The 5 am club

 I know it's the weekend but waking at 5 is what my body clock has been doing for decades. Have begun to quite enjoy the ' me time'

I wake early  , make my tea and often just sit and think. Yeah , a boring old man I am ,but here's something to ruminate over- when is the last time you intentionally made time for yourself? I try and do it intentionally on as regular basis as possible - it's therapeutic. 

In today’s fast-paced world, it’s so  easy to get caught up in the daily grind, often prioritizing work, responsibilities, and obligations over what truly matters—creating meaningful memories.

 But are we making sufficient worthwhile memories with the people who matter most?

 With our families, loved ones, colleagues, and even our pets, these moments are invaluable. These memories are what we carry with us when life becomes challenging, offering us comfort, connection, and a sense of fulfillment. Yes I talk to the cat and I find it quite normal. I've seen so many people talk to their pets - that's love and fun simultaneously!

Too often, we find ourselves distracted by the pressures of modern life—emails to answer, deadlines to meet, and the constant buzz of social media. In doing so, we may overlook the simple joys of spending time with those who truly matter.

 Whether it's a spontaneous family outing, an afternoon chat or walk  with a pet, or an honest conversation with a colleague, these moments contribute to the tapestry of a life well lived life.

But beyond others, are we truly living for ourselves? Self-care, personal growth, and chasing our passions are essential in creating memories that are meaningful. Am following one of my passions more intentionally than before - am writing.

I always entreat people to read, write ,paint, travel, speak, dance, hike,learn to play an instrument- do anything that fuels you and makes you feel good.

 Taking the time to enjoy life's small pleasures, be it through hobbies, adventures, or simply moments of reflection, is critical to ensuring we’re not just existing but living fully- and you don't have to prove it to anyone.

You can be the worst dancer, have an awful singing voice and yet enjoy doing both!

In the end, it’s not about the quantity of our experiences but the quality of the memories we create.

 Let’s take a step back, refocus, and invest time in making memories that will nourish our hearts and souls for years to come.

A tame house pet?

 Random silly thoughts.

Have you ever wished you were a cat? 

A tame house pet.?

You laze around all day 

You are fed well 

Everyone gives you plenty of

love and attention

They want to cuddle you 

And play with you

And kiss you 

And you put up your price

And act snooty 

And they still say ' how cute"!

Then you slip out into the garden

And they go crazy

Searching for you 

And it makes you feel special

Coz you know you have them

Eating out of the palm of your hand

Or paw or whatever !

Then they  rattle your bowl

Promising you treats.

And call your name in desperation

While you peep at them

From under a bush or a chair

And you say to yourself

' it serves them right'

While sniggering !

Then when you are finally fed up

Of sitting alone and getting bored

As it's warm outside 

You get up and casuslly saunter in

Without so much as a ' by your leave'

And they are thankful 

And all smiles

And they thank God that 

You didn't decide to run away.

Makes you feel

Oh so special.

Their generous hearts are overwhelmed 

And they decide to get you 

Pampered and spruced up

So an appointment is booked

At a fancy pet spa

Costlier and sillier 

than the one for humans 

You come out feeling 

Bathed and bruised

brushed and dried 

Drained and stressed 

beyond measure

And smelling like an

Overpriced  powder puff

If only they knew

How much you detested this 

Utter nonsensical humbug 

You get home

And they are all cooing and smiling

And clicking pics

On their silly phones

While calling your name

Expecting you to pose.

Stupid humans for sure.

They ought to get 

Their act in order

 

All you want to do however 

Is rush to your litter box

And let it all out

It's been two hours of torture

Have they forgotten ?

But they are determined 

To shower you with more affection 

And the madness continues unabated

Till you hiss and 

Pretend to be annoyed

Tail waving and all

It's fun to see them scared! 

Finally they back off

While you make it to 

The litter box.

Then relieved

You tuck in 

And  go to sleep once again.

In a minute 

You're in dreamland 

It's a cat's life after all 

And humans should know

That cats rule.

