If I Could Audit My 20-Year-Old Self

 If I Could Audit My 20-Year-Old Self

I have spent a good part of my career reviewing numbers, asking questions, looking for things that don't make sense, and occasionally telling people things they didn't particularly want to hear. That is what auditors do.

The other day, I was talking with a very longtime friend of mine. We have known each other long enough to remember versions of ourselves that our children probably wouldn't believe existed. I told him, “How I wish we were young again. We could have done so many things differently.”

He didn't even hesitate.

“Nope. We would still be found at the best bar in town.”

We laughed. But the more I thought about it, the more I wondered whether he had a point.

We like to believe that if we could go back with everything we know today, we would get it all right. We would save more, study harder, recognize opportunities sooner, spend more time with the people we love, avoid some mistakes and make better choices.

But would we? Or would we still be at the best bar in town, laughing with our friends and convinced that we had plenty of time to figure life out?

That conversation got the CPA in me thinking: What if I could audit my 20-year-old self?

There he is. A young man from India, with hostel life behind him and not much money of his own—but already blessed in ways he probably didn't fully appreciate. I had inherited something far more valuable: a wonderful older sister who was then, is now, and has always been incredibly generous to me.

No CPA license. No business. No America. No wife. No daughters. And absolutely no idea where life was going to take him.

Mr. Cornelius, please take a seat.

Your audit has begun.

Finding #1: Insufficient Cash Reserves

This one wouldn't take long. Cash position: terrible. Financial assets: almost nonexistent. Future earning potential: unable to substantiate.

Yet strangely, the young man wasn't terribly worried about it. He could enjoy a simple cream bun that cost a few paise and feel like he had received something magnificent.

Today I understand cash flow, investments, retirement, interest rates and financial planning considerably better. But sometimes I wonder whether that 20-year-old understood something about wealth that this CPA occasionally forgets:

You don't need to own very much to enjoy what you already have.

Audit adjustment: None. Perhaps the auditor needs the adjustment.

Finding #2: Excessive Risk

Young Vish had no five-year strategic plan. I am not sure he had a five-day strategic plan. But he was willing to try things, travel, meet people, take chances and walk through doors without knowing exactly what was waiting on the other side.

At my age, I know how to analyze risk—perhaps sometimes too well. As we get older, we become very good at calculating everything that could go wrong before asking what might go right.

Twenty-year-old Vish didn't have enough experience to know all the reasons something might fail. Funny enough, that ignorance occasionally turned out to be an asset.

Recommendation to current management: Bring back a little of that young man's courage.

Finding #3: Poor Appreciation of Certain Assets

This would probably be my biggest finding. At 20, I didn't fully understand the value of some of the people around me—my mother, my brothers, my older sisters whose generosity I benefited from long before I was old enough to understand just how much it meant, my friends, my teachers, and many others whose presence seemed permanent simply because they had always been there.

When you are young, you assume there will always be another Christmas, another meal together, another conversation and another opportunity to say thank you.

Then life teaches you something accounting never did:

Some assets disappear from the balance sheet without warning. And once they are gone, no journal entry can bring them back.

So I would tell my 20-year-old self: Take more pictures. Ask more questions. Listen to your mother's stories even when you've heard them before. Spend more time with your brothers. Appreciate your sister not just for what she gives you, but for the love behind the giving. Tell people what they mean to you while they are still there to hear it.

Finding #4: A Couple of Opportunities Were Not Identified

Every audit has exceptions, and there were a couple of opportunities I didn't recognize at the time. There were people I should have stayed in touch with, doors I didn't realize were open and chances I probably should have taken.

There is also one habit I wish I had discovered much earlier: starting my day at 5:00 AM.

I wish someone had convinced that 20-year-old that getting up a couple of hours before the rest of the world wasn't punishment—it was an advantage. An uninterrupted hour to think, pray, exercise, read, plan or simply get ahead before the phones started ringing and the world began asking for my time.

If I had started that habit at 20, imagine the compound interest on all those extra productive hours. Starting at 5:00 AM could have given me a leg up—not because I was smarter or more talented than everyone else, but simply because I was already moving while much of the world was still sleeping.

At 20, some opportunities looked like inconveniences. Some looked too difficult. And some simply didn't look like opportunities at all. That's one of life's frustrating accounting rules: By the time you have enough experience to recognize every opportunity, some of them have already expired.

