Category: Blog

The saga of the bunking continues. With legitimate reason. I felt it was better to get an hour or two of sleep before starting off with my day.

Things largely remain the same here. I had a cold water bucket-bath.

I can’t think of anything different, interesting, or unique that I did, to share with you in today’s blogpost. So in the interest of preserving everyone’s time, I’m going to leave this blog here.

Hopefully tomorrow sees me break the shackles of monotony!

 

My enthusiasm faded and my days got longer, which led to me not blogging for a week. Horrible, pathetic, I know.

Needless to say, I’m more motivated to continue writing daily.

I’m very tired, I’ll tell you that much, but I’m motoring on.

This evening, post-dinner, I had a marvelous conversation with a senior of mine: one who’s already placed, has the safety net of a job, and therefore, all the time to explore all the things he wishes to, without being caught up in the rat race the rest of us are thrust in.

Long sentence, I’m aware. Read it again, if you’d like.

I asked him a simple question. Prior to applying for internships, you often change the “Areas of Interest” on your CV to indicate to the reader the team you’d like to work with. In my case, I’d possibly put Public International Law and Constitutional Law.

However, if you ask me to talk about either of these, or you question me on something that should be GK for a person interested in these fields, I’m not sure how adequate my response would be.

Put simply: Where do you find the time to read things you have an interest in?

Our system of teaching/learning is a cruel one, especially for students with multiple interests. Classes don’t teach you enough to satisfy your thirst for knowledge, but merely give you tools which you can use when you do supplementary (rather, additional) reading. They take up too much of the day. The Indian system flourishes on increased contact hours between student and faculty, a redundant system if the faculty teaches you things available on books.

I’d honestly prefer to see an experiment conducted by a couple of Law Schools. Implement rigor in the reading students have to do. Start your classes (from day 1) by assuming all students have done their reading and come to class. Continue the attendance requirement if you believe that this will disincentivize students from attending, but ensure that you’re building their interest in the subject you’re teaching.

Force us to read.

We do so much other work at University: Committee work, Moot work, Academic Projects, Studies, that it’s tough to make time to read.

To those who have, I salute you. I’m yet to find my way around this constraint of having 24 hours in day.

Also, stop making things compulsory. Especially when they don’t add any value. If you’re going to force students to attend something post-classes, make it worth their time.

Stop manufacturing machines, start creating interest.

Small rant, apologies. More tomorrow.

Curd rice, out.

Dear Big Tata,

As I grew older, I often wondered why I called you that, and why my brain always used an adjective to refer to my grandparents.

Dear Big Tata,

When I was born, you were 81 years old. At 81, your family saw 4 generations co-exist, albeit a few kilometers apart.

Dear Big Tata,

I visited all but one of the houses, nay, homes, you’ve stayed at since I’ve been born. And despite the change in scenery, you managed your routine. Your morning walk, your evening walk, your filter coffee, your newspaper, your cricket.

Dear Big Tata,

As an NRI child, your crisp English astounded me. I later grew to detest British colonialism, but I loved your diction: commanding, yet soothing. It amazed me that the words out of your tongue came from a different History, one that commanded respect.

I had few hopes of India as an NRI child. Everything I saw around me was rain, dirt, poverty, so to hear you speak English with that glorious accent made you relatable, Big Tata. More so, because people in the city I vacationed in spoke in a tongue I barely understood.

Dear Big Tata,

I inherited your love for cricket, and you were a Gentleman observing the Gentleman’s Game. I recall a conversation we had about the India-Pakistan series, and one about the Ashes. We watched all of the cricket, and in my two months in India each year, I learnt more about commentary and observation and patience than I ever did before.

And then we grew, ever so slightly.

Dear Big Tata,

I came to India in the 6th Grade, an NRI child not-so-NRI anymore. I grew to appreciate and love our native tongues, our land, our people and our stories.

I learnt about our family’s roots, Chikmagalur, the Coffee Works, and our extended family.

