Sometimes Even Broken Dreams Have Wings

 An elementary school memory from India, circa 1975

Today, I was standing by the water near San Francisco International Airport, watching airplanes land and take off almost every minute. One after another, these magnificent flying machines descended from the sky or climbed into the clouds, carrying hundreds of passengers to destinations around the world.

And suddenly, I wasn't standing in California anymore.

I was a little boy in India, somewhere in the mid-1970s, when seeing an aeroplane was not an everyday occurrence. It was an event worthy of interrupting an entire school's education!

The Bell That Was More Exciting Than Recess

Our elementary school had an assistant whose responsibilities included ringing the school bell. But this gentleman was no ordinary bell ringer. He had different bell sounds for different occasions, and one particular sound could send the entire school into a frenzy.

An aeroplane had been spotted!

Yes, an actual aeroplane!

Those days, spotting a tiny, shiny silver object flying somewhere around 40,000 feet above us was practically a national celebration. Aeroplane sightings were so rare that whenever someone spotted one, our school assistant would ring his special bell, and every student would come rushing out of the classrooms.

Mathematics could wait. English grammar could wait. Even the strictest teachers couldn't compete with an aeroplane.

There we stood, hundreds of little faces tilted toward the heavens, desperately trying to locate that tiny silver speck moving across the sky. Sometimes, by the time we found it, it had already disappeared.

But that didn't matter. We had seen an aeroplane! Or at least someone standing next to us had, and we were prepared to take his word for it.

Today, children can track airplanes on their phones in real time. Back then, we had a school assistant, a bell, and a very enthusiastic early-warning system!

The Greatest School Picnic Ever Planned

Every year, our school organized an annual picnic. One particular year, someone came up with what must have been considered the most ambitious educational excursion in the history of our little school.

We were going to Bangalore Airport to watch an aeroplane land and take off!

Not to board one. Not to fly anywhere. Just to watch one arrive and depart.

And we were absolutely thrilled!

About fifty of us boarded a bus late at night for a seven-hour journey to Bangalore. The plan was meticulously organized. We would sleep through the night, stop for breakfast around 7 AM, and reach Bangalore Airport by approximately 8:30 AM.

Why such precise planning?

Because Indian Airlines operated a daily flight from Delhi to Bangalore, and we were going to witness this magnificent machine land and then take off again around 10 AM.

Imagine that. Fourteen hours of round-trip bus travel to watch an aeroplane perform two activities: land and take off.

And not one of us questioned the wisdom of this investment!

We had our breakfast as planned and reached the airport. Those days, airports had something called a viewing gallery, where ordinary people could pay five rupees for the privilege of watching airplanes.

Five rupees was serious money for a schoolchild in the 1970s. But for the opportunity to see an actual aeroplane up close, it was worth every paisa.

There were no mobile phones, no selfies, and certainly no cameras hanging around our necks. We had only our eyes and our memories to capture the occasion.

Perhaps that was a blessing. We weren't distracted by trying to photograph the moment. We were simply there to live it.

Or so we thought.

The Longest Ninety Minutes of Our Young Lives

As the clock approached eight, everyone scrambled to find the best position along the viewing gallery wall. We wanted an unobstructed view of the runway. Nobody wanted to be stuck behind another student's head when the greatest moment of our young lives finally arrived.

The excitement was building. Every passing minute felt like an eternity.

Then came a few announcements over the airport loudspeakers.

We didn't understand much of what was being said, but we noticed something troubling.

Our teachers were looking confused.

Now, when you're a child, there are few things more unsettling than seeing adults looking confused, especially when those adults are responsible for delivering your lifelong dream.

Nine o'clock came.

No aeroplane.

We kept looking at the sky. Perhaps it was running late. Perhaps the pilot had taken a wrong turn somewhere over India. We weren't exactly aviation experts.

Then, around 9:30 AM, came the announcement that would go down as one of the greatest tragedies of our elementary school lives.

Due to bad weather in Delhi, the Indian Airlines flight had been cancelled.

Cancelled!

The aeroplane hadn't even taken off from Delhi!

For a few moments, there was disbelief. Then silence. And then the devastating realization that we had traveled seven hours, spent five precious rupees, and stood patiently in an airport gallery to watch absolutely nothing.

Some of us began to cry.

And yes, yours faithfully was among them!

I don't remember whether our teachers tried to explain aviation safety, weather conditions, or the operational challenges of Indian Airlines. Even if they had, it wouldn't have mattered.

We were children whose lifelong dream had just been destroyed by something called bad weather in Delhi, a city most of us had never even seen.

I suspect that somewhere in Delhi, an airline employee was having a perfectly ordinary morning, completely unaware that he had just broken fifty little hearts hundreds of miles away.

Fortunately, one of our teachers knew Bangalore reasonably well. He remembered seeing an old World War II fighter plane displayed somewhere near Cubbon Park.

And so, in a desperate attempt to salvage the day, he announced that we would go and see that plane instead.

We went.

We saw it.

An old fighter plane, sitting motionless on the ground, probably wondering why fifty miserable schoolchildren had suddenly arrived to stare at it.

Now, I have nothing against World War II fighter planes. They are magnificent pieces of aviation history. But when you've traveled seven hours dreaming of watching a giant passenger aeroplane descend from the clouds, a retired fighter plane parked near a public park is not exactly the same experience.

It was rather like being promised a trip to Disneyland and being taken to see a photograph of Mickey Mouse.

Nevertheless, we looked at the plane, tried to appreciate our teacher's thoughtful gesture, and eventually climbed back into the bus for another seven-hour journey home.

If you had seen that bus on the return trip, you might have mistaken it for a vehicle carrying mourners back from a funeral.

Fifty children. Fourteen hours on the road. Five rupees each for the airport gallery. One stationary fighter plane.

Zero takeoffs. Zero landings. Fifty broken hearts.

That was our annual school picnic.

Today, I travel frequently, both for work and pleasure. I have flown across countries, continents, and oceans. Airports have become a routine part of my life. Sometimes, I even complain about long security lines, delayed flights, cramped seats, and the quality of airline food.

But every now and then, as I walk through an airport terminal, I remember that little boy who traveled seven hours just to watch an aeroplane land.

I remember the excitement, the five-rupee ticket, the viewing gallery, the confused teachers, and the tears when we learned that our flight wasn't coming.

And I smile.

Because that little boy could never have imagined that one day he would board airplanes as casually as he once boarded a school bus.

Today, standing beside the water at SFO, watching one plane after another land and take off, I found myself thanking the Almighty.

Not just for the opportunities He has given me to travel the world, but also for that dreadful day in Bangalore.

Because perhaps the greatest gifts in life are not always the dreams that come true. Sometimes, they are the disappointments that teach us how precious those dreams really are.

I have forgotten many successful school picnics. But fifty years later, I still remember every detail of the picnic where absolutely nothing went according to plan.

And I wonder whether I would appreciate flying as much today if I hadn't once cried because I couldn't even watch an aeroplane take off.

That little boy never got to see his aeroplane that day. But the Almighty had already planned for him to fly much farther than he could ever have imagined.

And perhaps that is why, even after all these years and countless flights, a part of me still looks up at every aeroplane with the same excitement I felt when our school assistant rang that special bell.

Only now, thankfully, I don't have to run out of a classroom to see one!

My Buddy Who Taught Me That Love Was Selfish

Some friendships fade with time. Some people disappear from our lives. But once in a while, someone walks into our childhood, leaves a little piece of their heart with us, and remains there forever.

I was in the 12th grade at St. Gabriel's School in Chennai when I met a boy named Ezhil. He came from a fishing community, and even after all these years, I can say with absolute certainty that I have rarely met another human being with a heart as beautiful as his. There are people who are kind when it is convenient. There are people who are generous when they have something to spare. And then there are people like Ezhil, for whom kindness is not something they do. It is simply who they are. Ezhil belonged to that rare third category.

One afternoon, during our lunch break, I decided to ask him a question that had been bothering me for quite some time. "Ezhil, tell me something. How is it that you manage to be so loving toward everyone?" He looked at me and replied with a perfectly straight face. "Selfishness, Vish." I nearly choked. "Selfishness? I'm asking you why you're so loving, and you're telling me you're selfish?" He nodded. "Yes, Vish. Believe me. It's selfishness."