But I wouldn't make a huge adjustment here, because some doors I missed led me toward other doors I never knew existed. Looking back, I cannot always tell which was the missed opportunity and which was the blessing.

Finding #5: Confidence — Perhaps Overcapitalized

This is one area where the auditor would have very little corrective advice. At 20, I didn't spend much time worrying about what other people thought of me. If I wanted to do something, I generally did it. If I had something to say, chances were pretty good that I said it.

Approval was nice, but it was never a prerequisite.

Looking back, that confidence probably got me into trouble a few times. It may have made me stubborn, and it certainly didn't mean I was always right. But it also meant that rejection didn't frighten me very much. I didn't need everyone in the room to agree with me before I moved forward.

Age and experience have taught me to listen more carefully, consider another person's point of view and occasionally admit—painful as this may be for a CPA—that somebody else might actually be right.

I wouldn't tell my 20-year-old self to care more about what people thought. I would tell him: Keep the confidence. Lose a little of the stubbornness. Know the difference between ignoring unnecessary opinions and ignoring good advice. One is independence. The other is foolishness.

Audit adjustment: No adjustment to confidence. Perhaps a small reclassification from Stubbornness to Listening Skills.

Finding #6: Faith — Internal Controls Strong

This one might surprise the auditor. That young man didn't know much about where his life was headed, but he knew Who he believed was going with him.

Over the years, I gained education, experience, a career, a CPA license, businesses, a family and a life in America that the 20-year-old sitting in India probably could not have imagined.

But none of those things eliminated uncertainty. If anything, adulthood simply gave me more sophisticated things to worry about.

The faith I carried when I had very little is the same faith I need when I have much more.

No audit adjustment required.

Finding #7: Listen More

This finding applies to both versions of me. Twenty-year-old Vish needed to listen more because he thought he knew everything. Older Vish needs to listen more because he has enough experience to think he has heard everything.

My wife would probably request that the audit report classify this as an ongoing material weakness.

Management response: “I was listening.”

Auditor's response: “Then what did she just say?”

Management has declined further comment.

Final Audit Opinion

After completing my examination, I think I would sit across the table from that 20-year-old and realize something I wasn't expecting:

I wouldn't want to change him very much.

Yes, I would tell him to save more, wake up at 5:00 AM, worry less, talk to his mother more often, spend more time with his brothers, thank his sisters more often, recognize a couple of opportunities sooner and take better care of his body because apparently knees have a useful life.

And I would probably pull him aside and give him one more piece of advice:

“Don't waste too much time looking for a girl. Your chosen one is over in Jaffna, bossing around an entire town. She'll find you when the time is right.”

Of course, the 20-year-old me probably wouldn't believe a word of it. How could a young man sitting in India possibly know that somewhere across the water in Sri Lanka, a young woman was living her own story—and that one day our two stories would somehow become one?

Some things in life aren't opportunities you have to chase. Some arrive exactly when they are supposed to.

And perhaps I would also tell him to buy some Apple stock whenever that becomes possible.

But I wouldn't tell him everything that was going to happen. I wouldn't tell him about every success, and I certainly wouldn't tell him about every loss. Because part of what made him who he became was walking forward without knowing the ending.

Before closing the audit, though, I think I would ask him one question:

“Is there anything you would tell me?”

I suspect that 20-year-old would look at the older CPA sitting across from him and say:

“You worry too much. You have more than you ever dreamed you would have. Why don't you enjoy it a little more?”

And suddenly, I wouldn't know who was auditing whom.

Auditor's Conclusion

After reviewing the evidence, considering the exceptions and evaluating the internal controls, my conclusion would be:

No restatement required.

There were mistakes. There were missed opportunities. There were losses and certainly some questionable entries. But there were also blessings I could never have planned, people I could never have scheduled into my life, and doors I could never have opened by myself.

So I would sign the report.

Going concern: Yes. Uncorrected differences: A few. Opinion: Grateful.

And one final note to that 20-year-old:

Keep going, young man.

The books aren't going to be perfect. They were never supposed to be. Someday you're going to look back and realize they balanced far better than you knew.

And if, by some miracle, my friend and I really did get the chance to go back and do it all over again, I'd like to believe we'd be wiser. We'd wake up earlier. Save a little more. Worry a little less. Recognize opportunities sooner. Appreciate people while they were still around. Make fewer mistakes.

