Musings of a White Haired Teenager

August 6, 2021: Some days do not matter. The early mist provided a good backdrop to be driving. The roads were empty at the witching hour when only a selected few would venture out. And I did. Everything seemed far away, irrelevant as one follows the broken white light partially blinded physiologically, and the rest accomplished by the mist. Distant trucks look like a living being emerging from the mist, and then whizzing past leaving a blinding darkness in its wake. Predictably, the eastern sky behind me did wash out with the rising sun. Coffee in hand, messaging bondhus while I watched the sun come up sitting at some unnamed Starbucks somewhere like the many Starbucks that I have visited. A sense of permanence. The golden arches or the green face. Sometimes with my blindness the “Haldiram” placard from the distance seems like “Hardees.” In the instant of recognition, I realized I have again space shifted. It matters to no one but me. I remain available. The 10:30 am chat with one bon

August 5, 2021: The burger. There is something magical about the slightly hard-crusted bun, with soft bread inside, a juicy medium-rare patty, the sliced onions, the soggy lettuce, and the two slides of tomato, with a slice of cheese and adequately smothered with sauces. I lift it, carefully remove the pickled cucumber, and the first bite into it is the closest thing to complete happiness. Followed by the fried potato doused in ketchup. This made my day. Food is connected to places. The parshe maach (parshe fish) with par-boiled rice preceded by Alu posto (potato cooked in poppy seeds) and followed by Misti doi (sweet yogurt) are markers of another place. The pandemic took these pleasures away. The fried potatoes doused in olive-oil from the street vendors of Naples. The fish and chips wrapped in the Times at Camden Town. The pastries in Vienna, and the Pad Thai in Soi 13 in Bangkok. The pandemic has robbed us of these pleasures. Thus, the bite into the burger, at a standard fast-food

August 4, 2021: Don’t drown the drink. I am still baffled by people who would take a perfectly good single malt Scotch, add ice to it, and then fill the glass with water. I saw the bottle weeping and the bar tender looking despondent. But the lounges are now open. The tediousness of the pandemic is wearing off as the airport lounges are opening up and one can actually use the food buffet and not have to be served food in pre-packaged plastic bags. Airports are filling up, there is a sense of living with the pandemic now, and everyone seems to have adjusted to the fact that certain precautions need to continue. The desolate look of airports is disappearing and T3 had a fuller look, more people, going places, more airplanes, more airlines. The lines are lengthening and maintaining distance is a challenge and is not a priority. Masks are easier to do, as is the PPE for the middle seat passengers on certain airlines in certain countries. Those who know me also would know that, like many ot

August 3, 2021: Decisions we feel bad about. There are always the moments of doubt. Did I do the right thing? People ponder. What if my decision led to harm for someone I care about? These things gnaw at us as we go through life. The loss of a sense of control. The pandemic has brought this forth again and again. What is the correct treatment? What is the correct policy? What is the risk that the decision brings forth? Nearly impossible to answer and dwelling on such issues causes a restlessness that can become a barrier to rational thinking. A bondhu recently said to me, “I believe calm mind can win all situations.” So true. Where does this calmness come from? It is not the “Kata” from our college days. There is no translation for Kata. It is the expression of bravado and rejection of risk assessment. Kata could mean “just let it go “or perhaps a “whatever.” But there is a difference between the calm mind and kata. That is the assessment of risk. When someone is gnawed by a decision i

August 2, 2021: About pain and grief. The pandemic has perhaps allowed us to re-consider what we mean by pain. The disease itself, as I watched it sometimes ago in people I care about, has a component of pain. The discomfort can be from just simply a cold to gasping for breath. It has also reminded of the centrality of death in our lives. How death can come so suddenly or can be a prolonged expensive battle armed with ventilators and other apparatuses. Who finally makes the decision about when to stop? Or is the decision made easier by nature intervening. Many, perhaps a little bit of me also, saw the futilities of extending life by appendages and then still undergoing the pain and the grief, because eventually nature found a way. Now, we are told, there will be no more deaths from the disease. In some places, the delusion that we will no longer die from the disease, leads to conversations about the need for masks. We stand again at a point of inflexion as in some parts of the World th

August 1, 2021: End of Covidaze. It is certainly not the end of COVID-19. I started the effort, loosely called “Covidaze,” with the end date of today. The hope was that by this time, we would exhaust the funds from the philanthropy of my community at Wake Forest and we might all reach a point where the pandemic was somewhat in control. I was right about the funds and wrong about the pandemic. It still goes on, there are still needs, muted no doubt, but there are people looking for support with vaccines, tests, and the ancillaries that the pandemic has given us. The numbers keep varying and seem to have plateaued a bit where the Covidaze folks were working. Some of the people who needed support with supplies that Devdas was running are now back to their work as the malls and restaurants are open. On Saturday, I had gone with the hope of buying a shirt at the mall but retreated seeing the throngs of people there. Did a quick walk around to see if I could get a cup of coffee, all the outl

July 31, 2021: Departures are opportunities to come back. If you do not leave you can not come back. “Ma, Aaaschi” a loose translation would be, “Mother, coming.” The response a child automatically gives when the parent calls, right from the days of childhood when called to have dinner or do a chore. In such cases it could be a reluctant promise to come and do something. Often repeated to delay the coming. “Esho” says the mother, “come,” and the response “aashchi.” But when my bondhu said, “Ma Aaaschi” through the window overlooking the street before stepping into my car I felt good. He has made a promise. “I will be back.” Till then she will wait, in an empty home, with a housekeeper, waiting for the child to fulfil the promise. As we drove through the rush hour traffic to the airport, I realized that the promise matters. I will be back. Do not worry. I have said this many times when my parents were alive, knowing full well I will keep the promise, as will my bondhu. I too will say to