Now, if you knew Ezhil, you would understand my frustration. Here was a boy who would happily give away his lunch, share whatever little he had, help anyone who needed him, and never expect anything in return. And this fellow was telling me he was selfish! "Come on, Ezhil! I'm serious. How did you become like this?" I asked. "My father taught me," he replied. That caught my attention. "What did he teach you?"

But before answering, Ezhil opened his lunchbox. And what a lunchbox it was! There was fish curry, fried fish, fish stir-fry, and something that looked suspiciously like yet another fish preparation. If there had been a fish swimming around inside that lunchbox, I wouldn't have been surprised. "Ezhil, your family eat fish every single day?" I asked. "Of course!" he replied. "Every day?" "Yes. We eat vegetables once or twice a week." "And meat?" "Maybe once a month."

I shook my head in disbelief. "Your poor mother! Does she spend her entire life cooking? How does she prepare so many different dishes every morning?" Ezhil laughed. "Vish, my mother doesn't cook all of this. These dishes come from different houses on our street. Whatever we cook, we share with our neighbors. And whatever they cook, they share with us."

I remember looking at that lunchbox differently after he said those words. To me, it was a box filled with delicious food. To Ezhil, it was something perfectly ordinary. But looking back now, I realize it was much more than a lunchbox. It was an entire neighborhood sharing its love. A little fish curry from one house. A few pieces of fried fish from another. A mother's cooking traveling across doorsteps, carrying affection along with it. Perhaps Ezhil had never needed to learn generosity. Perhaps he had simply grown up surrounded by it.

"Ezhil," I said, "I don't think I can ever become as loving as you. No matter how hard I try." He smiled. "Come on, Vish. The bell is about to ring. Let's go." But I wasn't ready to let him escape. "Not so fast, my friend! You still haven't answered my question. What did your father teach you?" "Selfishness," he repeated. "Oh, come on, Ezhil! You're testing my patience now!" He laughed again. "Speaking of patience, Vish, that's something I learned from my mother." "How?" I asked.

His answer was simple. "Whenever my father goes out to sea and doesn't return on time, my mother goes down to the shore. She stands there, staring at the endless ocean, searching for his boat among the waves. She waits patiently, her eyes fixed on the horizon, until she finally sees him coming home."

I fell silent for a moment. For me, the sea had always been something beautiful. Waves, beaches, fishing boats, and the endless blue stretching toward the horizon. But for Ezhil's mother, the sea was something entirely different. It was where her husband earned their living, but it was also a place that could take him away forever. Every time he was late, she stood on that shore, searching the horizon for one familiar boat. For her, the most beautiful sight in the world wasn't the sunset over the ocean. It was the sight of her husband returning safely from it.

I looked at Ezhil. "You know something? I envy you." He didn't quite understand what I meant. "Come on, Vish. We're going to be late." But I persisted. "No, Ezhil. Not until you tell me why your father taught you to be selfish." He looked at me for a moment and then began to speak. "Vish, whenever my father leaves home to go fishing, he tells me something." "What does he say?" I asked.

"He says, 'Ezhil, I'm going out to sea. I don't know whether I'll return alive. So, my son, always be loving toward everyone.'"

I stopped smiling. There was something about those words. Imagine being a little boy and hearing your father say that every time he leaves home. Imagine watching him walk away, knowing that the sea doesn't promise to return everyone it takes. And imagine a father, who knows the dangers awaiting him, choosing to leave his son not instructions about money, success, or ambition, but a simple request: Be loving toward everyone.

I looked at Ezhil. "My goodness, Ezhil. What is selfish about that?" He answered quietly. "Vish, suppose one day I am not loving toward someone. Suppose I get angry, hurt somebody, or refuse to help someone. And suppose that very day my father doesn't return from the sea." He paused before continuing. "Then his last words to me would have been to love everyone, and I would have failed him."

I didn't know what to say, but Ezhil wasn't finished. "And sometimes I am afraid of something else, Vish. What if I don't listen to him? What if I fail to be loving, and something happens to my father? I know it may sound foolish, but I don't want to take that chance." He looked at me with the innocence that only a child can possess. "So I try to love everyone, every single day. That way, whatever happens, I know I have listened to my father." And then he smiled. "That's why I told you, Vish. I'm selfish."

I looked at my friend. Here was a boy whose father went out every day to fight the unpredictable sea so his family could survive. Here was a mother who stood on the shore, searching the horizon, not knowing whether her husband would return. And here was their son, who had turned his fear of losing his father into a lifetime of kindness toward others. He wasn't loving because he expected something in return. He was loving because he couldn't bear the thought of disappointing his father.

I had asked him the secret of his kindness. He had given me a glimpse into his heart. And somewhere deep inside me, something broke. Because there was one thing Ezhil didn't know. He was talking to a boy who already knew what it meant to lose a father. He was afraid of a day that might come. I was living with a day that had already come and gone. He feared the possibility of his father not returning home. I knew the permanence of a father who never would.

Suddenly, I could no longer look at him. My eyes filled with tears. "Vish! Why are you crying?" he asked. Now, there are moments in life when a teenage boy will do absolutely anything to avoid admitting that he is crying in front of another teenage boy. This was one of those moments. "Crying? Who's crying, you idiot? That fish curry your neighbor sent is terribly spicy! My eyes are watering!" Ezhil looked at me. "Don't lie, Vish. Stop crying."

I tried to smile, but I couldn't. "Ezhil," I said, "promise me something." "What?" "Never change. Promise me that no matter how old you become, no matter where life takes you, you will always remain the person you are today." He smiled, perhaps wondering why I was making such a big deal out of an ordinary lunchtime conversation. But to me, it was anything but ordinary.

I was looking at a boy who was blessed with something I could never have again. A father to wait for. A father to worry about. A father whose footsteps he could hope to hear returning home. And perhaps, without even realizing it, I was asking him to hold on to that blessing for as long as he possibly could. I looked at him and finally said what was sitting so heavily in my heart. "Because, Ezhil… if there is one thing I know, it is how difficult life can be without a father."

For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then I noticed his eyes. They were filling with tears. He quickly wiped them away, and then, with a little smile, he looked at me and said, "You're right, Vish. That fish curry from our neighbor's house really is too spicy."

Two schoolboys. One lunchbox. A few pieces of fish. And two hearts trying desperately to hide their tears from each other. One boy was afraid of losing his father. The other had already lost his. And somewhere between those two fears, a friendship found a language that needed no words.

More than fifty years of life have taught me many things. I have met people from different walks of life, traveled far from the streets of my childhood, and learned lessons from people far more educated and accomplished than that little schoolboy from a fishing community. But few lessons have stayed with me as deeply as the one Ezhil taught me that afternoon. He taught me that love need not come from abundance. Sometimes it comes from fear. Sometimes from gratitude. Sometimes from the desperate desire to hold on to someone we cannot bear to lose. And sometimes, the most beautiful people in our lives are those who have no idea how beautiful they really are.

I don't know where life has taken Ezhil. I don't know whether his father continued returning safely from the sea, or how many more evenings his mother spent waiting on the shore. But I hope, with all my heart, that life has been kind to that beautiful family. Because somewhere in this world, there once lived a fisherman who went out to sea every day, uncertain whether he would return, and left his little boy with one simple instruction: Always be loving toward everyone.

That father may never have known it, but his words reached far beyond his own home. They reached a fatherless boy sitting beside his son in a classroom in Chennai. And more than anything else, they stayed.

P.S.

I don't know why Ezhil came into my thoughts today, after all these years. Perhaps some memories never really leave us. They simply wait quietly in a corner of our hearts until something brings them back. And when they return, they bring with them the same faces, the same voices, the same laughter, and sometimes, the very same tears.

Dear Ezhil, wherever you are, I hope you are happy. And I hope you are still that wonderfully selfish boy I knew. Because the world could certainly use a few more selfish people like you.

And Ezhil, if you ever happen to read this, I have a confession to make.

That fish curry wasn't spicy at all.

Robert, Peter, Michael… What Did We Christians Ever Do to Indian Cinema?