Valentine's day is here again

 

The Valentine’s Day Hustle: Romance or Rip-Off

Growing up in Allahabad as a teen, I never heard of Valentine’s Day. Love, in those days, was a hushed affair—stolen glances, taking a girl out on your cycle and giving her ‘pani puri’, exchanged books, and the occasional brave soul daring to write a letter (only to have it intercepted by a nosy sibling). And yet today, February 14th has turned into an unstoppable carnival of grand gestures, red roses, and quite a few empty wallets- quite a circus indeed.

Some say it all began with the Roman festival of Lupercalia, later Christianized and linked to St. Valentine. Others insist Hallmark engineered the whole thing in an attempt to fleece people. Either way, the numbers are staggering—$25.9 billion spent globally in 2023, with over 145 million greeting cards exchanged. In India, the market now rakes in over ₹1,000 crore, proving that love is indeed a busy & booming business.

But let’s be honest, this day is becoming more stressful than romantic. Many sane men have started dreading it. It’s no longer about love, but about big spending—fancy gifts, overpriced dinners, and elaborate surprises. Forget at your peril! Even married men who should know better get trapped. And let’s not forget the worried dads, anxiously wondering what their daughters are up to. It’s also a day of proposals and promises and ironically heartbreaks too.

Beauty parlours do a roaring business as women rush for last-minute makeovers. And RED is everywhere —dresses, cards, hearts, roses, balloons, desserts, even special Valentine’s Day thalis!

And who exactly is celebrating? How young is too young, and how old is too old? Today, school kids exchange heart-shaped notes, teenagers navigate their first awkward dates, and even 80-year-olds hold hands at fancy restaurants. At what point do we retire from this festival? No one seems to know.

I joined the merry bandwagon for a few years, but the enthusiasm has waned with age – and I am not 80 yet!

Meanwhile, singles without dates either throw "lonely hearts" parties or just sit at home feeling miserable for their pathetic lonely lives. Some men form “bro squads,” while women have their own “Galentine’s” get-togethers.

One wonders—what’s next? National Proposal Day? Mandatory Date Night? The marketing machine never sleeps!

 

-

The Billiards room chronicles

 Behind the Swing Doors: The Billiards Room Chronicles

I spent 20 years at The Bishop’s School, Pune (1981–2001), and among the many pastimes that kept us occupied, billiards was a special one. Bishops was one of the rare schools to have a proper billiards table—old but well-maintained. We considered ourselves lucky to have it, though the room itself had an eerie charm, especially at night.

Having been skilled at carrom, I took to billiards naturally, much like a duck to water—or rather, a cue ball to a pocket. Many of the senior teachers were seasoned players, and I picked up the nuances of the game from them. Names like Max Fletcher, Denzil Innis, William Daniell , Rodney Barrow, Kline Aitkins, Allen Seymour, Michael Gomes, and Eugene Pope come to mind.

Getting a game was tough, especially between 4 to 7 PM—the prime-time rush. The moment the final bell rang, some masters who had strategically waited in the room during the last period would take the first shot before anyone else could even step in! We were crazy about the game, and heated debates over tactics, shots, and rules were a daily affair. Arguments over the validity of a cushion shot or the perfect angle of a bank shot could get intense.

Saturdays and Sundays were prime time. If our wives ever wanted to find us, they knew exactly where to look. Games started as early as 9 AM and carried on throughout the day. Some masters grew so attached to their favorite cues that they started taking them home—presumably to “protect” them from others. That was highly annoying, especially when you reached for a cue only to find it missing!

Most of the rules were followed—no eating, no drinking, no damaging the cloth—but a few artistic liberties were taken with smoking. Some masters and players would casually take a puff even while playing, much to the amusement of others as the smoke drifted into their eyes mid-shot.

I often practiced late in the evening—either with someone to play against or alone. The silence of the room, the dim lighting, and the occasional creak of the swing doors made it feel eerie, especially on weekends. Some swore they felt someone watching from the large windows!

Even the Headmaster, Mr. Ringrow, would occasionally walk in and take a few shots, as would Mr. Roberts. On a few occasions, I invited my relative, Joey Fernandes, a true master of the game and a champion in his own right. Watching him play was an education—I picked up invaluable tips from him, and my game improved significantly.