I learnt about you, heard about you as a Man, and you as a Boy.

Dear Big Tata,

We grew some more, and this one time I came over, I remember you describing your hearing aid, one of the first you had gotten. You dismissed it, citing that your other ear was fine, cracking a joke about it even, but you accepted its use, and you used it.

 

 

 

Dear Big Tata,

I was in the 9th Grade when I first contemplated studying the Law, and everyone pointed me to you and Big Ajji, and how you read the paper daily. They cracked jokes about how Law was in my blood. I never felt it then, but I do now.

It confounded me that every time I came over you asked about my health and my ambitions.

Only later did I realized how those two intertwined, and how they were all that mattered.

Dear Big Tata,

Things changed. I moved cities. I met you less often. 4-5 months between a visit.

I saw photos of you playing with my cousins on WhatsApp groups. They never failed to make me smile.

The last to last time I came down to namma ooru, my parents told me that you might not be able to recognize me.

Yet you did. And we made conversation about the Law, the Rule of the Law, and Oxford University. You remembered I had applied there, and I loved that, Big Tata, I really did.

Dear Big Tata,

I complained to my mother once about the troubles of being a Man and having facial hair to shave off and groom. She chided me.

Look at Big Tata, she said. He shaves everyday, still, she said.

 

In that instant I felt like a mockery of a person. To complain about personal grooming? Ridiculous.

Dear Big Tata,

Recently I was sent a photo of you with my youngest cousin. You had a stubble, a goatee of sorts.

That’s when I knew things had changed a little.

It unsettled me, but I chose to hide these feelings.

In subsequent photos, your body size shrunk. 1,519 kms away from the place you now called home, I could feel you crying out for your walks.

The last time I met you, I bowed down to seek your blessings. You said a prayer and patted my back, Big Tata, and that comforted me.

Yesterday, I found out you were unwell, Big Tata, and I wasn’t sure what it meant.

I didn’t know what you were going through, what to expect.

I prayed hard that you would recover.

Big Tata,

This evening you breathed your last.

And I’m not sure what that means.

I’m not sure what that means because I wish I could have taken you on one of your walks someday.

I’m not sure what that means because of the zeal you had, your enthusiasm, and the jokes you cracked, both, in Kannada and in English.

I’m not sure what that means because I saw the passion for life in your eyes, Big Tata and that wowed me.

I’m not sure what that means, but in the last 9 hours, I’ve tried to understand.

And I will continue to try to understand. But I will miss you the next time India plays Pakistan in a Test Match. Or when I taste filter coffee.

And I will miss you when I think about my ambitions. Only because you taught me their value, in that one conversation we had about Law.

May your soul Rest in Peace.

 

 

 

 

 

I’m struggling to come up with creative titles, so this will have to do.

Day two of my writing project. Here we go.

Today I discovered the beauty of friendship. I told my friend I needed my kettle around dinnertime. I returned from the library and walked across to his side of the hostel to get my kettle. To my disdain, there was a lock on his door.

I called him, no response.

I rang up his roommate, no response.

I was in dire need of my kettle, so my brain was calculating the time and effort it would take to procure another batchmate’s kettle, or to perhaps go in search of this friend.In a hostel atmosphere, neither of these options are efficient.

Finding someone takes ages. Finding an object takes even more.

You’re possibly better off without the kettle, I told myself.

I walked back in despair, in the darkness to my hostel room.

“Eyy” I heard.

I looked up. First I saw boxers, then I saw my kettle, and then my friend.

The hostel is a fun place.

We walked back to my room together. Me, glad to have my kettle. Him, giving me company.

It was a beautiful moment.

In addition, my Economics test has been advanced to Wednesday, I have a Jurisprudence test on Thursday, and the GNLU Debate starts on Friday.

What a week I’m in for.

Thanks, Monday.

Curd Rice, out.

I’ve decided that I’ll be posting things every day from now on. 15 words, 20 words, 200 words, whatever it may be. I can’t be apologizing to my future fans every time I post something on this little space I hold so dear.