 

A Christian Boy's Investigation into Bollywood, Kollywood, and Our Family's Alleged Criminal Connections

Growing up in India during the 1970s and 1980s, I learned many valuable lessons from Indian cinema. Good always triumphs over evil. Mothers can identify their long-lost sons by a birthmark. A hero can defeat twenty armed men without disturbing his hairstyle. And if a man is named Robert, Peter, Michael, or Johnny, there is an excellent chance he is involved in smuggling, gambling, kidnapping, or all three.

As a Christian, I have spent considerable time wondering what exactly my ancestors did to deserve this cinematic reputation.

Seriously, what did we do?

While the rest of India was producing respectable doctors, engineers, teachers, and government officers, apparently our community was busy supplying the entire Indian film industry with smugglers, nightclub owners, henchmen, and cabaret dancers.

And nobody even paid us royalties!

Bollywood's Most Reliable Employment Agency: The Christian Community

Think about those wonderful old Hindi movies.

The hero was usually Vijay, Raj, Ravi, or Ramesh. He was honest, hardworking, and deeply devoted to his mother. Even when unemployed, he somehow managed to maintain an impressive wardrobe.

The heroine was Radha, Sita, Geeta, or Lakshmi. She was beautiful, modest, and capable of singing an entire romantic song while running around trees without getting dizzy.

But the villain?

"Robert! Where is the suitcase?"

"Boss, Peter has taken it to Michael!"

"And where is Michael?"

"At Johnny's nightclub, Boss!"

Good heavens! An entire Christian family reunion was taking place in the Indian underworld!

Apparently, if the police had simply raided a few churches after Sunday service, they might have solved half the smuggling cases in Bombay.

And please don't misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting Christians were criminals. I'm suggesting Bollywood seemed convinced we had formed an international criminal organization without informing the rest of us!

Tamil Cinema Wasn't Exactly Innocent Either!

Now, before my Tamil friends start laughing at Bollywood, allow me to remind them that Kollywood was equally enthusiastic about this arrangement.

Our hero was usually Raja, Ravi, Kumar, or Murugan. He respected his mother, loved his village, and could defeat an entire gang with one punch.

But somewhere in Madras, behind a mysterious door guarded by two men wearing sunglasses at midnight, there was invariably a nightclub.

And who owned it?

Peter!

Who managed the illegal activities?

Robert!

Who supplied the liquor?

Michael!

And who was dancing on stage?

Rosie!

I began to wonder whether there was a secret employment exchange outside every church.

"Good morning, Father. Any job openings?"

"Yes, my son. Are you interested in smuggling, nightclub management, or cabaret dancing?"

"Actually, Father, I was hoping to become an accountant."

"Accountant? Sorry, my son. That role has already been given to Srinivasan!"

Even the Tamil-speaking Christian characters were sometimes required to speak a peculiar mixture of Tamil and English.

"Hello, boss! Everything ready, boss! No problem, boss!"

Apparently, being Christian automatically came with a compulsory English vocabulary and an optional bottle of whisky.

And What About Our Poor Christian Women?

This is where the injustice becomes truly unbearable.

If your name was Radha, Lakshmi, Meena, or Janaki, you were considered suitable marriage material.

You wore a sari, respected your elders, and sang devotional songs.

But if your name was Rosie, Rita, Lily, Julie, or Mary?

Congratulations! You had been hired by the nearest nightclub.

No interview necessary.

No dancing qualifications required.

Your Christian name was apparently sufficient proof that you could perform a cabaret number in front of fifty drunken smugglers.

I can almost imagine the casting director.

"What's your name, dear?"

"Lakshmi."

"Excellent! You will play the respectable daughter-in-law."

"And you?"

"Rosie."

"Wonderful! Cabaret starts at eight. Costume department is downstairs."

"But sir, I studied classical Bharatanatyam!"

"Never mind, Rosie. Tonight you're dancing to jazz!"

And the poor girl had absolutely no choice.

Helen, Bindu, and the Great Indian Moral Contradiction

Now, let's talk about the legendary cabaret dancers of Indian cinema.

Helen could walk into a nightclub, dance for five minutes, and make every smuggler in Bombay forget what illegal business he was conducting.

Bindu could raise one eyebrow, and the villain would immediately order another bottle of whisky.

But here's the interesting part.

These so-called morally questionable women often turned out to be the kindest characters in the entire movie.

The respectable heroine might spend three hours crying, misunderstanding the hero, and listening to her parents.

Meanwhile, Rosie would discover the villain's secret plan, steal the evidence, rescue the hero, and occasionally sacrifice her own life in the process.

And what did she get for all that?

A tragic death scene!

The heroine got the wedding.

Rosie got the funeral.

If that's not workplace discrimination, I don't know what is!

And Then Came Anthony Gonsalves!

Just when I thought Indian cinema had permanently assigned Christians to the smuggling and entertainment industries, along came Amar Akbar Anthony in 1977.

Finally!

A Christian hero!

And not just any hero. Amitabh Bachchan himself, playing the unforgettable Anthony Gonsalves.

I was delighted.

Here was a Christian character who was funny, lovable, courageous, romantic, and capable of delivering one of the most entertaining performances in Indian cinema.

Of course, Anthony also enjoyed his alcohol and occasionally got into trouble.

Apparently, Bollywood was willing to give us a hero, but asking him to remain completely sober would have been expecting too much!

And then there was Jenny, Anthony's girlfriend, played by the beautiful Parveen Babi.

Not Zeenat Aman, as my memory originally suggested. After nearly fifty years, I suppose I can be forgiven for mixing up two of Bollywood's most glamorous actresses!

Jenny was no helpless heroine. She knew whom she loved and was prepared to stand up for him.

I remember her determination that Anthony was the man she wanted to marry.

What a refreshing change!

A Christian woman who wasn't required to dance in a nightclub to earn her place in the story.

But just as I was beginning to celebrate this breakthrough, I discovered something disturbing.

The villain's name?

ROBERT!

Unbelievable!

Here was a film celebrating Hindu-Muslim-Christian unity, and Bollywood still couldn't resist giving the criminal a Christian name.

Anthony was Christian.

Jenny was Christian.

Robert was the villain.

Apparently, the filmmakers wanted to make absolutely certain that our community maintained adequate representation on both sides of the law!

The Indian Cinema Guide to Identifying Criminals

By the time I reached my teenage years, I had developed a fairly reliable system for predicting movie characters.

If a man entered wearing a white dhoti and carrying a lunchbox, he was probably an honest family man.

If he entered wearing a black suit, dark glasses, and a gold chain, he was probably a smuggler.

If his name was Robert, there was no need to wait for the interval. The investigation was complete.

And if a woman entered wearing a sari, she was probably somebody's daughter, sister, or future wife.

If she entered wearing a sparkling Western dress and introduced herself as Rosie, the orchestra would begin playing before she could finish her sentence.

It was an astonishingly efficient system.

Modern police departments spend millions on investigations. Indian cinema solved everything with a Christian name and a costume change!

But Why Did Filmmakers Do This?

Behind all the comedy lies an interesting question.

Why were Christian and Western-sounding names so frequently associated with smugglers, gangsters, nightclub owners, and cabaret dancers?

Part of the answer lies in the social attitudes of those times.

Filmmakers often portrayed traditional Indian culture as morally respectable while associating Western lifestyles with drinking, dancing, gambling, and sexual freedom.

Christians and Anglo-Indians, because of their Western-sounding names and certain cultural associations, became convenient symbols of that supposedly Westernized world.

Bombay's cosmopolitan nightlife, including its jazz clubs, musicians, and entertainment culture, also influenced these portrayals.

Of course, this was an enormous exaggeration.

Most Indian Christians were ordinary people going about their lives, working in schools, hospitals, offices, businesses, and countless other professions.

But why let reality interfere with a perfectly good screenplay?

It is also worth remembering that Indian cinema gave us many wonderful Christian characters: compassionate priests, dedicated nurses, loyal friends, and, of course, Anthony Gonsalves.

Not every villain had a Christian name, and not every Christian character was a villain.

Still, the recurring pattern was unmistakable enough to leave a lasting impression on generations of moviegoers.

The Great Christian Contribution to Indian Cinema

Looking back, I have come to appreciate the extraordinary range of services our fictional community provided to Indian filmmakers.