But knowing the two of us...

We would probably still be found at the best bar in town.

And you know what?

Maybe I wouldn't adjust that entry either.

Would Chennai Ever Call Its Team "The Crows"?

Would Chennai Ever Call Its Team "The Crows"?

Football season is here in the US, and while watching football recently, something completely unrelated to football got me thinking.

The Baltimore Ravens.

Think about that name for a minute.

A Raven.

A black bird.

Baltimore didn't try to make it glamorous by calling themselves the Baltimore Kings, Warriors, Emperors or Super Something.

They proudly called themselves the Ravens.

And then they built an entire identity around it.

The name comes from Edgar Allan Poe's famous poem The Raven. Poe had strong connections to Baltimore, and when the franchise needed a name, Ravens won the public vote.

But what fascinates me even more is what they did with that bird.

Black and purple became powerful colors. The raven became intelligent, aggressive and mysterious. Their mascots were even brilliantly named Edgar, Allan and Poe.

And today nobody looks at a Ravens player wearing black and thinks his skin color has anything to do with the bird on his helmet.

Black players. White players. Brown players.

They are all Ravens.

The bird represents the TEAM—not the complexion of the men playing for it.

That got this Chennai boy thinking.

Could we ever have called Chennai's IPL team the Chennai Crows?

Come on.

You know the answer.

There would have been a riot before the first ball was bowled!

And that is precisely why I find this interesting.

I grew up in Chennai. We are a city full of wonderfully brown and dark-skinned people.

And we are also a city full of crows!

They are everywhere.

More importantly, the crow is actually a remarkable bird—intelligent, adaptable, social, resourceful and incredibly good at surviving.

Those aren't bad qualities for a cricket team!

So imagine this:

CHENNAI CROWS.

Initially I thought—black jerseys!

Then the Chennai boy in me immediately said:

Are you crazy? Have you ever been to Chennai in Summer? 

Nobody wants to stand at Chepauk in 100-degree heat wearing an all-black jersey.

So forget the black jersey.

Keep the yellow!

Yellow for Chennai sunshine.

Then run a couple of sweeping black stripes across the yellow jersey. Shape those stripes cleverly so they form the outline of a crow.

No complicated logo required.

A couple of black strokes.

One little dot for the eye.

That's it.

The Chennai Crow.

Actually, the more I think about it, the cooler it sounds.

Forty thousand people at Chepauk wearing sunshine yellow with those black crow stripes.

And when the opposition loses a wicket?

CAW! CAW! CAW!

Tell me that wouldn't be intimidating!

But culturally, I am not sure we could have sold it.

Somewhere along the way, particularly in India, we have attached too much meaning to fairness, darkness, beauty and status.

Calling someone "black" or comparing someone to a crow can become an insult.

And that is where the Baltimore Ravens comparison becomes interesting to me.

Baltimore didn't run away from the darkness of the bird.

They marketed it.

They made it powerful.

They made it intelligent.

They made it cool.

People proudly pay good money to walk around wearing a raven on their chest.

Nobody is embarrassed to say:

"I am a Raven."

Now look at many of our IPL names.

Chennai Super Kings.

Punjab Kings.Rajasthan Royals.

Kolkata Knight Riders.

Gujarat Titans.

Lucknow Super Giants.

Royal Challengers.

Everybody wants to be a King, Royal, Knight, Titan, Giant or something SUPER! 😂

Nothing wrong with that. I am a Chennai guy and I love CSK.

But compare that with American sports.

Baltimore Ravens.

Philadelphia Eagles.

Seattle Seahawks.

Arizona Cardinals.

Atlanta Falcons.

And then Bears, Rams, Colts, Broncos, Dolphins, Jaguars and Panthers.

They take an animal, a bird or something connected to a place and ask:

What story can we build around it?

That difference fascinates me.

Baltimore took a black bird and gave it dignity.

And maybe that is where sports branding can teach us something much bigger than sports.

Maybe the problem was never the color.

Maybe the problem was the meaning we attached to the color.

A crow doesn't know it is "too black."

A raven doesn't know it is supposed to be beautiful or ugly.

Those judgments belong to us.

Maybe one day an Indian franchise should take something completely ordinary, local and even slightly unfashionable—and make us proud of it.

Forget another King.

Forget another Royal.

Give me the Chennai Crows.