I’m hoping this also allows me to track back on the things I experience in University. (not college) – day in, day out. Like a diary. A rather public one.

Coming to what happened today.

I missed my father.

Since I’ve been born, my haircut/hairstyle has been my father’s domain. He’s figured out which barber to take me to, and because our hair is the same type, he’s got me haircuts that won’t look horrible on me. For the most part (I still remember the mushroom, Appa).

My dad took care of this haircut business. He used to tell the barber exactly what to do, gaze at him with steely eyes as the haircut took place, and ensure I walked out of the barber shop feeling light-headed (see what I did there?) but with all of my God-given looks intact. All I had to do was sit in a chair, try not to fall asleep, and move my head around as I was instructed.

I’ve shared a special relationship with my Barber, Bob Uncle. He’s been a very important part of my life – I picked up my first words of Hindi from him. When we moved to India, my dad and I struggled to find someone like him. We didn’t succeed, but my dad managed to explain the haircut we needed to the new barber.

I was terrified about destroying the way I looked every time I sat in the chair. I prayed that I didn’t get a mushroom cut and reminded myself that my hair would grow back. My prayers worked and I never switched barbers till I moved to Gandhinagar.

My barber here is a chiller. He runs the only A/C saloon, yes. Saloon, in Bhaijipura. He has a TV which plays Taarak Mehta ka Oolta Chashma on repeat, and he experiments with his hair more than Paul Pogba does. He’s a star.

I’ve visited him 9 times now – once a month when I’m in Gujarat. He never messed up. Not once. My broken Hindi and my “combing” action did the charm.

Till today.

I asked for a medium-short haircut.

Unshaved, I now look older than I really am.

Clean shaven, I look like a champu.

What are these extremes.

Time to oil my hair furiously.

 

 

 

 

Committing yourself to blogging is a difficult thing, as I have recently found out. In the time I have been the most free in 2016, I have written a grand total of one blog post.

I know, I know. I can hear the gasps from my chair here in Gandhinagar.

Yes, I’m back at University (not College). Yes, this does mean I’ve completed a year of Law School, albeit without giving four exams (much to the dismay of my grandmother). I shall be giving these exams now, which means studying when pretty much no one else on campus is.

It’s quite strange to think how time flies. 26^th June last year, I flew to Bhubaneshwar to complete admission formalities at the National Law University, Orissa. I still remember being extremely skeptical about the place. It was Rath Yatra and some violence had broken out in Orissa, so there was a complete bandh. My mum and I spent the entire day at the Bhubaneshwar Airport, making incredibly fun conversation and sipping tea with cardamom (best tea I’ve had). Being the social being she is, she even got the Airport staff to make an announcement on the PA system, calling out for other students seeking admission at NLU-O, so I could make some friends before University began.

One year later, I’m very grateful nobody showed up.

When we finally managed to get out of the airport, (at 5 pm, after landing at 8:30 am), Orissa was a breath of fresh air. I think there are a lot of misconceptions in India about what other States are like, and down South, there’s a very tainted image about the East. The roads in Bhubaneshwar (looking at you, Expressway) were infinitely better than the roads in Bangalore. What I loved about Bhubaneshwar was how fantastic the cement to nature ratio was maintained – there was a fantastic amount of greenery. When we got to Cuttack, we were shocked at how well the campus had come up. Our surprise was aided by the low expectations we had set for ourselves.

My admissions process involved a lot more running around, and if Indigo had a frequent flyer program, I would have been in the Gold tier within the 3 weeks I spent at Cuttack. I flew Bhubaneshwar-Mumbai-Ahmedabad and my mom flew Bangalore-Ahmedabad some 6 times before I settled into Gandhinagar on 28^th July.

Good times.

It was mere coincidence that I left home for second year on 26^th June 2016, which bought back a flood of memories on the flight.

As a first year in Cuttack, I managed to order Dominos to campus within two weeks of being there (with three other co-conspirators). Yes, I had a bit of aukaat.