Even the Master’s on duty ( MOD)  couldn’t resist. They’d slip in for a quick game, pretending to be “observing” if anyone checked. Senior boys often sneaked into the room just to watch the masters in action, soaking in the skill and strategy. On some nights, games stretched as late as 10 PM, with only the dim lights and the occasional creaking of the swing doors keeping us company.

After much persuasion, we finally convinced Mr. Roberts to re-cloth the table, possibly using funds from the fete raffle. The irony? Once it was in pristine condition, interest waned, and the room fell into quiet neglect—perhaps left to the spirits that always seemed to be watching from the windows.

William Daniell 

Alan Seymour 

Joseph Fernandes 

Audrey Fernandes 

Neville Darukhanawalla 

Christine Barrow Weltzien 

Jean Roberts 

Ryan Innis 

The Bishop's School, Pune 

The Bishop's School Alumni 

The Bishop's School Alumni Association 

The Bishop's School, Camp, Pune

Blurred lines

 "Blurred Lines: My Battle with Spectacles

I seem to have a love-hate relationship with my spectacles. That might not be the most accurate description, but the fact remains: my glasses don’t last more than a year. They get scratched, the temples (yes, I know that’s what the arms are called) get stretched out of shape, and the lenses inevitably chip. The culprit? My own carelessness. I use the case religiously—for the first week—and then it’s forgotten. I tried a chain and the other time a cord to keep them around my neck, but frankly, both looked hideous. I’m not proud of all this, so please don’t judge me.

This morning, clutching the newspaper, I realized—something was off. My spectacle number seems to have changed yet again. Hold on—it’s been just six months since I got these! I’m half convinced the prescription was wrong. Was it my fault or the ophthalmologist’s? Was she even qualified, or was I too distracted by her ‘eager beaver’ attitude and fast-talking sales pitch, to notice if the test went awry? Honestly, her whole demeanor cracked me up!

Visiting the ophthalmologist is always a laughable escapade that veers between comedy and confusion. Let me explain...

The room is typically poky and dim, with one oversized chair that’s been sat on once too often - and a screen lurking ten feet away. First, you’re asked to stick your head into a contraption that looks like a medieval torture device. Your chin rests on a cold, unyielding metal piece—too high, too low, never just right. And then, bam! A puff of cold air invades your eyes, one at a time. Although I was warned, the puff still caught me off guard and startled me. Apparently, the results were “good.”

How could they tell? I flinched, blinked, and almost toppled off the chair.

Then comes the pièce de résistance: the heavy metal trial frame. These oversized, round frames—what I can only describe as “portable satellite dishes for vision testing”—are plonked onto my face, and the experiment begins. I squint at the illuminated screen as the ophthalmologist swaps lenses rapidly. The test starts with a gigantic letter ‘A,’ probably there to reassure me that serious vision impairment hasn’t fully set in yet. Other large letters follow in quick succession, but before I know it, they shrink into what feels like microscopic dots. I can barely make out anything and wonder if I’m about to be told I’m practically blind.

“Better with this one or the last?” she asks in rapid-fire, her cheerful tone adding to my panic. Am I even answering coherently? Meanwhile, my wife sits nearby, whispering, “Make sure you read properly!”

I squint – I struggle – I attempt to use guess work. It’s a hit and miss on quite a few of the letters, as lens after lens are interchanged. In another life the ophthalmologist could be a juggler – her hands move so fast.  After some time, I have lost track of which was the best lens, and whether the left was better or the right.  In an apologetic tone I request her to start all over again! She looks exasperated but obliges with a smile. That ordeal is over- she scribbles down some numbers. She reassures me that things have not changed much, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

 We then shuffle out and move over to the selection of the frame. This is a major nightmare.   They never seem to have what I am looking for and my wife doesn’t make it easier while playing the big ‘wife role, much to my chagrin.  Her veto power always kicks in during frame selection. “That’s too bold,” she says about one. “Too black,” about another. “Your face isn’t the right shape for that!”- “looks funny” she concludes. I grind my teeth and swallow hard- not wanting to make a scene. 