Sunshine-yellow jersey.

Two sweeping black stripes.

One little dot for the eye.

Intelligence. Adaptability. Teamwork. Survival.

Very Chennai, if you ask me.

And then go win the IPL.

Trust me.

The same people who laughed at the name would be standing in line to buy that yellow-and-black jersey.

Because sometimes you don't need to change the color.

You need to change what the color means.

And perhaps that lesson goes far beyond cricket and football.

PS: Whoever eventually starts the Chennai Crows, remember where you got the jersey design. I want royalties. 

Faith, Football & Food

A friend recently posted this question on LinkedIn:

“WANTED: Hobbies for couples that suddenly have LOTS of free nights and weekends?”

My reply was very simple:

“I have three letters for you: NFL.”

I was partly joking. But after I posted it, I realized there was probably more truth in those three letters than I intended.

Because in our family, NFL football has never been just about football.

A few years ago, right before the start of the season, one of my older daughter’s friends made a comment that has stayed with me:

“Thank God the NFL is starting. You are such a nice and happy person during football season.”

We laughed, but I knew exactly what she meant. Her friend was spot on! We are very happy and nice people when NFL starts. 

There is something different about our family when football season arrives.

Even when my daughters were away at college, the NFL kept us connected. They would call to talk about games, picks, players and predictions. There was plenty of trash talk, especially when someone's confident prediction went completely wrong.

Distance didn't seem quite as far when there was a game to talk about.

And during football season, our family calendar becomes pretty simple.

Monday night? Football.
Thursday night? Football.
Sunday? Make sure you go to the early morning church service so you're back home by 10:00 AM for kickoff!

And then there are those international games that start around 6:00 AM. Those are the weeks when Saturday evening church service suddenly becomes a very attractive option.

I know how that sounds, but I also know myself pretty well.

I'm the kind of guy who would rather be sitting at the game feeling guilty about not being in church than sitting in church wondering what the score is.

Lord, forgive me.

At least I'm being honest!

And then there are those special Sundays when we actually get to go to the stadium.

What a joy ride that is.

Honestly, the game itself is only part of the experience.

It starts with the road trip together. Then comes the parking lot, the pregame routines, walking toward the stadium with thousands of other fans, finding our seats, the music, the energy, and then standing for the National Anthem with some 71,000 people around you.

There is something about that moment.

Then comes kickoff, the noise, the cheering, the high-fives with complete strangers and, of course, all the food that somehow tastes better on game day.

And after the game?

Those bacon-wrapped street dogs waiting outside the stadium!

Then comes the ride back home—sometimes celebrating, sometimes analyzing what went wrong, sometimes complaining about a call that we're absolutely convinced cost us the game.

Win or lose, the conversation continues all the way home.

You just can't put a dollar amount on days like that.

And we've created another little tradition that I have come to love.

Every year, a few friends and family members pick one Rams away game, pack our bags and travel to another city together to watch our Rams play.

Last year, it was Seattle.

This year, it's Vegas.

Yes, technically we're traveling to watch a football game.

But that's really just the excuse.

It's the flight or road trip. The meals. The jokes. The trash talk. Exploring another city. Wearing Rams gear in enemy territory. And spending a weekend with people you care about.

It all adds up to family time.

And those are the memories that stay with you long after you've forgotten the final score.

My wife has never been the biggest football fan in the family. For years, she has patiently listened to conversations about quarterbacks, trades, injuries, terrible referee calls and, of course, my beloved Rams.

But I think we are slowly winning her over.

Last week, one of my daughters mentioned to her that Dad might be going to Kansas City next month.

My wife's immediate response was:

“Is he going to watch the Chiefs play?”

The girls and I loved it.

She knew!

It was such a small thing, but somehow it made all of us happy. After all these years, maybe Mom is finally becoming one of us.

And that little moment reminded me that this really isn't about football.

Years from now, I probably won't remember the scores of most of these games. I won't remember every pick we made, every player we argued about, or every terrible referee's call.

But I will remember my daughters calling me from college to talk football.

I will remember the trash talk.

I will remember everyone trying to get home in time for kickoff.

I will remember those road trips to the stadium.

I will remember standing for the National Anthem surrounded by 71,000 people.

I will remember Seattle.

I will remember Vegas.

I will remember those bacon-wrapped street dogs after the game.

And most of all, I will remember who was sitting beside me through all of it.