Coming back here for second year doesn’t feel too different. Not much has changed around the place, except for the mirrors in the common washrooms. It feels like I was away for a week, or two, at most. Which, last night, was a fantastic thing – I got to sleep without feeling homesick.

On reflection though, it’s a bit bittersweet. Familiarity in Gandhinagar means that my body has grown to call this place home.

Which is odd for me, considering how attached I am to things and places.

Nonetheless. I’m very excited for what second year has in store.

Once I finish my four exams.

Which I should probably study for.

Instead of blogging.

Curd rice, out.

 

World, hello.

Roughly a month has elapsed since I last posted on this blog, and I shall apologize again. Readers of the future, you might wonder what prevented young Tejas from blogging about his life. I’ve been busy writing a few (not all) of my exams and completing the moot I first blogged about in January. The exams were so-so, the moot was a fabulous experience (out of this world), and my first year came to an end.

Tragic, I know. (Not so much.)

There are a plethora of things I wish to write about. This post, however, will focus on my 18th birthday.

My mother asked me to blog about this. I’ve erased multiple drafts of this post over the last week, simply because none of them felt like they did justice to everything that happened on the 11th of May, 2016. I’m going to write about this at great length, and, parents, regardless of how enthusiastic and emotional this post might turn out to be, I am truly overwhelmed and grateful.

 

Again, I shall give you the context you need to grasp my gratitude. Over the past three years, I’ve celebrated my board exams spending birthdays. Conversely, rather, I’ve spent my board exams celebrating my birthday. This meant impeccably timed breaks to cut a small home-baked cake, a familial gathering for a few (2) hours, and lots of studying. Past papers, to be precise. I even spent 11th May 2015, writing my Chemistry Paper 4 exam.

Who wouldn’t want to answer 100 marks of something organic, inorganic, periodic, and physical? What made it more fun was that on 10th May, I had written CLAT, and on 12th May, I had my Mathematics Paper 5. Basically, my birthday in 2015, was 2, maybe 3 hours of sleep, 1 hour cutting and eating cake, and well, 20 hours doing academic related activities.

Not studying felt like a waste of my birthday.

Prior to when Cambridge International Examinations was the protagonist of my life, and my Chrome Homepages were XtremePapers and FreeExamPapers, my birthdays were memorable and fun. Each of those 14 times.

My parents are perfectionists. And neither of them are lazy. Which is problematic and lovely. See, it’s problematic for me because I like sleep (despite the fact that I don’t get much at college). I presume it’s lovely for them, because everything they plan is perfectly executed. Including birthdays.

Most of it comes from the fact that my parents are big children themselves. My mom’s the younger one, I mean, look at her, craving for attention on a public platform. They get excited about the smallest things (something I’ve inherited).

They planned a birthday at Fuddruckers, with the best clown, play area, potato wedges, and onion rings.

OH AND A WINNIE THE POOH CAKE.

They planned a birthday at Al Bustan Center, with the most enjoyable Arcade Games and Entertainment.

AND A CRICKET CAKE.

And before we left for India, they planned a wonderful birthday party at a park, renting out a massive area for all my friends and I. There was no concept of hatred or disliking people when we were younger, right? Which meant that everyone in class was invited for everyone’s birthday party. Which meant that the crowd was pretty big. And loud. Mix this with some aerated drinks, food, and games, and you have a recipe for the most energy you have ever seen in your life. We wouldn’t need that reusable SolAero stuff to power any of our rockets in India if you could convert this energy to the sort of fuel ISRO needed.

It was a racket.

This was in addition to all of the “normal” birthday things that happened at school: cakes in class, candy for everybody, candy for self, new clothes and the best part, fancy hair (my fancy hair was my normal hair + hair gel, but it was exciting, nonetheless).

IN 5TH GRADE WE WROTE CERTIFICATES FOR MY TEACHERS FOR BEING GOOD TEACHERS BECAUSE I WAS LEAVING AND WE GAVE IT TO THEM ON MY BIRTHDAY BECAUSE I WAS LEAVING SCHOOL.

