Cake

Enoch celebrated 8 years of life yesterday. Here is a peek at the cake (now all eaten except for the Tintin face). Wish you were here with us!

Milllenial

On July 31st 2007 we started on a journey with this blog with these words:

In the beginning was the Word.

And the Word was with God.

And the Word was God.

Oh that the Word would be known

by all whom the Word fashioned

by all who call on the Word,

with words

But let my words be few

and let them join with the songs around the Word

and around the world.

We are now 1000 posts later. Over 3.5 years. About 2 posts every 3 days.

Thanks gentle readers for coming along over these years. Its been a joy to share some parts of our lives with you.

Now it is your turn...

Any suggestions?

Any thoughts about where to go?

We appreciate any thoughts you have for us.

Thanks for drinking chai with us - remember that you are always welcome to move from the virtual to the real - a cup is waiting for you when you come and visit us in Thane!

Rough road

Amma and Appa (Sheba's parents) arrived from Vishakapatnam today. We have not met them for a year. Do we ever have catching up to do!

The house smells of fresh banana cake - the second one is in the oven. Enoch's birthday count-down now switches to hours - we are gearing up for what promises to be a memorable Saturday bash. Interestingly enough - given that Enoch was born in Maharashtra - he shares his B-day with the great Maratha warrior king Shivaji.

Otherwise all is quiet. Asha is sleeping with Amma - with Enoch on the side in a folding cot. Appa is asleep in the living room couch-bed. Sheba is dozing in our room - waiting for her nocturnal husband to finish supervising the cake and join in slumber.

I had a great conversation with a friend of mine who has gone through tough days - for years and years now. Tonight's phone chat took a positive turn after he shared with me some of his current plans. We then moved on to talk about space and NASA and Buzz Aldrin. We shared some moments in wonder about how a huge rocket like the Saturn 5 could make it to the moon powered by less computing muscle than what is now found in a simple cell phone. My pal told me about how Buzz Aldrin monkey-fixed an ignition fuse for the only rocket motor (no backup possible) that was to take Neil Armstrong and him off the moon and back towards the module that would return them to earth. Amazing. Just thrills you to think about it.

My friend talked about how one of the mottos of NASA which can be loosely translated as: "a rough road leads to the stars." The Latin Ad Astra Per Aspera (through adversity to the stars) was put on one of the plaques commemorating the 3 astronauts who died in 1967 in a preparatory mission for the moon shot.

My friend is on such a road. I often feel helpless at the challenges he faces. Sheba and I do pray and try to do our part. Its a rough road - and not a short one either. But there is real hope.

Talking with Appa this evening he mentioned about the decisions he and Amma took. Decisions to live very, very simply. No gold ornaments. No plot of land. All the money into their 4 children's education. 10% put aside for savings. He did not mention - but I know that at least 10% went to the church - probably a lot more.

But look at him now. 4 children all over the world. All doing amazing things. All married to wonderful folks (smile). We had family prayers in the evening and Enoch was singing his heart out - Asha was playing the violin by ear. Amma and Appa have returned earlier this year after spending 3.5 months in the US.

Its a wonderful life.

Farewell

Mr. Anmol is dying.

He has been dying for some time now, but this seems like the end.

For the last 2 days he has hardly taken any water - let alone food. He is quiet and tired.

Mr. Anmol has HIV - as do most of the friends whose homes our staff visit. He also has cancer. Its the cancer that finally is killing him.

Mr. Anmol's sisters were very angry when they found out he had HIV. He had been hiding this from them for years while living with them. As a family of Anmol as an aging batchelor and his sisters - similarly aging spinsters - this was hardly happy news. The ladies were so angry that Anmol had kept it hidden from them. They were afraid and tried to keep him to his room. Our staff went many times to talk with the family. As Mr. Anmol has grown sicker his sisters have become a shade kinder.

A male nurse comes to clean and help Anmol these days. He doesn't speak much but appreciates the visits.

Yesterday he talked to Jesus. Anmol prayed and put his trust in the man who left heaven to taste death for us, in the God who also rose gloriously on the third day. Anmol has been far more at peace since he prayed.

How many more hours to go? Is this the very end? It seems like it, but we just don't know. Dying is not easy.

Sheba has brought the death certificate book at home. When the call from Anmol's sisters comes - at whatever time of night it may be - she will go over to the home and certify that Mr. Anmol has passed away. Slipped into the beyond.

"Don't write 'AIDS' on his death certificate" the sisters insist. Sheba has told them that she will write "immuno-compromised" and "cancer".

What does immuno-compromised mean?" asked one of the sisters.

"It means his immunity was reduced - most often this is due to having HIV" answered Sheba.

"Well don't write that!" she replied.

Sheba helped the sister to understand that her brother's HIV status would not be visible to people based the death certificate - as the sister herself did not know what it meant.

A man is dying. Its a sad - a wretched situation. We know that death is *not* normal. We would be no better than stones if we did not feel the essential gut-kick of knowing that a life is about to end.

But death is also a doorway into another country - a life far different from the long stretches of misery that has been Anmol's life so far.

Eternity is very long. And the longue-duree of forever makes the present - even a 90 year long today - with whatever glories or follies we experience - seem a mere wink of an eye.

Fairwell sweet prince Anmol. You will be waiting for us.

Lego Autorickshaw

Ubiquitous. Small bumble-bee droning. Black-with dash of yellow. Life-lines of Thane. Auto-rickshaws.

For our family of four - the humble 'auto' is our vehicle of choice. For all but the shortest distances our trusty/rusty Honda Activa scooter is gradually groaning under the weight of increasingly well-fed Eichers.

