to each other again. Suresh would go on to get his pension in a month’s time. His son would grow up to take his father’s job. He too would call the rich Sir and Ma’am for the rest of his life.
Chapter 2: Totally First Class
Rustom got into the only rickshaw outside the railway platform. He took out a piece of paper to confirm the address. Hotel JK Palace, Rustom repeated but the rickshawwallah waved his hands to interrupt him in mid-sentence like it was natural for Rustom to want to go there. Rustom told himthe address nevertheless. It was not often that he used a rickshaw,and Rustom was already on guard for the type of mischief that Feroze had warned him about.
Once they started, Rustom threw the paper out. The receptionist at Hotel JK Palace grandly announced that he had reserved his best room as soon as he had received the phone call from Bombay. ‘Totally first class, Sirji. Mr Reddy always stays in this room.’
‘Who?’ Rustom asked.‘Mr Reddy. Always. You pay in cash, no?’

His bag felt lighter as he walked up to the room. Once inside, he took out the whisky bottle and poured a stiff shot in the plastic cup the hotel had provided. Rustom took a sip and looked around. The wall paint was peeling and the bedsheet hugged the bed like wet leather. If this was first class, what do the standard rooms look like? Did Mr Reddy resemble the engine driver? His fingers pressed the cup to make it slightly out of shape. Rustom poured himself another drink, and restored the cup to its original shape. He felt buzzed. Rustom grinned. The whisky was doing its job.
He got up and inspected the room again. It may have been cheap, but it was amply furnished. There were chairs and pet tables apologetically thrown around at empty spots as compensation for the lack of atmosphere that hotel rooms normally have. The bed looked long enough for him, although there was something about the way it was placed towards the corner. Rustom sat on its edge and leaned back. It creaked but did not fall apart. Rustom thought about the Taj and shook his head. Jennifer and Sara will lead a comfortable life once I am done. The only one pissed off will be David.
Rustom looked at the bag. It ensured the continuity of his disconnect. He got up from the bed and dragged a chair to the front of the mirror. He ran his fingers through his long curly hair, lit a cigarette and looked hard at his own face. The edges around his eyes were prominent and his face had rapidly lost its luster over the last few months. He was thirty, and for the first time he looked thirty. Is this why I want to kill myself? If Jenny had known he would age so fast, she would not have marriedhim. That is how she was. Rustom shook his head. That is not how Jenny is. I am just being cruel. Jenny is not like that.
‘Face, when did you grow so old?’ Rustom asked.

‘You are a handsome Bawa. The choris love you. What else does a man your age need?’ Feroze, the old driver, would say glancing at the mirror every time Rustom bitched about the unfairness of life. Rustom missed Feroze and his reassuring voice. The old driver had protested when Rustom had forced the wad of thousand-rupee notes in his hand, but Rustom had convinced him to keep it.
Rustom felt impatient. So he took out his wallet again and looked for Sara’s photo. He could not find it. Was he already forgetting how she looked? How can I forget what my daughter looks like? His memory of her face was blurred. He shook his head again. Where did the eyes end and the nose start? Was it the whisky? Absent-mindedly, Rustom ran his fingers over the pocket of his brown cargo pants. He thought about taking Fali out but the curtains were open. Rustom sighed, got up andwalked to the window. Only when he had drawn the curtains did he feel the reassuring shape of his great-grandfather’s last gift.
A Webley Mark VI. Fali Iraqiwalla’s gun. The thing they fondly called Fali.
Most families pass heirlooms from generation to generation. The Iraqiwallas moved old Fali’s gun around. Take it, and don’t forget to leave instructions for the next user. Rustom previously believed that the insanity they had inherited from Fali had screwed them all. But now he knew that it was notonly the genes. It would be fitting to end it once and for all with Fali’s gun. Rustom smiled and closed his eyes. The letter had explained a lot.
Fali started it all. Maybe it was just a thing, maybe it was the hemochromatosis. Dilnavaz, Rustom’s sister, killed herself (in keeping with the times, she ODed), Ronnie, the father, was missing (presumed dead/on the run with his mistress), two uncles famously used Fali’s darling in a suicide pact, while Jenny ended every sentence by saying, ‘Rustom, I will kill myself if you don’t get a haircut soon.’
Where did she get her insanity from? Rustom was still smiling. She wasn’t even an Iraqiwalla. Maybe she too was of Fali’s stock from somewhere. The rascal had slept with practically everyone in Bombay.
Rustom opened his eyes. He reached the same conclusion that he had reached in Bombay. He had to kill himself.
Rustom was afraid of heights so jumping off the Nariman Point office had been ruled out. Worse, if some overenthusiastic policeman reported his fall as an accident, the whole plan would fall apart. He would be dead, which was fine and inevitable. Sara and Jennifer would end up penniless, which was not. If not his life, Rustom Iraqiwalla wanted his death to be worth something.
The gun it was then. The lawyers would love it. The family would expect nothing less.