We supplied the smugglers who kept the heroes employed.

We supplied the nightclub owners who kept the villains entertained.

We supplied the cabaret dancers who kept the audiences awake.

We supplied the henchmen who allowed the heroes to demonstrate their fighting skills.

And when the story required a compassionate priest to rescue an abandoned baby, we supplied him too!

What an incredibly versatile community!

Without Robert, Peter, Michael, Rosie, and Lily, half the movies of my childhood might have ended before the interval.

Imagine a typical Bollywood movie without us.

"Vijay, somebody has kidnapped your sister!"

"Who?"

"Nobody. Robert has retired."

"Then what am I supposed to do for the next two hours?"

"Go home and help your mother!"

THE END.

One Final Thought

Today, when I look back at those wonderful old Hindi and Tamil films, I laugh at the stereotypes, but I also recognize something important.

Cinema has enormous power to shape how we see other communities.

A child watching hundreds of movies in which Robert is a smuggler and Rosie is a cabaret dancer might eventually begin to associate those names with certain behaviors.

And that is where harmless entertainment can quietly become something more complicated.

But perhaps the greatest irony is that the very characters portrayed as morally questionable often demonstrated more humanity than the supposedly respectable ones.

Rosie might have worked in a nightclub, but she was frequently the first person to help someone in trouble.

Robert might have been a villain, but Anthony Gonsalves reminded us that a Christian character could also be one of Indian cinema's most beloved heroes.

And as for me?

I grew up Christian, became an accountant, and have spent much of my life trying to make sure other people's books balance.

What a disappointment I must have been to the Indian film industry!

With a perfectly good Christian name, I could have become a smuggler, owned three nightclubs, employed Rosie and Lily, and made enough money to retire before the interval.

Instead, I chose accounting.

Robert got the gold biscuits. Peter got the whisky. Michael got the nightclub. Rosie got the dance floor.

And I got the balance sheet!

Somewhere in Bombay, a casting director must still be shaking his head.

"What a waste of a perfectly good Christian boy!"

---

P.S. To all my friends named Robert, Peter, Michael, Johnny, Rosie, Rita, Lily, and Mary: Please don't take offense. You are all wonderful people. But if any of you happen to own a mysterious warehouse near the docks, I would appreciate an invitation. Purely for accounting purposes, of course!

"The Gift I Never Knew Mom Had Given Me"

The sequel to “When I Saw Her Cry, I Am a Believer!

In my previous blog, I wrote about my mother's rather extraordinary decision to change my school during the most crucial year of my academic life. I was doing exceptionally well in a Christian school, happily collecting good grades and enjoying life, when Mom suddenly decided that I should spend my tenth grade in a government school in a remote village. No consultation. No committee meeting. No opportunity for the affected party to appeal. The verdict was delivered, and the victim was transferred!

I ended that blog with a question. Why on earth would a mother make such a decision at such an important stage of her son's education? I even promised a sequel if someone was curious enough to ask. Well, several of you did. And I owe you an answer.

But before I tell you what I eventually came to understand about Mom's decision, let me take you several years into the future.

By then, I had become an auditor. A respectable profession, I must say, although perhaps not quite as glamorous as being a doctor. One day, our family was attending an event where a few doctors were present. Looking around at all these distinguished medical professionals, I decided it was an excellent opportunity to remind my mother of the great injustice she had supposedly committed against me.

"Mom, you know, I could have been one of these doctors if only you hadn't changed my school during my final year!"

I said it jokingly, of course. But mothers have an extraordinary ability to detect the small amount of truth hiding behind a large amount of humor. And my mother was no exception. She knew that somewhere behind my joke was a question I had never really stopped asking.

That day, after all those years, Mom didn't exactly reveal the reason behind her decision. She simply said something that gave me a clue. And suddenly, pieces of a puzzle that had remained scattered in my mind for years began falling into place.

But to understand those pieces, you need to know about a little girl named Joanna.

You see, I had a younger sister named Joanna. She was just one year younger than me, and growing up, she was my best buddy. She was also, without any exaggeration whatsoever, the prettiest girl in our family. And that wasn't merely my opinion. We siblings took considerable pride in showing her off and boasting about how beautiful our little sister was.

Joanna was born on Jan 26th, India's Republic  Day! While the rest of us had ordinary birthdays, our little princess had an entire nation celebrating hers! Schools were closed, flags were flying, and sweets were distributed everywhere. We siblings proudly boasted that the whole country was celebrating our beautiful little sister's birthday.

To us siblings, Joanna was our darling little doll, the pride and joy of our childhood. But to Mom, she was so much more than a beautiful daughter. She was the most precious jewel in her crown.

While I was away at boarding school, enjoying ninth grade, having fun with my friends, and bringing home excellent marks, something terrible was happening back home.

My little sister had been diagnosed with leukemia.

Cancer.

A word that can bring an entire family's world to a standstill.

And I knew nothing about it.

My mother had chosen not to tell me. While I was busy worrying about examinations, school rankings, and the everyday adventures of a teenage boy, my little sister was fighting for her life. Mom knew something I didn't. She knew that Joanna's time with us might be running out.

When I returned home for my summer holidays, I realized that Joanna wasn't attending school for a while. She was spending all her time at home, and her hospital stays were becoming longer. But I didn't fully understand what was happening.

My mother, meanwhile, was facing a situation that no mother should ever have to face. She had a son whose future appeared bright and full of possibilities, and a daughter whose future was being stolen away by a cruel illness. And Joanna and I weren't her only children. There were more of us! Mom had an entire family to care for, each child with different needs, dreams, and challenges, while quietly carrying the unbearable knowledge that one of her precious children might not be with us much longer.

She could send me back to my school, where I would continue to do well academically. Or she could keep me closer to home, where I would have the opportunity to spend precious time with my little sister.

And Mom made her choice.

She changed my school.

No grand explanation. No emotional speech. No attempt to justify herself to a teenage boy who believed his academic future was being unnecessarily disrupted. She simply did what she believed was right.

My tenth grade began in July. Joanna passed away the following month. And not just any day in August, but on August 15th, India's Indpendence Day, another national holiday.

The little girl whose birthday we proudly believed the entire nation celebrated had chosen another day of national significance to say goodbye.

India celebrated her arrival, and years later, as the nation observed Republic Day, our family mourned her departure. Two dates forever etched in India's history—and even more deeply in our hearts.

And in March, months after after losing my little sister and best buddy, I sat for my tenth-grade final examinations.

I scored 237 marks.

Now, before anyone jumps to conclusions, let me make one thing very clear. I am not suggesting that my marks were the result of losing Joanna, changing schools, or anything else. I am not looking for excuses, and I certainly don't need any sympathy marks added to my scorecard some decades later!

In fact, looking back at everything our family went through during those months, I am simply thankful that I managed to score those 237 marks.

It was only a couple of months before Joanna passed away that Mom finally told me my sister wasn't going to live much longer. I cannot begin to describe what that knowledge meant to our family. Joanna wasn't just my younger sister. She was my friend, my companion, and a beautiful part of our childhood. Her loss left an emptiness that no passage of time could ever completely fill.

But because of my mother's decision, I had something that might otherwise have been lost forever.

Six months that I might have spent away at boarding school, chasing marks, examinations, and perhaps another school rank. Six months that no amount of money could ever buy back. Six months that no university degree, professional qualification, or successful career could ever replace.

And the extraordinary thing is that, for years, I didn't even realize what a gift I had been given.

It was only much later, after that conversation with Mom, that I began connecting the dots. The timing of my school transfer. Joanna's illness. The months we spent together. And the painful goodbye that followed.

Mom never actually told me that she had changed my school so I could spend those precious months with my little sister. She didn't have to. The more I thought about it, the more everything made sense.

Perhaps I will never know exactly what was going through Mom's mind when she made that decision. But knowing my mother, knowing what our family was going through, and looking back at those final months with Joanna, I have come to believe that she was quietly giving me a gift I was far too young to recognize.

And that realization touched me far more deeply than any explanation she could have given.

For years, I had occasionally wondered whether changing schools had affected my academic journey. Perhaps I might have become a doctor. Perhaps my life might have taken a completely different direction.

But once I connected those dots, I realized that I had been asking the wrong question all along.