So usually we hail a waiting 'Auto' - hop in and off we scoot to our destination.

Therefore a special thrill to introduce a small model of what we see in real life - Enoch and his Dad worked at creating in a miniature what our sore backs have experienced many times in macro - the lego autorickshaw!

Hello! Auto!

Kaha ja rahai?

Lok Hospital jana hai!

Teek hai - chalo!

In Thane, if the auto driver is wearing a white uniform, it means he owns the vehicle. Other drivers wear khaki uniforms - and either rent the vehicle - or the license from someone else. Often the cost of 'renting' the license ends up being almost the largest outflow for the hapless driver. This lego driver (a salty looking gent) seems to own his craft though.

Waha ruk keejiye!

Kitna paisa? Arre, itna rate bhar gaya? Teek hai, leejiye

And so the auto drives off into the dusty streets of Thane town.

Many of the drivers in Thane come from eastern Uttar Pradesh - a large number from the district of Azamgarh. They are here in Thane because driving brings them cash - something in short supply in the hinterland they come from.

Meanwhile in a sophisticated Lego universe - far, far away another autorickshaw was created:


Its good to stay 'umble.

The (world) cup overflows - into print

There is a special thrill to hold a book when you have met the author. More so when you actually know the chap (or chappess).

We are 4 days away from the start of the Cricket World Cup. A month and a half of cricket when the best cricketing countries (ok, make that every cricketing country with a few of their country cousins thrown in too) hurl themselves at each other on the playing field (in a civilised way of course) to hoist the coveted trophy and have the bragging rights of being the best in the world for another 4 years.

The tournament starts on Feb. 19th - Enoch's birthday - and ends with the final in Mumbai on April 2nd - Andi's birthday.

A birthday gift is thus in order to the males in the Eicher family - and what better gift that James Alter's History of World Cup Cricket. Fresh off the press - and hopefully arriving at the Eicher household before the first ball is bowled of the cup!

I have just bought our copy! If you are in India you can do so by clicking here and get a bonus of a 15% off the cover price.

James Alter (known as Jamie till now) has spent most of his post-Woodstock days (and a fair amount of the former as well) living and breathing cricket. I am thrilled that he has gotten his book out before this World Cup. As I write this I find that I also have to admit a slightest tinge of envy. Why? Because I haven't put my act together and cranked out a book or two? Lets put that aside - Congrats Jamie - we are very proud of you (and of the whole extended Alter family of course too)!

I remember a long time ago in Ranchi, Bihar - following the 1983 world cup cricket triumph in by reading the Calcutta edition of the Telegraph newspaper. The news would arrive a goodly day or so after the actual event - but it did not matter. The magical run took place - and then before we could even imagine it happened - the unbelievable - our boys had actually lifted the cup. That iconic photo with the men in debonair suits hoisting that big bit of silverware and Kapil Dev's big black-and-white smile is etched somewhere in the back of my head.

So Enoch and Andi have a birthday present to look forward to. Thanks James!

Two friends starting with S.

Today is the birthday of two boyhood friends of mine whose names begin with S.

The memories we shared.

S. was my gateway into music. We would spend long afternoons in the palatial flat his parents had in South Mumbai listening to LPs. Simon & Garfunkle - live at Central Park, The Beatles, Dire Straits - Brothers in Arms. We formed a proto-band - he knew a bit of guitar - I provided 1 tone back up on a keyboard. S. was a German but loved India. His father was a top-boss in a huge German engineering company. His mother taught us photography. They had a holiday house in Italy. S. and I explored Chor Bazaar together and had coin collections in common. After our 10th standard exams I went to boarding school - and he went to Germany

The other S. was my gateway to boarding school. As a green, awkward fellow in 11th grade I was welcomed by S. who had been in the hallowed halls since his medical missionary parents put him there in 1st grade. S. was a sportsman non-pareil - but never let it swell his head. We shared many classes - memorably 2 years of biology - and he welcomed me into his remarkable family who had taken up residence just next to the school. The razor wit and deep love that I received from his parents and sisters opened my eyes to new vistas. This bond continued with the family being a second home for me when I graduated two years later and the S. family shifted to the US.

Why are the ides of February a melancholy day for me?

Well, the second S. has prospered over the past decades. He married a wonderful American woman and has 3 amazing kids. He works hard and is active in his local church - and in a local prison as a volunteer. His wife helps out with a charity that looks after newborns in challenging circumstances. They live on a farm and have various animals - including horses and mastifs. The sadness with S. is that our lives have been physically apart for 15 years. There is an ache that wants us to be together - but it is a good ache because it underlines that which could be but which a mere 22 thousand kilometer distance has wrought.

My ache for my first friend S. is far deeper. I wonder if it will ever go away. We are seperated by death.

The last I met S. was in south Germany. He had continued on with music. It had already taken its toll. He was a guitar wizard - and had one identical to the one on the cover of "Brothers in Arms." He was alienated from his parents - especially his father. He hung out in the park and was on drugs. His girlfriend - a hollow pasty-faced girl - hung onto his arm as we sat in the uncommon sunshine. I was shocked. He seemed so completely different from the old S. I knew. As if I was talking to a dopplegaenger.

S. died within a year. I understand it was a motorcycle accident in Italy.

The pain of separation. Of a full and complete break. I had so hoped that S. would come back to his senses. I had been wishing that I would again meet the boy who I knew and loved from Bombay days. But then I heard from his mother that he was gone.

Each year on February 15 I remember my late friend S.

And am grateful for my other friend S.