My trusted pair of dark blue Old Navy chappals passed away over the weekend. I’d had them since the summer of 2003, borrowed in a moment of desperation from Anshuman Bagharia and never returned. They were good to me. They got me through that I.S. summer, through many house shifts and job searches, from Ohio to Boston to Bombay, Bangalore, London and Colombo. They ran from Armington to Kauke Hall and Gault Library, strolled down Beacon Street and Comm Ave, creaked under the weight of lifting cartons while unpacking in Shrewsbury and Brookline, and in their latter years, though battered and thinning, stood their ground when the Bangalore monsoons lashed across my balcony. They were the oldest piece of footwear I've owned. Thanks for all the memories. RIP.Be good up there in chappal heaven.
We each have our field of dreams. The space where we first really took to cricket, where we played the game because we just loved the sound of ball (rubber, tennis, cork, whatever) on ball, where we could square-drive like our heroes (Dravid, for me) and mimic bowling actions and try our hands at legspin or left-arm pace and try to intimidate and flourish, and where we could - for an hour, a day - escape the drudgery of school and chores. Maybe it was a parking lot or a sandlot, a maidaan , an open field, a side street, a gulli , a stadium, an terrace. You know what I'm talking about. For me, that field was a beaten up, run down former tennis court tucked away between the magnificent deodar and handsome Indian Chestnut tree and sturdy Himalayan Oak and serene maple trees. A little piece of heaven where in days of yore British, American and Canadian missionaries spent sunny summer afternoons playing tennis and rounders but which by the time my buddies and I took over had withered