Cricket: A step into my Dad's shoes...

As far as I can remember, I have always loved to play the game of cricket - like anybody else from my generation. During childhood, most of my afternoons were dedicated to playing the Game at Sahadevkhuta (several venues). We had some simple rules. We first divided players (any number more than 6 was considered good attendance) into two teams. Both the teams had to field for both the innings consisting of 6 to 8 overs. There was a ceremonial toss of the coin and there you go.

My first big opportunity, which I failed to capitalize on, in the Game came when I was in my intermediate. The opportunity was to become a part of the Fakir Mohan Junior College Cricket Team. And as always, I was fighting against the odds. First, I didn't have a sports shoe - in fact I didn't have a shoe in any form or shape. I had no track suit or the white pants that players used to wear. Second, like any typical Indian family, my folks were against me following any sport. But, I desperately wanted to be part of the team as it would have given me access to play with leather balls (normally, we used to play with cheaper cork balls) and also use some decent cricket equipment - like pads, gloves, thigh pad, and helmet etc. For the experience bit, it would have been great.

Although, I was in a tough spot, I didn't want to give up without a fight. I soon figured out that there was an extra pair of old shoes at home. The pair belonged to my father and was two sizes more than what I would have liked. On top of it, the shoe was kind of a slip on without any laces. I filled the top part of the shoe with some papers and could manage to wear it without too many issues. I had to also keep my escapade secret as the ramification of my parents and elder brother coming to know about my adventure would have been worse than the shoe.

And on the first of day of the trials I faced another challenge. I was told by some “sure shots” that the shoe I wore was not meant for cricket and that I should wear a proper sports shoe. I was able to convince them by saying that I was in the process of buying one. On the first day of the trials, I bowled well (I was a decent off spinner) and could guess that I will find a place in the top 15 if not the playing eleven. However, little did I know that that fateful afternoon, by elder brother had spotted me participating in the selection trials.

So, when I came back home, I was told by my brother that I had to stop going for the cricket trials. The secret was now out and there was no point in me being a rebel in this case. But, I did like the feeling of stepping into my father's shoes. Literally, in this case.

To Gouranga Sir, With Love...

Early into my high school at Balaosre (Orissa), I was confident that I was bad at numbers. For me, permutations were more important than mere calculations which have a definite end. Permutations had infinite possibilities that I could use while interpreting a literary text. And that is where I owe it to Gouranga sir who gave me the freedom to interpret.

When I passed my Class VII board exams from Balasore Zilla School, I had the option to choose my English teacher for private tuitions. To either choose Chakradhara Sir, the most popular English teacher of our district, who ensured that his pupils get good marks in the exams, or Gouranga Sir who was sort of an all rounder from the old school who apart form being an English teacher, was also a practicing homeopathic doctor, and a farmer. They were both teachers in my school and were totally different in their approaches to life and education.

Gouranga Sir always wore a dhoti and walked bare feet, while his modern counterpart Chakradhara Sir loved to watch Hollywood action movies in his free time and wore formals. Gouranga sir looked similar to former prime minister Chandrasekhar in his stubble, while Chakradhara Sir always came to school clean shaven. But I must agree that while Chakradhara Sir “taught” me grammar at school, Gouranga Sir helped me “learn” the language.

Gouranga Sir’s methods of teaching English were both interesting and erratic. I remember those chilly winter mornings when I would go his place for tuitions while sir would be doing his daily puja. He would make me wait for five to ten minutes before starting his lectures with the distribution of prasad (offerings). The beauty of his style was that he had no style.

Some days he would just ask me to translate some Oriya text into English and on some other occasions; he will just give me an old question paper used in competitive exams to solve. I could never understand why sir gave me question papers from competitive exams (Railway, Banking, and PSC etc.) when I was just in Class VIII/IX/X. And that too without teaching me grammar or even lessons from my school text books which help me get better marks. But over a period of time as I started solving these complex questions applying my own logic and understanding, it became clear to me that Sir wanted me to figure out the language myself. He gave me the freedom to learn right things in my own way.