Because football is simply one of the reasons we gather.

And gathering is what matters.

So perhaps my three-letter LinkedIn answer—NFL—wasn't quite complete.

If you asked me what really brings our family together, I would give you three words instead:

Faith. Football. Food.

Faith keeps us grounded.
Football keeps us talking.
Food keeps us around the same table.

And somewhere between those three things, we keep making memories.

So, to my friend looking for hobbies to fill all those suddenly free nights and weekends, I stand by my original recommendation:

NFL.

Just be careful.

It starts as a hobby.

Then your daughters start calling you from college to talk about picks.

Your Sundays start being planned around kickoff.

Your church service selection mysteriously begins depending on the NFL schedule.

You start planning family trips around Rams away games.

And then, one day, your wife—who was never really a football fan—asks whether you're flying to Kansas City to watch the Chiefs.

That's when you know.

You've got the whole family.

And perhaps that's why those three letters mean so much more to me than just a game.

NFL.

Or, in our house:

Faith. Football. Food.

Thank God, the NFL is back.

Three for a Rupee

 Three for a Rupee

Here Comes That Rainbow Again

I am a feel-good guy.

Nothing makes me happier than hearing that good people are doing well in life. Give me stories of kindness being rewarded over stories of revenge any day.

One of my favorite real-life stories is about Cristiano Ronaldo.

As a young boy at Sporting CP's academy in Lisbon, Portugal, Ronaldo and his friends often went hungry. Across the road was a McDonald's where, at closing time, employees would quietly hand the boys leftover burgers that would otherwise be thrown away. Years later, after becoming one of the greatest footballers the world has ever seen, Ronaldo publicly searched for the ladies who had shown him that kindness. One of them, Edna, was eventually found. Ronaldo invited her to his home, thanked her personally, and repaid a kindness he had carried in his heart for decades.

I absolutely love stories like that.

Whenever I hear one, I think of Kris Kristofferson's beautiful song, "Here Comes That Rainbow Again." If you've never heard it, I hope you'll listen to it after reading this.

It reminds me of my own rainbow.

Growing up, my older twin brothers, Godfrey and Godwin, and I lived in a hostel in a small little town in India.

Every month, the three of us together received an allowance of one rupee.

Since one rupee couldn't be divided equally, my brothers received 35 paise each, and I, being the youngest, happily accepted my 30 paise.

Not once did I think life was unfair.

Thirty paise could buy plenty of goodies in those days, and we thought we were rich.

Then one day, a brand-new bakery opened near our hostel.

Within days everyone was talking about one thing—their cream buns.

The smell drifting out of that bakery was irresistible. We counted the days until our next allowance.

Finally, the day arrived.

Clutching our precious coins, we rushed to the bakery.

My brother Godfrey proudly said,

"Three cream buns, please."

The baker smiled.

"That'll be one rupee and five paise."

Thirty-five paise each.

We froze.

We looked at one another.

We had exactly one rupee.

Five paise short.

It may sound like nothing today, but to three little boys, it felt like a fortune.

Without missing a beat, Godfrey looked at us and said,

"You guys have them. I don't really like sweets anyway."

He turned around and started walking away.

Now here's the funny part.

Godfrey was an amazing brother.

He was also a terrible liar.

The baker knew it.

Godwin knew it.

I knew it.

Nobody believed him.

But, Godwin and I cant like something that Godfrey doesn't like, so!

We quietly thanked the baker and started walking away.

Then came my rainbow.

The baker called out,

"Hey boys... wait!"

We turned around.

With a smile he said,

"From today... three cream buns for one rupee."

Just like that.

And suddenly...

Godfrey discovered he had the sweetest tooth in the world!

Today, whenever I think about that afternoon, I smile...

...and then I quietly miss my beloved brother, Godfrey, who is no longer with us.

What I wouldn't give to hear him tell that little lie just one more time.

I don't know what those five paise cost the baker.

But I know what they gave us.

He protected the dignity of three little boys.

He allowed an older brother to remain a hero.

He showed us that kindness doesn't have to be loud to change someone's life.

Years later, after I was married and blessed with two wonderful daughters, I returned to that same town.

I wasn't looking for a cream bun.

I was looking for the baker.

I wanted to shake his hand.

I wanted him to meet my ladies.

We wanted to thank him.

Instead...

The bakery was gone.