THESE WERE PRINTED CERTIFICATES WITH MY UBER-COOL SIGNATURE (Read: Autograph) ON THEM.

My mom even planned her own 40th Birthday Party. Featuring me + dad.

As I grew older, birthdays became fancy lunches with friends and family. The sentiment and the planning was retained, and there always remained an element of surprise.

It was always Cake. But the flavour and design were always a surprise. And they were delicious surprises.

I like Cake.

Basically, my parents were more excited than I was for my birthdays. Even when board exams (flouted as the “most important”, “decisive”, “employers will look at your marks”, “colleges will look at your marks”, “potential spouse’s parents will ask for your marks”, “kid will ask for your marks”, “kid will laugh at your marks”, “aunty’s friend’s sister’s uncle’s son will get better marks” type exams in India) were going on.

For the first time in 3 years, I didn’t have anything consequential to think about on my birthday.

So my parents told me they wanted me to come to Dubai. After a year or so.

I got here on May 10th and spent the entire evening with both my parents, talking about life and everything.

I stayed up past 12, counting down to my birthday like Harry Potter in the first book (in a way more loving, comfortable environment), and went to sleep.

I woke up around 7:30 to use the washroom. I was half-dazed, my eyes were not open, so I was pretty oblivious to everything around me, but I heard sounds of tape.

I didn’t care much. I walked back and went back to sleep.

My mother screeched wake up calls into my ear with my father watching. I imagine that the man felt sympathy for me. Appa, the screech. You could have stopped it. I felt betrayed. But so loved, nonetheless. I knew you wanted me awake too.

She then lied to me. She told me it was 10.30. So I jolted awake (basically my eyes opened and I reached for my glasses). Glasses are magical things. The clock showed 9 AM so I moaned and groaned, only to be greeted by a hug. Two hugs. Because it was 10.30 in India.

Which is not the clock my body was on, but hey.

One of those hugs was this warm bear hug that only my dad and I can share. The same warm hug that greets me at airports and at home. Magnified by two bears. Or more bears.

I got up (rolled out of my blanket), brushed my teeth and things, and looked around. Our curtains had those cute party “Happy Birthday” banners on them. To my right was this huge, yellow, photo banner, with all of these photos through the ages. I never realized how much I had actually changed over the years until I looked at the photos (minus the hair. It’s been the same).Photos as recent as March were in this chronologically arranged, perfect banner. It was very sentimental.

In front of me was a chocolate banner. Which used chocolates to write out a delightful message about life and things. And used “Mega Big Babool” to describe me. It had space jokes too (because of my moot), which provided quite a chuckle (they used Orbit and Galaxy creatively).

And then came the whammy. The double whammy. The triple whammy. The quadruple whammy. The quintuple whammy. Till 18 whammies.

It started with a limerick. Crafted by my aunt (who loves riddles and puzzles and knows the way my brain works), it contained the names of 18 gifts hidden around our house. I couldn’t crack it.

I got 14. I blame this on my sleepy state. It took me 20 minutes. And I needed extra help.

I was still sleepy, but there was more activity in store.

My mom came out of kitchen holding 4 clues in her hand. Each clue represented an area of our house (bedroom, lobby, kitchen, living room),  and I had to use the clues, match them to my list, and find the gifts. It was a treasure hunt of epic proportions designed for a non-sleep deprived adult given to a sleep-deprived adult.

I took 1 hour to find the gifts and crack the clues. And they were all so easy, looking back.

BUT THE GIFTS, O THE GIFTS.

There’s a customized mug, with a funny quote, a customized shirt that says “Legend, since 1998”, a pillow-cover that says “Today Has Been Cancelled, Go Back To Sleep”, a book called Manual to Manhood – where the first chapter is Women & Dating, and the second is Social Skills and Manners (thanks mom). There’s a survival kit with emergency money, a deck of cards with 52 sentimental reasons they love me.