Some days, sir would even teach mathematics right in the middle of the English tuitions just to break the monotony. And some other days he would just ask me to help him in his household chore without teaching a thing.

But, when I look back, I see teaching everywhere. He taught me about breaking the pattern and keeping things simple. He taught me the fact that if you feel like reading something read it – it does not matter if it fetches you marks or not. He taught me the value of interpretations and exploring permutations rather than mere calculations. Sir, I have not heard about you since many years, but you are in my prayers and heart.

My first unsuccessful job application

This incident dates back to 1993. The year I passed out from school. I was like any other normal 14-year old who thought he was grown up enough to take his own decisions. And since I had got the bare minimum to apply for any government job, I was convinced it was time for me to start the search. So, the hunt began for a job and not the dream job. In those days, getting a job was a dream.

I used to daily cycle to the district court compound (known as kacheri at Balasore, my home town in Orissa) and visit the vendors who used to make a living out of selling forms and envelops for government jobs in Railways, Army, Public Service Commission and Public Sector Banks. Although, jobs for matriculates were not many, I found one which was for "Drivers in Indian Army." I read the eligibility criteria and found that apart from the age, I was 14 years old, I had all other qualifications. I bought the form with the faint hope that "the authorities might relax the minimum age criterion in case of brilliant candidates like me."

When I was filling the application form at home, my father came to know about it and instead of scolding me for my "lofty" ambitions, he encouraged me to fill the application form and send it before the deadline. I managed to successfully post the application in time. And then began the long wait for a favorable outcome which never happened. I was upset but not for long as I got busy with my college admissions.

Now when I look back, I thank my father for having the foresight to teach a important few lessons so early in my life. Through this incident I learnt to fill job applications. He could have always told me that such a job was not for me, but by not doing so he taught me the value of a job - rather any job.

For some, failure is the pillar of success. For me, any failure is a window to have another go at what you aspire for. And for my father, however, my aspirations for the nonsense always made some sense. And I realize all this now when I can see the pattern.

Basanta's concept of 'God'

If I say Basanta was my friend, I would be lying. Basanta was my classmate for one of the electives (Sociology) during graduation (1995-1998) at Fakir Mohan College, Balasore. We hardly interacted but whenever we did, he seemed to be quite a cheerful guy. Nothing seemed wrong but I could (and I was lucky) see his daily struggle to make a meaning out of his life. He came from an extremely humble background with his father being a small farmer dependent totally on the errant Indian monsoon. He was staying in a one-room shanty with some of his friends on the outskirts of Balasore (a small coastal town in Orissa).

Basanta was good at academics and aspired to be a teacher. He used to offer private tuitions to school-going kids to support to his education and stay in the city. One afternoon, while coming back from college, I went with him to his room to collect some sociology notes that he had made. It was a typical bachelor pad minus the comforts of life that bachelors take for granted these days - empty bottles of beer, TV, refrigerator, and washing machine etc. It was a bare minimum at its tiniest best. And when I took my attention off the debris on the floor, I saw something interesting hanging on the wall. It was a structure, similar to a pyramid, made out of six small thin bamboo canes. At the first instance, I thought that was the handiwork of a lazy mind during one of the lazy summer afternoons. But, when we were just about to leave - and since Basanta was also leaving his room with me for his tuitions - he looked at the structure and did a pranam (praying with folded hands).

I was shocked. I thought may be, he believed in some alternative religious practices. I asked him, quite courageously though, the reason. And he said looking at the structure, "Chetan, I do not have the money to buy idols and photographs of Hindu Gods. The structure that is hanging on the wall is God for me. Religion is a matter of faith and I believe that is God."

For me that structure was nothing. For him, after one become one with the structure, there was nothing. Even the conversation we had can be ruled out as a matter of nothing. However, nothing can deny or cast a shadow on the fact that for Basanta, nothing else mattered.