The building had disappeared.

No one even remembered there had once been a bakery there.

I drove away disappointed...

...but grateful.

Wherever that baker is today, I pray God blessed him beyond measure.

I hope his bakery flourished.

I hope he built a wonderful life for himself and his family.

And I hope he continued creating little rainbows for countless others, just as he did for three little boys one afternoon.

Since then, I've been blessed to travel the world.

I've enjoyed pastries from Poilâne in Paris, Zeit für Brot in Berlin, St. JOHN Bakery in London, Roselle Desserts in Toronto, Tartine in San Francisco, Levain Bakery in New York, and Porto's Bakery in my hometown of Los Angeles.

They're all exceptional.

But none of them...

Not one...

...comes close to those three for a rupee cream buns that afternoon shared by three little boys.

Some memories are baked into your heart forever.

Period.

Because the secret ingredient wasn't cream.

It was kindness.

As Kris Kristofferson wrote,

"Ain't it just like humans... here comes that rainbow again."

I can never end a blog like this without mentioning my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

He taught us:

"Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."
— Matthew 25:40

That baker probably thought he was giving three little boys five paise.

I believe he was serving Jesus.

May we all become somebody else's rainbow!

Proud Mary Kept on Rollin'... So Did My Dreams.

 Proud Mary, Me, and the American Dream

There are songs you like.

There are songs you love.

And then there are songs that quietly become part of your life's soundtrack.

For me, that song has always been Proud Mary.

It was sometime in the early 1970s and happened in one of the remotest part of South India. I was probably in the fourth grade when I heard it for the very first time. It came spinning out of an old vinyl record player, and from the very first note, something happened. I didn't understand every word. I had no idea who Creedence Clearwater Revival was. I didn't know what a bayou was, and I certainly had never seen a riverboat.

But I knew one thing.

This was special.

In fact, Proud Mary was only the second English song I had ever heard in my life. The very first?

"Jesus Loves Me, This I Know."

Looking back, I smile at the order. One introduced me to the love of Christ. The other introduced me to a rhythm that would stay with me for more than fifty years.

We didn't have a large music collection at home. There weren't hundreds of records to choose from. Which meant Proud Mary got played... and played... and played again.

If Spotify had existed back then, my year-end recap would simply have said:

"You listened to Proud Mary 9,482 times this year."

The record sleeve didn't even have a picture of the band. I had absolutely no idea what John Fogerty or the other members of CCR looked like. For all I knew, they could have been seven feet tall or looked like my next-door American Missionary neighbors.

But one thing I knew beyond doubt...

These guys could make music.

Now, I should also confess something.

I had pretty light feet.

(Please excuse my modesty.)

Every time Proud Mary came on, I danced.

One day, a group of Americans visited my mother. Someone thought it would be entertaining if this little Indian boy danced for them while Proud Mary played in the background.

So there I was...

One skinny Indian kid, doing what I thought were spectacular Indian dance moves to an American rock song.

Those wonderful Americans laughed until they nearly cried.

I hope they were laughing with me.

Even more fascinating to me was watching them sing every single word of the song. I couldn't understand why everyone seemed to know it.

That's when I first realized...

This wasn't just another song.

It was part of America's heartbeat.

Years rolled by.

The vinyl became cassette tapes.

Cassette tapes became CDs.

CDs became digital playlists.

But somehow, Proud Mary never got old.

If anything, it sounded even better.

Then came one of my favorite conversations.

I was in my early twenties when my older brother—who worked as a sailor and had seen much more of the world than I had—came home and found me listening to CCR.

He looked at me, shook his head, and asked,

"Are you STILL listening to Proud Mary?"

Before I could answer, he continued...

"How long are you going to keep listening to this on tapes? Get your act together. Move on in life... CCR is pretty awesome in live concerts you gotta watch them live!"

At the time, it sounded impossible.

Watching Creedence Clearwater Revival live felt about as realistic as playing football with Pelé.

But dreams have funny ways of waiting patiently.

As I grew older, every CCR song seemed to find me at a different season of life.

Lodi became deeply personal. Every time I heard Fogerty sing,

"Oh Lord, I'm stuck in Lodi again..."

I couldn't help but think of my own journey—searching, striving, and often chasing what felt like that elusive pot of gold. Like so many young people, I thought happiness was always somewhere just beyond the next promotion, the next achievement, or the next destination. Looking back now, I smile because the greatest treasures in my life were never found at the end of the rainbow. They were found in faith, family, football, friendships, and the countless blessings God had already placed along the way.