The question was never whether I could have become a doctor.

The question was whether becoming a doctor would have been worth losing those final months with Joanna.

And for me, the answer is simple.

Today, after all these years, I can say something with absolute certainty.

I wouldn't trade my calculator for a stethoscope for anything in the world!

Not because being an auditor is better than being a doctor. Far from it. But because the road that brought me here also gave me those precious final months with Joanna. And there isn't a profession, a qualification, or a paycheck in the world that could make me wish those months away.

Looking back now, I marvel at my mother's wisdom. She understood something that I would take many years to learn: not everything important in life can be measured by examination marks, professional achievements, or the letters that appear after our names.

Sometimes, the most important decisions we make are the ones that give us more time with the people we love.

My mother knew her priorities.

She understood that I could continue my education in another school. I could write my examinations. I could pursue a career. Life would offer me many more opportunities.

But Joanna would not have another six months to give me.

And I believe Mom understood that better than anyone.

There is another part of this story that moves me even more today. My mother was watching her beautiful daughter slowly slip away, carrying a grief I can scarcely imagine. Yet, in the middle of her own heartbreak, and while caring for all her other children, she was thinking about me.

I believe she wanted me to have memories of my sister.

I believe she wanted Joanna to have her brother nearby.

And perhaps, in her own quiet way, she was trying to give both her children something precious before time ran out.

And the remarkable thing is that Mom never asked for credit for giving me that gift.

She simply let me discover its value, many years later.

I wonder how many decisions our parents made for us that we misunderstood at the time. How many sacrifices went unexplained? How many times did we mistake their wisdom for stubbornness, their protection for interference, and their love for an inconvenience?

I certainly did.

Years ago, I jokingly accused my mother of costing me a career in medicine.

Today, I wish I could tell her that I finally understand what she may have been trying to give me.

Mom, I could have become a doctor. Perhaps I could have become many things. But I could never have become Joanna's brother for those six months again.

You gave me that time.

And I can never thank you enough.

In my first blog, I wrote about seeing my mother cry and becoming a believer.

Today, I understand something more.

For years, I wondered whether Mom had sacrificed my future by changing my school. Today, I believe she was protecting something far more precious—my last few months with a little sister who didn't have much of a future left.

Mom never told me that was her reason. But when I finally connected the dots, I understood what her silence had been telling me all along.

And if there is one lesson I have learned from all this, it is that the greatest gifts our parents give us don't always come wrapped in beautiful paper. Sometimes they arrive disguised as disappointments, inconveniences, and decisions we don't understand until many years later.

I lost my beautiful little sister, Joanna. Our family lost a jewel that can never be replaced. But thanks to Mom, I didn't lose the opportunity to spend those final precious months with my best buddy.

And that, my friends, is worth more than any degree I could ever have earned.

Thank you, Mom. For knowing what mattered most when I was too young to understand.

And Joanna, my beautiful little sister, my first best buddy, and forever the prettiest girl in our family, I know that in Christ, goodbye is never forever.

I often smile imagining the day Mom arrived in heaven and saw you again. No more sickness, no more tears, no more painful goodbyes. Just a mother embracing her precious daughter once again, in the presence of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

And knowing the two of you, I wouldn't be surprised if, somewhere between those heavenly hugs and happy tears, you found time to talk about me!

I can almost hear Joanna asking, "Mom, did he really score only 237 marks?"

And Mom, with that familiar smile, replying, "Yes, sweetheart. But look at him now. He's an auditor!"

And maybe, just maybe, somewhere in heaven, there is a loud THUD, followed by Father Jagathrayan, Principal of St. Gabriels, screaming:

"I TOLD YOU SO, MRS. CORNELIUS!"

And that, my friends, is why I remain a believer.

"From the American Dream to the Indian Maharaja — All in the Name of Aging Parents!"

All in the Name of Aging Parents!

Lately, I have noticed an interesting phenomenon among some of my fellow Indians who have spent twenty, thirty, or even forty years in America. After building successful careers, buying homes, raising children, and accumulating considerable wealth, they have suddenly discovered the irresistible charm of India. They are packing their bags and heading back to the motherland. Nothing wrong with that! What fascinates me, however, is the explanation. Almost invariably, it comes wrapped in an emotional story about family, sacrifice, Indian values, and, of course, aging parents.

"I want to spend time with my aging parents." How touching! Someone please bring out the tissues and nominate this gentleman for the Indian Son of the Year Award! But I have one small question. Where were you when your parents were actually growing old? When your father's hair was turning gray, your mother's steps were becoming slower, and their visits to the doctor were becoming more frequent, you were busy building your American dream. Nothing wrong with that either. But did your parents suddenly start aging last Tuesday? Or did you receive an email announcing that the aging process had officially begun and your immediate presence was requested?

Then come the other heartbreaking explanations. "I missed my cousin's wedding. I couldn't attend my uncle's funeral. I missed so many family occasions." Missing a loved one's funeral is genuinely painful, and I would never make light of that. But your cousin's wedding? Really? My friend, if attending every cousin's wedding were a requirement for being a good Indian, half the Indian diaspora would have to resign from their jobs immediately! By the time you attend the last cousin's wedding, the first cousin's daughter will probably be getting married. At this rate, you might as well make wedding attendance your second career!

Another popular explanation is the sudden rediscovery of Indian values. "I want my children to grow up with Indian culture and traditions." Wonderful! But weren't these the same children you raised in America, educated in American schools, and encouraged to pursue American careers? You celebrated when they landed wonderful jobs in Silicon Valley, and now, after thirty years, you have suddenly remembered Indian values! Did someone discover an old suitcase in the garage labeled "Indian Values — Handle With Care"? Respect for elders, kindness, generosity, and family relationships are beautiful values, but surely they don't require an Indian PIN code!

And then comes my favorite: "I want my children to spend time with their grandparents." A beautiful thought, indeed. But aren't you now doing to your own children exactly what you regret having done to your parents? You are moving to India because you missed watching your parents grow old, while your children remain in America and miss watching you grow old! Brilliant! We have solved one generational problem by creating another. And when you turn eighty, will you expect your children to abandon their American lives and move to India? At this rate, the only guaranteed beneficiaries of our family values are international airlines!

Some say they want to reconnect with their roots. Apparently, our roots have a rather interesting financial calendar. They remain remarkably quiet while we are building careers, paying mortgages, and accumulating retirement savings. But the moment our investments mature and the 401(k) looks healthy, the roots suddenly begin calling! "Come home, my son! The soil is waiting!" Others say they miss Indian festivals, family gatherings, and authentic Indian food. Now, if you tell me you are moving to India because you want hot idlis, crispy dosas, and fresh filter coffee without having to cook or clean afterward, I completely understand. I might even help you pack! But please don't describe your craving for pongal as a spiritual awakening.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, let us discuss the one explanation that rarely receives the publicity it deserves. Money! You spent thirty years earning in dollars, investing in American real estate, stocks, and retirement accounts. And then you made a wonderful discovery. Those dollars can go a remarkably long way in India! Depending on where and how you live, a few thousand dollars a month can provide comforts that would cost considerably more in California. In America, you were a successful executive who still had to drag the garbage cans to the curb every Thursday. In India, you could have someone take out the garbage, someone cook your meals, someone clean your house, and perhaps even someone supervise all three! Yesterday, you were clipping grocery coupons. Today, you are practically a maharaja!

And you know what? There is absolutely nothing wrong with that! You worked hard, saved diligently, invested wisely, and earned the right to enjoy your retirement. If you want to live comfortably in India, surrounded by old friends, familiar food, and the luxury your American dollars can buy, congratulations! I would be the first to applaud you. But why must a perfectly sensible financial decision be presented as an extraordinary sacrifice? Why not simply say, "I made my fortune in America, and now I want to enjoy spending it in India!" Beautiful! Honest! I might even ask for your financial advisor's telephone number.

Of course, some people genuinely return to care for parents who need them, sometimes at considerable personal and financial sacrifice. I respect that enormously. And I understand that family, culture, nostalgia, and financial comfort can all be genuine reasons for returning. My objection is not to moving back to India. My objection is to the unnecessary halo some people place around their decision. Not every retirement announcement needs a photograph of elderly parents, sentimental background music, and hundreds of comments proclaiming, "Such a wonderful son!" My friend, you are retiring comfortably in India. You haven't joined Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity!