By the time the ever-friendly saleslady starts pointing out "fresh designs," from dozens of drawers, I’m resigned to confusion and at my wit’s end. Prices swing wildly for similar looking frames - 700 dirhams for one pair, 1400 for another. I wince in disbelief and whisper to my wife that they are trying to crook us! As if on cue both pairs get “discounted” after a calculator-tapping marathon. I breathe deeply, pay up manfully and settle the bill with as much dignity as I can muster.

And with a promise that my new spectacles would be ready in two weeks, I leave , hoping they’d not only sharpen my vision, but also make this entire ordeal worth the wait.

A pensive mood

 A pensive mood

A vintage Port

The lamps aglow 

Sam 'lightnin' Hopkins for company.

Asking for more?

No. 

Desiring  a change ? 

No.

Could be better

Yes!

But certainly not bad !

The lazy boy 

Cushions tucked in 

Legs stretched out 

Comfortable 

A cat purring at my feet

Begging for love?

Probably not.

She is a mean kitty

And as elusive as they come!

And then

Suddenly - a phone call 

Out of the blue 

And 

It all changes. 

The mood, the music, the wine too.

And what an unexpected change 

In seconds 

I am glad.

Euphoria? 

No .

Happy ? 

Oh yes 

Life . Yes that's life. 

Patience is a virtue 

And it pays .

Dinner beckons.

My new blue jeans

 

My new Blue Jeans

The early 70s saw the “jean revolution” slowly sweep into India, and for a teenager like me in Allahabad, jeans were the ultimate dream. Back then, denim wasn’t something you could simply walk into a shop and buy. There were no Jean shops for sure.  Most people who owned jeans had either received them from kind relatives abroad or found second-hand treasures that trickled into markets in major cities—and some even made their way to Allahabad.

Allahabad, my city of birth, was a charming small town where everyone seemed to know everyone else. It was a vibrant place filled with the Anglo-Indian community, who were the life of the city’s social scene. Parties, dances, live bands—it was all happening, and fashion played a huge role. Jeans were a symbol of style and modernity, and everyone—especially the Anglo-Indian youth—wanted a pair. But jeans were rare, and if you wanted one, you had to get creative.

When a kind uncle offered to take me to a shop that sold jean material, I was thrilled. His son, my friend, and he were well-known at the Thornhill Club—fondly called the Bandhwa Club—so I trusted him implicitly- he dressed quite well too . That Sunday afternoon, we cycled through the manageable Allahabad traffic and parked near Niranjan Cinema, the landmark for our destination. Climbing a rickety staircase, we reached Ansari Tailors, a modest shop run by Mr. Ansari himself. (I am told the traffic is horrendous now)

Mr. Ansari was a gaunt, elderly man, about 70, dressed all in white with a scraggy beard that gave him an air of quiet dignity. His eyes lit up when he heard I wanted a pair of jeans. With great pride, he brought out three rolls of denim material—blue, black, and a curious muddy brown. Naturally, I chose blue. It was the “in” color, the epitome of cool.

He asked me a barrage of questions: Did I want loops? How many back pockets?  Studs? Folds? Double stitching? To be honest, I didn’t fully understand much of what he meant, but I nodded eagerly to everything. After all, he was the expert. Measurements taken and promises made; I cycled home feeling elated. In two weeks, I went to a trial, and the jeans looked amazing. Another week, he promised, and they’d be ready. I imagined myself in church amidst good company …... and that’s another story!

But fate had other plans. Shortly after, I fell seriously ill with double pneumonia. I was bedridden for over a month, missed my board exams, and had to repeat the class. In the chaos, my jeans were completely forgotten. I hadn’t paid an advance, and with no phones or address to contact me, Mr. Ansari was left with my unfinished masterpiece. I presumed  uncle never returned to the shop either, and life moved on.

Decades later, I can’t help but wonder: What happened to my jeans, Mr. Ansari? Did you sell them to someone else? Did they find their way into another teenager’s wardrobe, earning them the admiration I had dreamed of? Or did they hang in your shop for years, a forgotten relic of a young boy’s denim dreams?

 Perhaps they even inspired you to create your own line of jeans, Allahabad’s very own denim brand! Whatever their fate, those jeans remain a symbol of a simpler, more connected time, when a small-town tailor and a teenager’s dream could create a story worth retelling.