Then there is Have You Ever Seen the Rain—one of the most beautifully written songs ever recorded. It is one of those rare songs that seems to grow with you. Every season of life gives it a different meaning. Joy and sorrow somehow live together in the same melody. Great songs entertain us. Timeless songs make us stop and think. For me, this has always been one of those timeless songs.

And every time I hear Cotton Fields, my thoughts quietly drift to my late beloved mother.

She wasn't from the cotton fields of Louisiana, but she understood hard work, sacrifice, and simple living better than anyone I've ever known. She never left behind wealth in the world's eyes. Instead, she left something infinitely more valuable—a steadfast faith in Jesus Christ, a servant's heart, and a legacy of compassion that continues to inspire me every day. Somehow, whenever that song plays, she walks back into my memories, and for a few precious moments, I find myself smiling through tears.

People often ask why I wanted to come to America.

There were many reasons.

Opportunity.

Education.

Career.

Freedom.

The American Dream.

But tucked away somewhere on that list was a delightfully unreasonable dream...

One day, I wanted to hear John Fogerty sing Proud Mary live.

Years later, life surprised me in the most beautiful way.

The very first English song I ever learned was "Jesus Loves Me." Looking back now, I realize that wasn't a coincidence. The God who introduced Himself to me through that little hymn has been writing my story ever since.

As the Psalmist wrote,

"Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart." — Psalm 37:4

I have found that promise to be wonderfully true—not because God gives us everything we ask for, but because He lovingly plants beautiful desires in our hearts and, in His perfect time, delights in fulfilling them.

A few years ago, by His grace, I found myself standing in America watching John Fogerty walk onto the stage.

I wasn't simply attending a concert.

I was watching God fulfill a dream that had quietly begun with a spinning vinyl record in a little Indian home more than fifty years earlier.

When he started singing, I wasn't just hearing music.

I was hearing fifty years of memories.

I was back in that little room with the vinyl record.

Back dancing without a care in the world.

Back watching Americans sing every word.

Back dreaming dreams that seemed impossibly big for a little boy growing up in India.

What incredible music!

Of course, Proud Mary will always be my favorite.

But then there are Bad Moon Rising, Have You Ever Seen the Rain, Lodi, Down on the Corner, Fortunate Son, Green River, Cotton Fields, and so many others.

John Fogerty didn't just write songs.

He wrote memories.

One of the greatest joys today is watching the next generation discover them.

Both of my daughters—proud members of Generation Z—absolutely love CCR.

In fact, they often joke that they genuinely feel sorry for kids who have never experienced Creedence Clearwater Revival.

I couldn't agree more.

Now comes the best part.

John Fogerty is back in town next week.

This time, all of us are going together.

Three  generations...

One soundtrack.

I've already peeked at his recent setlists, and if history repeats itself, he'll probably kick things off with Bad Moon Rising.

Truth be told, I've already attended this concert a hundred times in my mind this week.

And when those familiar opening notes of Proud Mary finally begin, I know exactly what will happen.

I'll no longer be the CPA.

I won't be the father.

I won't even be thinking about the American Dream.

For just a few minutes...

I'll be that little fourth-grade boy again, dancing without a care in the world to a song he didn't fully understand—but one that somehow understood him.

Funny how one song can cross oceans, cultures, languages, and generations.

It connected a little Indian boy to a country he had never seen.

It survived vinyl records, cassette tapes, CDs, MP3 players, streaming services, and more than half a century of life.

It became part of my family.

Part of my faith.

Part of my American journey.

And part of my story.

Thank you, John Fogerty.

Thank you for writing music that doesn't simply entertain—it travels with people through life.

Thank you for unknowingly giving a little Indian boy permission to dream.

You didn't just keep Proud Mary rollin'.

You helped a dream roll across continents, across generations, and all the way into the heart of the American Dream.

Keep rockin', John.

And yes... Proud Mary is still rollin'. So am I.

இன்று நான் அதிகம் தேடுவது... ஒருகாலத்தில் இருந்த என்னை.

 என் மகள் எனக்கு ஒரு புத்தகம் வாங்கித் தரவில்லை... என் இளமையையே திருப்பிக் கொடுத்தாள்!