But beyond all the humor, there is one question I genuinely want to ask my fellow Indians. Our parents allowed us to leave India and pursue our dreams. They accepted the distance, missed our presence, and watched us build our lives thousands of miles away. Are we prepared to extend that same freedom to our own children? Or will we expect them to reverse their migration when we become old? We cannot celebrate our independence at thirty and demand our children's geographical loyalty at eighty. Perhaps the greatest family value we can pass on is the freedom to build a meaningful life wherever one's dreams lead.

So, to my fellow Indians returning home after decades in America, I wish you a wonderful retirement. Enjoy the family gatherings, the friendships, the festivals, the freshly prepared dosas, and the comforts your hard-earned dollars can provide. And if spending time with your parents is genuinely your priority, may those years together be beautiful. Just remember, you don't need a noble excuse to make a sensible decision.

"I made my money in America. Now I want to live like a maharaja in India!"

There! Was that so difficult? No violin music, no emotional documentary, and no lifetime achievement award for family values. Just a successful Indian enjoying the fruits of decades of hard work. And frankly, that is a pretty good story all by itself!

---

P.S. If you are moving back because you missed your cousin's wedding, please check how many unmarried cousins are still left in the family. Otherwise, your peaceful retirement might turn into a full-time wedding attendance program!

P.P.S. And if you are moving back to teach your children Indian values, please inform them first. They might already be busy teaching their own children the American values you spent thirty years helping them acquire!

When I saw her Cry, I am a Believer!

Some people discover their calling in life through passion. Some through prayer. Others through years of careful planning.

I discovered mine....and to make the long story short, it is  "For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

And to make the short story long, keep reading!

The Genius Who Never Studied

Until the ninth grade, I had attended more schools in more towns than I care to remember. Changing schools was practically my tradition. Some collected stamps. Some collected antiques. I collected transfer certificates.

But wherever I went, one thing remained constant. I was considered a brilliant student. And I must confess, and please excuse my modesty, I agreed wholeheartedly with that assessment.

Very early in life, I had discovered a remarkable secret: if I paid attention in class, I could get excellent marks without opening a textbook at home. While other children struggled with homework, revised their lessons, and burned the midnight oil, yours truly enjoyed life. And the irritating part, at least for my classmates, was that it worked! I was almost always among the top three in my class.

Then, at the end of ninth grade, while I was home for summer vacation, my progress report arrived by post. I eagerly tore open the envelope.

487 out of 500!

Excellent! But along with that report, I noticed another document in the envelope.

TRANSFER CERTIFICATE.

Oh, for heaven's sake! Not again! Apparently, God had decided that my education needed to be conducted as a traveling circus.

My mother was a very busy woman, and before I could even ask where I was going next, a gentleman working with her informed me that I would be attending the local government school. A few minutes later, the headmaster of Bargur Government High School arrived to collect my transfer certificate.

And just like that, my next academic adventure began. Little did I know that my days as a genius were numbered.

The Year My Brain Took a Vacation

Tenth grade was a disaster waiting to happen. A new school, a different medium of instruction, different teachers, an unfamiliar syllabus, and a boy who had never developed the habit of studying independently. I didn't even buy all the necessary textbooks. I drifted through the year without properly understanding what I was supposed to learn.

But here's the most extraordinary part. I had become academically hopeless without realizing it! My confidence remained completely untouched by my ignorance. I suppose that's a special kind of talent.

When the examination results were published in the newspaper, my classmate Jones came running.

"Vish! Only three of us passed! You, Venkataramani, and me!"

"Wonderful!" I exclaimed. "How many marks did I get?"

"Marks will come next week."

No problem. I was expecting at least 475. After all, I had scored 487 the previous year. Surely a few marks might disappear here and there, but nothing dramatic.

For the next week, I walked around announcing my success to anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path. "I passed!" You would have thought I had topped the entire state.

Then came the marks. Jones arrived looking positively ecstatic.

"Vish! You're second in the school!"

Second? Well, that was disappointing, but I could live with it.

"Did Venkataramani come first?" I asked.

"I don't know. But you scored more than me!"

"How much did you get?"

"223!"

I stared at him. "Stop joking, Jones. Tell me your actual marks."

"I'm serious! I got 223! Twenty-five more than I expected! And you got 237!"

237!? Out of 500!?

For a moment, I wondered whether the examination board had accidentally published my telephone number instead of my marks.

Then, being the mathematical genius I was, I corrected Jones. "By the way, that's fourteen marks more than you!"

Imagine that. My academic career was lying in ruins, and I was still correcting other people's arithmetic. Some habits die hard.

But the real disaster was yet to come.

The First Tears

My mother walked into the room just as Jones announced cheerfully, "Aunty! Vish is second in the school! I'm third!" And off he went, leaving me to face the consequences.

My mother looked at me. Her eyes were already wet.

"The principal called," she said softly. "He told me your marks are very low."

"I'm sorry, Ma."

I had never felt so small. But instead of scolding me, she said something that broke my heart.

"It's my fault, Son. I shouldn't have changed your school in your final year. A different town, different teachers. You would have done much better if I had left you where you were."

She wiped her eyes and walked away. I stood there speechless.

This was my mother. A woman who had lost her husband while still young. A woman who had faced the world, worked overseas, and carried responsibilities that would have broken many others. She was fearless, educated, dignified, and fiercely independent.

And I had made her cry.

Not because I had failed an examination, but because she thought she had failed me. That hurt far more than the 237.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking. "Vish, you promised us a story about when you discovered your future. Hurry up!"

Patience, my friends. The interval is over. The second half is about to begin. And trust me, Clint Eastwood himself would have approved of the climax.

The Girl Who Scored Twice My Marks

A week later, my mother announced that we were going to Madras. I was to join St. Gabriel's School for higher secondary education.

Before we left, Jones and Venkataramani told me they were both joining the science group at their respective schools.

"What about you, Vish? Science?"

"Of course... probably... we'll see."

In those days, science was the prestigious choice. Bright students took science. Future doctors and engineers took science. Accounting? Well, accounting was what people talked about when the science seats were full. At least, that was the general attitude.

In Madras, my mother took me to my aunt's house to get my mark sheet attested. My aunt was a gazetted officer, and she welcomed us warmly.

"Oh, Akka! Vish is joining higher secondary? My daughter is joining too! She scored 474 out of 500! She wants to take science and become a doctor!"

My mother looked at me. I looked at the floor

474!? Exactly twice my marks. Even my wounded mathematical brain could work that out.

My aunt asked for my mark sheet. I handed it over. She looked at it and burst out laughing. Then she called her daughter.

"Come here! Look at this!"

My cousin examined my marks and joined the laughter.

"He scored almost 250 marks less than me!"

"Not 250," I corrected her. "237."

She looked at me suspiciously. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Exactly half."

She went looking for a calculator. I wanted to tell her that although my examination marks were questionable, my ability to subtract was still functioning perfectly.

My aunt turned toward my mother.

"I'm sorry, Akka. I thought Vish was a very good student. What happened?"

The way she asked, you would have thought somebody had died.

And once again, my mother defended me.

"He's a smart boy. I made a mistake by changing his school. His marks don't reflect his ability."

Her eyes filled with tears again. And mine followed.

I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. Preferably somewhere far away from Madras, my aunt, her daughter, and that wretched mark sheet.

But we still had to meet the principal.

The Principal, the Mother, and the Rubber Stamp

Father Jagathrayan sat behind his desk at St. Gabriel's School. My mother sat opposite him, and I stood beside her. Near the entrance, several parents waited for their turn, watching the proceedings with growing interest.

Father examined my application.

"Mrs. Cornelius, Mr. Earnest told me you were coming. He mentioned that you wanted the science group for your son. But..."

That one word—but—was enough. My mother leaned forward.

"Father, please."

"Mrs. Cornelius, with these marks, I simply cannot admit him to the science group."

"Father, he's a very intelligent boy. I made a mistake by changing his school. Please give him a chance."

Father was sympathetic but firm. "If I give him science with these marks, I'll have to answer to many people. And frankly, I think your son will struggle."

"No, Father! He's my son. I know him. He won't struggle. He's a good student!"