Tailpiece: I did try to search for Basanta in the Facebooks and Linkedins of the world with the faint hope that I can again get in touch with him. However, it seems, he has remained untouched by the feudalism of cyber world.

The day I came to know what hunger means

This incident dates back to 1992, my eighth year in school and the year of the Benson and Hedges Cricket World Cup in Australia. I was studying in Class 9 at Balasore Zilla School at age of 13. You must be wondering how I was studying in Class 9 when I had only been to school for eight years. That is because I was such a “non-child prodigy” that my parents directly admitted me in Class 2. On top of it, in Oriya medium government schools, there was no tradition of LKG, UKG, Nursery or any of these so called preparatory courses that a child goes through before even he or she starts studying. Life was simple and education was a just a reflection of it.

Now, coming back to the story, during one of the visits of my maternal cousin Ashok (Bapun) to my hometown, I decided to take him to Khirachora Temple in Remuna, It is a little town located 9-km east of Balasore, about halfway between Kolkata and Puri. And I chose my old Hero cycle to do the job for both of us. And I also convinced my friend Kajal and his younger brother Animesh to accompany us on their cycle. And, here was the catch. Both Animesh and Ashok were too small to ride the bicycles so Kajal and I had to do the riding for the entire journey of 18 KMs. The entire budget for this trip was Rs 10, out of which a major portion (Rs 8) was spent at the temple for buying bhoga (offering). We started from our homes at around 10 am.

Everything went according to plan till we finished the puja at the temple. Suddenly, out of nowhere the idea (you can say it was a perfect recipe for a blunder) struck us that we can extend the trip to Panchalingeswar, a religious spot situated on top of a hill about 30 km from Balasore. We had already completed nine out of it, so we thought if we can another 20 (in the peak of summer) we can have another feather on our cap. And at that point of time we had just two rupees and some prasad that we bought at the temple.

But, we decided for it and started pushing the pedals towards Panchalingeswar. On our way we ate the Prasad, and drank water from the roadside village tube wells. We reached Panchalingeswar around 3 pm and that is when we started realizing that we have done a mistake by not informing folks at home and by extending the bicycle odyssey. We also began feeling hungry. We bought some biscuits worth Rs 2 (our last hope) and drank loads of water. However, that was not enough. Still, we managed to climb the hill and had a good darshan of the five shivalingas submerged by the glittering perennial spring. It is believed that the shivalings were installed by king Banasura. And like the hidden Shivalings, God had some hidden learning for us that day.

So at around 3 pm, we four kids with our hungry stomachs started our travel back home. And on our way back, we decided to take the highway instead of the village roads as we felt the chances of us reaching home safe in the evening is better if we take the highway. The journey back was painful. Kajal and I were tired of riding the cycles, our stomachs were crying for food and water was of no help. There also came a point where I begged for food at a small hotel with the promise to pay back the next day. However, the hotel owner refused. Somehow, I could gather enough stamina to complete the 30 kms on the NH-5 which connects Bubaneswar with Balasore and reach home safe with my cousin Ashok in the evening around 6.30 pm. And thus my own 60+ km tour de France came to a hungry halt.

I had this great fear that once I reach home my father will trash me to pulp for having put our lives in danger. However, after having a look at our state of being, the first thing we were offered were some hot parathas. And in my entire life food has never tasted better. And that day I realized what one feels when one is really hungry.

Connecting The Dots

Last week, on Wednesday, I finally called Gori Aai to tell her how much I remember her and what she meant to me. I got the number from my childhood friend Abinash. Felt sad that she is not mobile these days and has also stopped cooking. But, she was in here cheerful self. After talking to her, I could feel a few droplets on my cheecks. Gosh, I finally told her, what I wanted to.