There’s also a scrapbook. A scrapbook with these heart-warming messages from the most wonderful people I have ever interacted with. I don’t know how my mother got in touch with my friends (how, ma?) and coaxed them into putting effort into writing down sentimental thoughts about me. Largely because this enthusiasm my mom has isn’t as infectious through social media, and, most of my friends were writing exams. It was so cool to see how much work she put into all of this.

Every single gift has 18 years worth of memories inside of it. Memories that they have of each of those years. I could map them to the photo banner and show you different stages of Tejas when each memory was created.

They even bought me a domain. A domain of my own! I can’t wait to customize it, and you’ll see this blog there, soon enough.

While all of this shows how much they love me, I was just at a complete loss for words and expressions. I didn’t know what to do, or say.

I was welcomed into the world of adulthood while being pampered like a little baby. How lovely.

I can only hope to emulate this when I’m in their shoes. My mom’s creativity brought my parents love for me to a tangible form. It’s very inappropriate to just say “Thank You” for all of that.

We need more English words to express love. Maybe I’ll coin a few some day. Not tonight.

Then we went to the Temple and stuff.

I ate curd rice for lunch. Homemade. Straight up Sona Masoori, with Almarai set curd. Full cream. Full fat.

We went out for dinner to this lovely restaurant called Feast, at the Sheraton Grand, which my dad picked out specifically because it had a delicious, delicious buffet with a lovely Italian and dessert section.

And just after we had admired the beautiful view it presented and sat down, I was surprised by my best friend and his family. This guy had his board exams going on, and I wasn’t sure when I’d meet him. And he took time off to come to dinner. We hadn’t met in a year or so, and we hadn’t spent either of our birthdays together in 8 years. As compared to when we were children and were inseparable at all parties. Except when dancing was the activity at hand. He was a rockstar. I was a potato. Distance from all cameras was my only goal.

The food was delicious, the conversation was lovely.

And yes, there was cake. Tiramisu cake. The best Tiramisu cake I have ever had.

That’s how I celebrated getting voting rights. My age now tells you I’m an adult. Nothing feels like it’s changed, though. I haven’t grown a tail or anything.

Maybe I’ll feel different once the responsibilities come my way.

Curd Rice, out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why do I always decide to write when I have far more important things to do?

Today is legitimately the first day I had minimal conversation with my parents.

Reading that sentence makes me feel like a horrible human being. You need context. Let’s provide some.

I’ve spoken to my parents every single day after moving to college. This isn’t some nonsense pangs of separation type of thing. It’s more about what they mean to me, type of thing. We’ve had a very open relationship as a family, over the years. I reckon, especially closer to boards, I spoke to my parents more than I spoke to any of my friends. To surmise, I got closer to my parents than ever before, the month before I left home for college.

Minimal, is hence defined as a call lasting sub-one minute & a few messages.

Life gets tough sometimes. I went through a painful examination schedule in the 12th, with board examinations & entrance examinations in the same month, back-to-back. It was a horrid time, because I grappled with my fear of the unknown (What college? What marks? What studies? What city? What life?) every single day.I woke up knowing that there existed an uncertainty in my life. This was compounded by the fact that my friends’ lives gained clarity day by day, in terms of answers to the above questions. Which is why I relied on my parents very heavily. I must add, however, that I rejected any explanation/solution they had to offer me. I was the stubbornest in the month of May, because the uncertainty was too much for me to bear.

This begins the first of three (maybe four?) apologies this blog post has.

Sorry, guys.

You don’t know what your support meant to me & words cannot explain the same. I will, however, try providing something for the audience of this blog (currently, 3 identifiable souls – hey, Ajji!) to understand. Let’s take the India v. West Indies match. Just the first innings (no trauma, please). If I consider my entire work toward colleges to be the Indian batting line-up, I was initially the opening batsmen. I got good starts & failed to capitalize. At one stage I became Yuvraj Singh, who played well, but got a little carried away & began to take risks. You guys nailed it though. You were MS Dhoni (not Virat Kohli). Here’s why. You calmed me down & made me sprint at the right time. You made me run the singles, the twos, only to keep the scoreboard ticking. You told me my hard work would pay off. I could become Virat Kohli blitzkrieg-ing toward the end because you were MS Dhoni.You even took strike, covering for me when I needed to be sheltered, because you understood me so well.  You guys were pivotal to the entire innings, the entire project.