And then my mother began to cry. Not quietly. Not discreetly. She began to sob.

The parents waiting near the entrance turned to look. My mother tried to continue speaking, but her voice kept breaking.

"Father, please... it's my fault... he's a good boy..."

And I stood there, watching the strongest woman I had ever known pleading for me.

Suddenly, the marks didn't matter anymore. Science didn't matter. The school didn't matter. All I could see was my mother.

I thought of the young widow who had refused to surrender to tragedy. The woman who had worked so hard to raise her children. The woman who had crossed oceans to provide for us. The woman who had never allowed us to feel that we were missing anything. And now she was sitting before a stranger, crying because she believed her son deserved a chance.

I couldn't bear it.

And I began to sob.

Not because I wasn't getting science. Not because my marks were poor. But because I had made my mother cry.

There we were, mother and son, both crying our hearts out in front of a school principal, with a small audience of parents watching from the doorway.

If somebody had played a violin in the background, we could have sold tickets.

Father Jagathrayan, to his credit, remained remarkably composed.

"Mrs. Cornelius," he said gently, "I believe you. I believe your son is intelligent. But who says intelligent children must study only science? Why not Accounts?"

My mother looked horrified.

"Accounts? But Father, all his friends and cousins are taking science!"

"Mrs. Cornelius, you know better than that. Let him study accounts. He can become an Auditor."

My mother looked at me again. Her tears continued.

"Father, please give him..."

And that was when something changed inside me.

I had no idea what science would do for my future. I had no idea what Accounting would do either. But I knew one thing with absolute certainty.

I never wanted to see my mother cry like that again.

I interrupted.

"Ma, I don't want science."

She stopped and looked at me.

"I want to become an Auditor."

Father Jagathrayan did not waste another second. He grabbed his rubber stamp.

THUD!

Down it came on my application.

I suspect he was relieved to end the emotional performance before the entire waiting room joined us in tears.

And just like that, my future was decided.

We walked out of the office with a little card in my hand.

VISH — ACCOUNTING GROUP.

But I walked out carrying something else too. A promise to myself.

I would study. I would work hard. And whatever happened, I would never again make my mother cry over my education.

Outside the school, my mother was still apologizing.

"I'm sorry, Son. I tried everything. He simply wouldn't give you science."

"That's okay, Ma. I'll become an auditor."

She smiled weakly.

And then I asked the question that probably should have been asked before Father stamped my application.

"Ma, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What exactly is an auditor?"

Looking Back

Life has a strange sense of humor. A boy who had spent his childhood avoiding textbooks ended up choosing a profession built around books. Account books, that is.

A boy who couldn't even score half the marks in his tenth-grade examinations decided to enter a profession where getting the numbers right is rather important. And a boy who didn't know what an auditor was would eventually build his professional life around accounting and auditing.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if Father Jagathrayan had given in to my mother's tears and admitted me to the science group. Would I have become an engineer? A doctor? A scientist? Or would I have spent the next two years discovering exciting new ways to fail physics and chemistry?

We'll never know.

But I do know this.

That day, I thought my mother was fighting to get me into the science group. Looking back, I realize she was fighting to make sure one bad examination didn't become the definition of her son.

She saw potential where others saw only 237 marks. She believed in me when there are no earthly reason to believe. She saw a boy who, at that particular moment, didn't have much evidence to support his own confidence. And when the world looked at my mark sheet and laughed, she looked at me and said, "He's smart. I know my son."

What a gift that was.

As children, we sometimes mistake our parents' tears for disappointment. Only much later do we understand that those tears often come from a love so deep that our failures hurt them more than their own.

I went into that principal's office hoping to get a science seat. I walked out with an Accounting seat, a promise to my mother, and the beginnings of a career.

My mother wanted the world to give me a chance. I wanted to give my mother a reason to smile.

And somewhere between those two wishes, my future took shape.

I have forgotten many things from my school days. Lessons, formulas, examination questions, even the names of some teachers. But I have never forgotten my mother sitting in that chair, defending me through her tears. Nor have I forgotten the sound of Father Jagathrayan's rubber stamp hitting my application.

Funny, isn't it?

One sound broke my heart.

The other changed my life.

And both happened in the same room.

P.S. Now, if I were you, I would have one burning question: “Why on earth did your mother change your school in the tenth grade, of all years? Wasn't that the most important year of your school life?”

Come on, my friends! You laughed at my 237 marks, watched my mother cry, and witnessed the birth of an auditor who didn't even know what auditing was. But nobody thought to ask WHY she changed my school in the first place?

I'm beginning to wonder whether you were paying as much attention to this story as I was paying to my textbooks!

Anyway, if even ONE of you asks me that question, I might just write a sequel.

And who knows? The sequel might be even more  meaningful than the original!

PS: Well, many of you asked WHY and heres my sequel

"The Gift I Never Knew Mom Had Given Me"

I Hope She Loves This Jeep Like I Do!

My love affair with Jeeps started long before I ever owned one. I was in my mid-teens in India when I watched Jackie Shroff in the movie Hero. Remember that song, “Ding Dong O Baby Sing A Song”? There was Jackie, driving that beautiful old Jeep through the countryside with his girl beside him. Jackie was cool. The scenery was beautiful. The girl was certainly part of the attraction. Come on, I was a teenager! But somewhere between the music, the romance, and that rugged old Jeep, something happened. I fell in love. Now, whether I fell in love with the girl, the Jeep, or the idea of driving a Jeep with a beautiful girl beside me is still open for debate. But one thing is certain: the Jeep stayed in my heart. 

It wasn't fancy. It didn't have leather seats, a giant touchscreen, or a computer that constantly reminded you how badly you were driving. It was rugged, simple, adventurous, and gloriously imperfect. It looked like freedom on four wheels. I remember thinking, One day, I'm going to own one of those. As fate would have it, a Jeep was also the very first vehicle I ever drove. I still remember that magical moment when I first got behind the wheel and she started moving. Some firsts never leave you. Like your first crush or that first glorious sip of an ice-cold Kingfisher on a hot Indian afternoon! And trust me, that first Jeep ride was right up there.

Life Happened. But the Jeep Never Left My Heart.

Of course, life had other plans. College happened. Work happened. Marriage happened. Children happened. Countries changed. Careers changed. Bills arrived with remarkable punctuality. Somewhere along the way, that carefree teenager from India became a husband, a father, a businessman, and a man with more responsibilities than he had ever imagined. But deep inside, that boy who watched Jackie Shroff driving through the countryside was still there. And he still wanted his Jeep. So years later, when I could finally afford one, I bought her. Not just a Jeep. My Jeep.

Never Stop Dreaming, No Matter How Old You Get

I've always believed that every human being should have a dream growing up. Not just a passing wish, but something to hold on to, something that becomes a benchmark against which we can measure our journey through life. I've had many such benchmarks over the years. Some were big, some were small, some were serious, and a few were probably downright ridiculous! But each one gave me something to look forward to, something to work toward, and eventually, something to look back on with a smile.

Owning a Jeep was one of those childhood dreams. It may not sound like a great accomplishment to some people, but to that teenage boy in India watching Jackie Shroff drive through the countryside, it meant the world. And boy, am I glad I got to tick that box! Who says dreams don't come true? Sometimes they just take a few decades, a lot of hard work, and a little patience. And when they finally do, the joy isn't just in owning what you dreamed of. It's in remembering the boy who dared to dream in the first place.

I think we should all occasionally look back at the dreams we had when we were young. Not to count what we failed to achieve, but to celebrate how far we've come. Life has a funny way of keeping us so busy chasing tomorrow that we forget to appreciate yesterday's dreams that have already come true. And my old Jeep is a beautiful reminder of one of mine.

Today, after more than 154,000 miles, she is still with me. Now, any sensible person would probably tell me it's time to trade her in. There are newer vehicles with better technology, better fuel economy, smoother rides, quieter cabins, and seats that don't remind you of every pothole you've driven over. But sensible people don't always understand love. And love, as we all know, has never been particularly sensible.

My Man Cave Has Four Wheels

Some men have a man cave in their basement. Others have a garage filled with tools, a giant television, or a recliner nobody else is allowed to sit in. Mine has four wheels. My old Jeep is my man cave, my fortress, my sanctuary, and sometimes my therapist. And unlike a therapist, she doesn't charge by the hour!