I wish I could say "thank you"

Life has this strange way of carving a path without you having any idea about it. What we call fate, hardwork, talent, destiny or luck, is a result of a series of experiences influenced by few individuals around us. One such great lady in my life was Gori Aaai. For those who do not know Oriya, Gori means fair. And fair she was in her looks and judgement. I met her when she was our neighbour in Balasore living a peaceful life with her husband (whom I fondly called Jeje). Today although I do not remember what her name was. She remains the ever so lovable Gori Aaai.

She was a retired teacher, mother of three kids and quite modern in her outlook for those times. All her kids were married and were away living their respective lives. During the summer, all her kids used to visit her along with their families. And me being the kid next door, I used to be a regular at their house helping Aaai with her daily chores - sometimes it meant getting stuff from the local market and some other times it meant just being there to give the couple company.

I vividly remember the day, when during one of such summers, Aaai was my saviour. Her elder daughter asked me what I want to become in life, quite synically. Since, she knew I was just an average student unlike my elder brother who used to be quite brilliant at acdemics. I was stuck. I had no accomplishments to back my vision. And I had no vision backed by the inner call. Gori Aai heard it from a distance and came to my rescue. She said, "God would have given him some skill to be successful in life. One day, he will find his calling." That one sentence has remained with me for the last 20+ years. And when I look back, that note of encouragement means the world. Aaai, you are in my prayers and heart.

Main Samay Hoon

I’m what I call a “Public Sector Undertaking (PSU)”. Before taking a shot at the qualifications attributing to this self proclaimed tag, would love to dwell a little more on the about part of me. I was born in Bhubaneswar not by choice but due to the strange Indian tradition of expectant mothers going to their parent’s place for the delivery of a child.

Much of my initial years were spent at Balasore, the coastal town of Orissa which gets a mention in the Doordarshan news bulletin every time a missile gets test fired at the Chandipur range. Most of my time at Balasore was spent at Balasore Zilla School and FM College. I was at these institutions for a decade from 1988 to 1998. After that I followed the standard SOP for an English Honors graduate – did Masters in literature and a PG Diploma in journalism from IIMC.

Originally a journalist, I’ve been an accidental web designer for over two years and have spent most of my professional life working in that strange space where content meets technology. Since 2004, I have managed to work on either sides of the Deloitte Drive at Madhapur, Hyderabad. I’m passionate about the things that interest me - my family, people in general and popular culture.

A drifter at heart, I constantly vacillate between passions, read it as flavors of the month, that keep me hooked. I’m passionate about my professions, both planned and accidental. I have come to the conclusion that my belief in the present to be the best that could have happened to me has been a key ingredient of my growth as a professional. My blood group being A+ is not the only indicator.

Coming to the tag of PSU, I believe I can be one of the million brand ambassadors for the government of India for, despite criticism and multiple flaws, the system continues to support dreams and churn out success stories. Born to government employee in a government hospital, I have never been to a private institution all my life. And here I am earning a living and living the dream. Picture abhi baaki hai mere dost.

Life On A Roller Coaster

Its been long since I wrote a blog. And it was not a writer's block that prevented me from putting my thoughts on the web. Life was just on roller coaster. Was looking for a change in terms of my career in communications and that kind of took a little later than usual. In fact, this time the search took almost exactly a year. But it ended in the way that I envisioned it to. And I could again feel the power of divinity in helping me make the right decision. My guarding angel wanted me to be patient till economy found wings to fly.

Proud Of My Mom

Just like many others of her clan in an Oriya middle-class household, my mother too had her 'unfair' share of trials and tribulations. While most others resign to this fate and build a make-belief world of excuses to make life little bearable, a rare few like my mom, breach the boundaries to seek freedom and identity. At 56, she is now a certified yoga teacher and teaches yoga at various camps conducted in and around Bhubaneswar. Her fascination with yoga started rather very late but through yoga she has found her much-needed identity and freedom. I wish and pray that she finds true joy in her pursuit of happiness.

As a kid I always used to think why future is unknown? What will I be in future? Is it not the duty of God to let me know the broad storyline even if if there can be last minute changes. But, life through its surprises makes us value life itself. Let it remain a bundle of mysteries.