Which is what made it tough to leave home, like MS Dhoni retiring from Test Cricket. It came all of a sudden, out of nowhere & it hit me pretty hard. I was the captain of my own ship, the captain of my own cause. I remember calling you guys numerous times over the first semester for the pettiest of things, like Virat calling up Dhoni to understand when to take the new ball. I called you to figure out whether to buy something, whether to go out for lunch. I even remember calling you to ask if I could bunk. My friends at college give me hell for it, but I couldn’t make that decision. I didn’t fully understand any of it, and needed your help and you were there. A call at 10 AM, during one of your meetings, or between some of your presentations. It didn’t matter. You saw “Tejas” flash across your caller ID and picked up instantly.

You replied to my messages faster than Gangnam Style confused people (Info slide/link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bZkp7q19f0).

Because you missed me too.

Then I came home. Relived every memory from first semester.

And came back to college.

Suddenly I had experience.

I began to take decisions independently. I started being more confident, inspired by this experience.

I stopped calling Home for small things.

But I spoke to you everyday, without fail. Because I missed you and I needed to know I still had your support. It was like Virat Kohli bowing down to Sachin after hitting that 50. It felt good to hear your thoughts and remember I had your support, after I made a particular decision.

Today, I failed to message after classes, or tell you I’d be busy post-dinner.

That may have worried you. I know it worried you, because I got two calls in the span of five minutes (unnatural, in our household; denotes urgency). I even missed calls from family (again, hello, Ajji!), which may have led to some panic.

Again, Sorry guys.

I picked up the second call and told you I’d call back. Dad had an excellent day and I was looking forward to hearing all about it, but I got busy and I forgot to call back.

I wanted to hear everything about Dad’s day and everything about yours, because I loved the photos you sent me of the food you had made and the experience you had had. I thought about the last time I had received such awesome photos from both of you and figured I’d call you back when I got to my room. Again, without intimating you.

Half an hour passed.

I can imagine you waited, as you always do, for a message, from me. To reply, to speak.

And yet, I felt I was busy.

I finished my work and got to my room. Opened my phone, and read:

Amma: Tejas – crashing now, we will speak tomorrow, good night

And then it hit me, like a wave, all at once.

I missed an important day. I missed the one day where you wanted to tell me things, and I can hear you, even now, at 2:10 AM, telling me about them. About how wonderful your day was, and the marvelous things you did. I can hear myself passing a comment and making Dad giggle, definitely at the expense of Amma. I can feel the happiness floating through the telecommunication device I hold to my left ear, as I listen to you both talk about your day. I can feel the comfort returning to my system, as I live in a place far from my comfort zone.

And I feel sad. I feel sad because I don’t want to miss these days, these days which are so incredible, which we experience once in a while.

I missed a day that was more ‘happening’ for you, than it was for me. A rare day where I had less to tell you and more to hear. More, that trust me, I really wanted to hear.

It was like I had caused MS Dhoni to be run out.

For the third time, I’m sorry.

And I can hear your reactions, your thoughts as you read this.

‘Why are you apologizing, Tejas?’, you will ask.

‘We were just worried’, you will say.

I’m sorry because I messed up.

I had had a good day, too. I ate chola puri, I ate fruit custard. I did things I know you would have asked me questions  about. Things I would have loved answering.

‘How do they serve the fruit custard?’, I know, you’ll ask.

And for these things, passed by, unsaid, and all these unasked questions, left unanswered,

I’m sorry.

Shall call you in the morning.

Happy Ugadi, folks!

Curd rice, out.