There are days when I don't even need to go anywhere. I simply climb inside, close the door, and sit. No meetings. No deadlines. No business decisions. No spreadsheets. No phone calls demanding immediate attention. For a little while, I don't have to be the businessman, husband, father, boss, or problem solver. I can simply be Vish. Sometimes I listen to music. Sometimes I think. Sometimes I pray. Sometimes I replay conversations in my head and come up with brilliant responses about three hours too late. And sometimes I do absolutely nothing, which, at this stage of my life, is a highly underrated luxury.

My Jeep has heard my favorite songs hundreds of times. She has listened to my frustrations, my celebrations, my prayers, and probably a few conversations that are best left between the two of us. She knows things about me that even my family doesn't know. Fortunately, she talks only to me.

154,000 Miles of Memories

An odometer is a funny thing. It tells you exactly how far a vehicle has traveled, but absolutely nothing about the journey. It doesn't record the laughter, the conversations, the arguments, or the songs sung terribly out of tune. It doesn't remember the days when everything seemed to be going right or the evenings when life felt unbearably heavy. It doesn't know about the phone calls taken while parked somewhere, the decisions made while staring through the windshield, or the quiet prayers whispered when nobody else was around. But I remember. And somehow, I like to believe she remembers too.

Every scratch has a story. Every little dent has a history. Every replaced part is evidence that we've survived another chapter together. And perhaps that is why I love Jeeps so much. A Jeep isn't supposed to be perfect. Nobody looks at an old Jeep and says, “Oh dear, it has a scratch!” Of course it has a scratch. It's a Jeep! A few scratches give her character. At least that's what I tell myself. I use the same argument when I look in the mirror these days.

We're Both Getting Older, and Neither of Us Is Happy About It

The funny thing is, my Jeep and I have been aging together. She has accumulated plenty of miles. So have I. Her suspension isn't quite what it used to be. Neither is mine. Some mornings she takes a little longer to get started. Believe me, I understand. She makes strange noises occasionally. So do I, especially when getting out of bed. Her parts need more maintenance these days. Mine do too, although I'm discovering that human replacement parts are considerably more expensive! And neither of us appreciates being pushed too hard anymore.

But here's the strange and beautiful thing. The older we get, the fonder we seem to grow of each other. I know every sound she makes. I know how she feels on the road. I know when she's happy and when something isn't quite right. Sometimes a mysterious noise makes me immediately turn down the music and ask, “What on earth was THAT?” And I suspect she occasionally asks herself the same question when I climb inside.

But we understand each other. We don't have to impress each other anymore. We've been through too much together. And perhaps that is what makes an old friendship so special. You know the imperfections. You know the history. You know the scars. And you love each other anyway.

Then I Did Something Terrible. 

Now, before anyone accuses me of being unfaithful, let me explain. My work occasionally requires me to show up looking respectable. There are meetings where arriving in something shiny, polished, and a little impressive doesn't hurt. So I did what any reasonable Jeep lover would do. I bought another Jeep! Yes, I know. Apparently, my solution to having an old Jeep was to buy a new Jeep.

My new girl is gorgeous. She has everything: a big touchscreen, wireless connectivity, cameras, sophisticated safety features, comfortable seats, modern technology, and enough electronic gadgets to make me wonder whether I'm driving a vehicle or operating a small spaceship. She is quiet, refined, sophisticated, and beautiful. She looks wonderful pulling into those fancy meetings. I love her too. But she has one little problem. She doesn't have 154,000 miles of me in her.

She doesn't know my stories yet. She hasn't heard enough of my music. She hasn't shared enough of my laughter. She hasn't sat quietly with me through enough difficult days. She doesn't yet know what it means when I close the door and simply sit there, lost in thought. Maybe someday she will. But for now, when the meetings are over, the nice clothes come off, and I don't have anyone to impress, guess where I go? Straight back to my old girl. My first love. My sanctuary. My Jeep.

The new Jeep knows where I am but the old Jeep knows who I am.

Fortunately, There's Another Woman in This Love Story

Just when I thought this was a beautiful story about a man and his Jeep, along came another woman. My older daughter. And apparently, she believes my old Jeep belongs to her. I am not entirely sure when this misunderstanding began. Perhaps one day, in a moment of fatherly affection, I made the terrible mistake of saying, “Sweetheart, one day this Jeep will be yours.”

Now, fathers, please learn from my experience. Never make such statements without consulting an attorney. Because children have a remarkable ability to hear only the words they want to hear. I said, “One day.” She heard, “Yours.” And apparently, that day has already arrived!

So we now have a small family ownership dispute. I believe the Jeep is mine. She believes the Jeep is hers. We both have our own keys. We both drive her. And neither of us seems particularly interested in surrendering our claim. For now, we have reached a rather sophisticated legal arrangement. We lend the Jeep to each other. Who is lending it to whom remains a matter of considerable disagreement. I have considered bringing in a mediator, but knowing my daughter, she would probably convince the mediator that the Jeep belongs to her too!

But Here's What My Daughter Doesn't Know

Sometimes I look at my daughter driving that old Jeep, and something happens inside me. I see her hands on the steering wheel that I've held for so many years. I see her sitting in the same seat where I've spent countless hours thinking, praying, laughing, and occasionally escaping from the world. And suddenly, it isn't about who owns the Jeep anymore. It's about time. About how quickly children grow up. About how the little girl who once depended on me for everything is now old enough to take the keys and drive away on her own.

I suppose that's one of the strange things about being a father. You spend years teaching your children how to stand on their own feet. And then one day, they do. You teach them to be independent, and when they become independent, a small part of your heart whispers, Couldn't you have waited just a little longer?

I know there will come a day when this old Jeep will truly be hers. Not because she won an argument. Not because she has her own key. But because some things are meant to be passed from one generation to the next. And when that day comes, I hope she understands what she's receiving. It won't simply be an old vehicle with a lot of miles. It will be a piece of my life. A collection of memories. A faithful companion that has traveled beside her father through some of the most meaningful years of his journey.

I hope she puts another 150,000 miles on her. I hope she fills her with laughter, music, adventures, and wonderful memories of her own. I hope she adds a few scratches, tells a few stories, and occasionally sits quietly inside when life becomes a little overwhelming. And maybe, just maybe, on one of those quiet afternoons, she'll think of her dad. Perhaps she'll smile and say, “Now I understand why he loved this old Jeep so much.” If that happens, I hope she also remembers to check the oil!

The Teenage Boy Is Still Here

Every once in a while, when I climb into my old Jeep and turn the key, something magical happens. For a brief moment, the years disappear. I'm no longer a man with responsibilities, appointments, gray hair, and an increasingly complicated relationship with my knees. I'm that teenage boy in India again, watching Jackie Shroff driving through the countryside in Hero, listening to “Ding Dong O Baby Sing A Song,” and dreaming about the day I might own a Jeep of my own.

And I wish I could reach back through those forty-something years, put my arm around that young boy, and tell him, “Hey, kid. You got your Jeep. And you know what? You even got two! But there's one little complication. Your daughter wants the first one!”

I think that teenage boy would laugh. And then he'd probably ask whether the girl from the movie came with it. Some things never change!

One Last Ride? Not Yet.

My old Jeep and I still have some miles left in us. We may be a little slower, a little noisier, and a little more expensive to maintain, but we're not finished yet. There are more roads to travel, more songs to play, more memories to make, and perhaps a few more arguments with my daughter about whose Jeep this really is.

I've come to realize that the most precious things in life aren't always the newest, the shiniest, or the most expensive. Sometimes they're the things that stayed with us. The friendships that endured. The memories that never faded. The dreams that came true. And the old Jeep that was there through it all.

One day, my daughter will have the keys for good. And when that day comes, I hope she loves this old girl as much as I do. Because maybe that's what love is really about. Not holding on to something forever, but loving it enough to eventually let it go into the hands of someone you love even more.

Until then, my old Jeep and I have a few more adventures planned. As long as she's willing to start, I'm willing to drive.

And as for that ongoing ownership dispute with my daughter?

I hope she wins.

Just not today. Dad still has a few miles left in him.