If there was any chance to escape his destiny, Fali’s Will had destroyed it all. It insisted on a suicide. Now, he had to kill himself. The old lawyer was both embarrassed and amused to share the news with Rustom on his thirtieth birthday. So, he wrote a letter. The letter was the trigger. It provided Rustomwith a way out.

‘Dear Rustom. You might find this interesting…’


The book is available here and in bookstores.

Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora by Gaurav Parab [Hachette] was listed by the Times of India and Business Standard as one of 5 weekend reads , The Hindu calls it a Genre bender, The Statesman ‘An Almost Perfect Debut, The Lucknow tribune calls it a debut to remember, The Pioneer calls it Cinematic, The Vistara Air inflight magazine a Good Book on the Shelf, the Sakaal times says its ‘sheer brilliance in storytelling’ while the Bangalore Mirror calls it an unforgettable story. It is available in leading bookstores and online here

When my dog understood the answer to everything

By Gaurav Parab

If you have ever had a pet, you would have experienced moments when your dog / cat / cow ( any pet that does not slither or spit out poison) seems to be content in being completely lost in thought by itself. Oblivious to everything that surrounds it, including you. Like when it looks at the Sun setting in the distance - perhaps amazed by the magnitude and the consistency of the daily event.  Or those times close to a window or door when you catch it studying an animal not bounded by chains or walls, scampering about carelessly in the freedom life presents, yet aware of the dangers the human infested streets bring.

Joko our dog child has many such moments every day. Specially when anything happens at the house where his contribution is not required. Like a party, or repairs or cooking. Naturally gutted, he looks our way till he is sure he has been noticed, then turns around to plant his bum in our general direction, his face and chest letting go of a dramatic sigh designed to make sure his views are not lost on us.

The dog has some issues.

The other day after multiple displays of his disappointment with the way things are run, we started his daily walk. Scientifically, referred to as long ghoomi ghoomi. 

Enter Kaiser.

Let me tell you about Kaiser.

Kaiser is a Labrador that we often come cross during our daily walks. He is a self assured, confident, piece of work. If Kaiser could speak, I imagine he would do so with an English accent and say things like ' Hello old chap, what's with the dog face?' And then make chuckling sounds before walking away.

Kaiser does not think much of young Joko. Joko absolutely adores Kaiser. Joko absolutely adores everyone including the door, coconuts, and his departmental store scale stuffed toy collection.

So every time Kaiser and Joko cross paths during their evening walks Joko raises his front legs like a prancing horse, saluting all living things big and small,  while attempting to dislocate my shoulders - so that big boy Kaiser can notice big boy Joko. Kaiser doesn't even glance at Joko.

When if there is a miscalculation in my stride and the two are at snapping distance, Joko makes deep primordial growling noises that can make most dogs shit in their invisible dog pants.

Kaiser doesn't even glance at Joko. It is like it is below Kaiser to acknowledge the natives.

The other evening there was a miscalculation in my stride, and Kaiser's human parent - an old Uncle who seems to know what makes the world go around, why do we pay taxes and those sort of things, looked at me and signaled that it would be all right if Joko and Kaiser have a closer interaction.

Joko approaches Kaiser. Kaiser does not care. Joko growls. I shit in my very visible pants. The Uncle is also worried. Kaiser does not move. He looks at Joko like a disinterested teenage girl who says, 'whatever' at the end of every sentence.

Joko comes closer to Kaiser. Very close. Kaiser does not even react. Then Joko sniffs his face, nose, chest and starts backing up slightly towards me. That ended well, I think. And then Kaiser does something no one is expecting.

He barks at Joko. Short powerful barks. Uncle tells me Kaiser rarely barks. He had almost forgotten how he sounds like.

Joko absorbs the new information. Then he barks in reply. Short powerful barks. I tell Uncle that Joko also rarely barks.

Then they are at it like boxers. Kaiser barking. Silence. Joko barking. Silence. Kaiser. Then Joko. The conversation lasts for but a few seconds but it seems to be much longer. And just like it started, it ends. Surprising everyone but Kaiser and Joko like they knew this was coming. Kaiser looks at Joko for a second longer than necessary, pulling Uncle in his wake and then they are gone. Like he has said what he had to say.

Joko stands there for a few moments. And then he too starts taking me home. And as we reach a part of our daily route where the only light from the Sun is what the trees let go off, Joko looks back at me and grins that sloppy grin of his. Like in that short conversation that old dog told him everything he wanted to know. Like Joko now knew the answer to every question he had.

Why does night follow day. Why does human Gaurav leave for work every morning when he clearly does not want to. Why are cats evil and goats so clueless? Who is Joko. What purpose do chains serve. What do human Juhi and human Gaurav whisper about when they think good boy Joko is asleep. Why does his mind shut off every time there is food in the same room. Why does that beautiful golden retriever good girl Pearl jump around in circles when he is around? And is his beloved Baba, that human man who loved him like no one loved him,  really up in the ghoomi ghoomi road in the sky these days?


Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora by Gaurav Parab [Hachette] was listed by the Times of India and Business Standard as one of 5 weekend reads , The Hindu calls it a Genre bender, The Statesman ‘An Almost Perfect Debut, The Lucknow tribune calls it a debut to remember, The Pioneer calls it Cinematic, The Vistara Air inflight magazine a Good Book on the Shelf, the Sakaal times says its ‘sheer brilliance in storytelling’ while the Bangalore Mirror calls it an unforgettable story. It is available in leading bookstores and online here

What does an Army kid dream about ?

With the present occupants of our home
Most children of the Army spends their childhood in a blur, like a picture of a passing vehicle taken a moment too late with never ending tail lights of  shifting schools, friends, and fauji kid duties like surviving tambola at the local institute on Saturday evenings.  How to identify an Army brat? Just throw the question of what is your hometown kid? The sigh will be response enough.

I am not one for reflecting too much on the past, but as part of my research for my next book that tries to explore how memories are shaped and reshaped, I often slip in the question of one's past to my friends. The one's who have lived in only two to three places as kids are very specific in their response. They speak of the school they went to. The memories of their neighborhood. The afternoons with friends, most of whom they still remain in touch with after living lives that follow similar arcs since they explode out of the same source.

Talk to Army kids, or folks who moved a lot when they were younger and you know they don't get into specifics but often talk in sweeping terms about things like playing in the evening, the local squash and badminton court, the made up games with the other children of the unit and yes - the universal tambola evenings no matter which part of the country they were in. 
From class one to twelfth - I lived in about a dozen houses, give or take one or two. And the memories, always disguised as dreams are more about life changing events instead of places or homes. Perhaps, one can't remember anything since there is so much to remember. But there is one place, one home that keeps coming back in my dreams for it stood for everything that was right in my childhood. Open spaces, a close knit family, dogs, and a lot of time spent outdoors.

Belgaum. T 4 RA Lines. A place, which I remember for the specifics.
And so every time I dream of Belgaum, I wake up to a pillow that is wet from a rogue tear. And I sigh. A place where one did not have to think of the future or the past. An address where I was old enough to have an opinion, yet my father and mother shielded me and my sister with all that is wrong with the grown up world - the office politics and the financial worries. Possibly the last place where I was truly me.
Belgaum was the best house home I lived in. Period.
Recently, the missus and I had taken a road trip to Goa and we crossed our home on the way. As I let the engine run idle, our car parked outside the fence of what was my home then, and is someone else's now - I couldn't help but have a massive godzilla like lump in my throat. And when I felt brave enough to go inside the compound, and walk towards the door that had welcomed me so many times back from the school- I felt heavy like it was not only me that my legs were carrying but the burden of so many dreams of times already lived combined with the longing for the experience again.

It had been 16 years since I last entered the place. 
The family who were staying there were kind enough to invite us inside and show the rooms. 
And I saw my dad on the bed in the master bedroom. Baba was watching wrestling when it was called WWF. Mom was in the kitchen. I couldn't see her but I heard the vegetable crash into the boiling oil. My sister was in our room. And we looked at each other and my eyes told her that things will be ok after she had gotten into some sort of trouble with Dad over a late night party. I peeped into a small room where I had seen our beautiful dog Crush die at 5 that morning that still haunts me, his head in my father's lap as he took one last sip of water from the bowl in the hands of a man he loved so much, and then going outside in the veranda where I saw Steffi - out other dog look at me and wag her tail. I looked across the fence to our school grounds and I saw myself learning to cycle and Dad trying his first shots of Golf. 


The final resting place of Crush
I spoke with the present occupants of the home, and the officer was holding the same post that my Dad held back then. Their son was in the US like my sister now. He likes to write like I would in Belgaum. They were fixing the garden and bringing it back to life just like my mom and dad did so many years ago. They had a dog buried not too far away. And I realized that those times, my entire childhood actually - like the childhood of every single Army brat is so similar in spite of the different variables of places, and times involved. I guess, like other kids, we too follow similar arcs. 
And as the lump inside my throat grew and my heart could not take it any further, I excused myself and walked to the car so I could look at the house from the outside and coax my mind to how it used to be all those years ago. And the rogue tear from the nights in some other places appeared, and slipped off unnoticed to the red soil outside the fence like it marked my presence there for all of time to come. 
Rustom and the Last Storyteller of Almora by Gaurav Parab [Hachette] was listed by the Times of India and Business Standard as one of 5 weekend reads , The Hindu calls it a Genre bender, The Statesman ‘An Almost Perfect Debut, The Lucknow tribune calls it a debut to remember, The Pioneer calls it Cinematic, The Vistara Air inflight magazine a Good Book on the Shelf, the Sakaal times says its ‘sheer brilliance in storytelling’ while the Bangalore Mirror calls it an unforgettable story. It is available in leading bookstores and online here