சில நாட்களுக்கு முன் என் மூத்த மகள் என்னிடம் ஒரு கேள்வி கேட்டாள்.

"அப்பா... 1980-களில் உங்களுக்கு போன் இல்லை, இணையம் இல்லை... அப்போ நேரத்தை எப்படி கழித்தீர்கள்?"

சிரித்துக் கொண்டே சொன்னேன்.

"ரெண்டு மூணு டிவி நிகழ்ச்சிகள் பார்ப்போம்... மாலை இருட்டும் வரை கிரிக்கெட், கால்பந்து விளையாடுவோம்... மரம் ஏறுவோம்... சைக்கிள் ஓட்டுவோம்... நிறைய நீச்சல் அடிப்போம் மற்றும் ஒன்னாசேர்ந்து பாட்டு பாடுவோம்.  அதற்குப் பிறகு புத்தகங்கள் படிப்போம்."

உடனே அவள் என்னை நிறுத்திவிட்டாள்.

"ஒரு நிமிஷம்... நான் பிறந்ததிலிருந்து இன்று வரை உங்களை ஒரு நாள்கூட புத்தகம் படிப்பதை பார்த்ததே இல்லையே!"

அவள் சொன்னது நூற்றுக்கு நூறு உண்மை.

அந்த ஒரு வாக்கியம் என்னை சற்றே உலுக்கியது.

வேலை...

குடும்பம்...

பிள்ளைகள்...

தேவாலயப் பொறுப்புகள்...

மின்னஞ்சல்கள்...

மீட்டிங்கள்...

கால்பந்து...

இப்படி வாழ்க்கை ஓடிக் கொண்டிருந்தபோது...

நான் புத்தகம் படிப்பதையே விட்டுவிட்டேன் என்பதை நானே கவனிக்கவில்லை.

அதன்பிறகு நாங்கள் நான் மிகவும் விரும்பிப் படித்த எழுத்தாளர்களைப் பற்றி பேச ஆரம்பித்தோம்.

Sidney Sheldon...

Robert Ludlum...

Frederick Forsyth...

Alistair MacLean...

Jeffrey Archer...

ஆமாம்...

இப்போது ஒப்புக்கொள்கிறேன்...

யாருக்கும் தெரியாமல் Mills & Boon நாவல்களையும் ரசித்துப் படித்திருக்கிறேன்!

ஒவ்வொரு புத்தகமும் என்னை ஒரு புதிய உலகத்திற்கு அழைத்துச் சென்றது.

Where Eagles Dare என்னுள் சாகச உணர்வை விதைத்தது.

Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less தான் நான் கணக்கியல் துறைக்குள் வந்ததற்கான முதல் விதையாக இருந்திருக்கலாம்.

ஆனால்...

இவை எல்லாவற்றையும் விட என் மனதில் சிம்மாசனத்தில் அமர்ந்திருக்கும் ஒரு புத்தகம் இருக்கிறது.

Ken Follett எழுதிய The Pillars of the Earth.

அதுவும் நான் தேடிப் போய் எடுத்த புத்தகம் இல்லை.

ஒருநாள் நூலகத்தில் நான் விரும்பிய எல்லா புத்தகங்களும் ஏற்கனவே யாரோ எடுத்துச் சென்றிருந்தார்கள்.

நூலகர் சிரித்துக் கொண்டு ஒரு பெரிய புத்தகத்தை எடுத்து,

"இது ஒரு மாதமாவது உன்னை பிஸியாக வைத்திருக்கும்..." என்றார்.

982 பக்கங்கள்.

அவருக்குத் தெரியாது...

நான் அதை நான்கு நாட்களில் முடித்துவிட்டேன்.

இந்தக் கதையை என் மகளிடம் சொன்னபோது,

அவள் என்னைப் பார்த்த பார்வை...

நான் இமயமலையை நடந்து கடந்துவிட்டேன் என்று சொன்னது போல இருந்தது.

"நான்கு நாளா??"

அவளால் நம்ப முடியவில்லை.

உண்மையைச் சொன்னால்...

இப்போது என்னாலேயும் நம்ப முடியவில்லை.

அந்தக் காலத்தில் நான் புத்தகங்களைப் படிக்கவில்லை.

அந்த புத்தகங்களுக்குள்ளேயே வாழ்ந்தேன்.

The Pillars of the Earth படித்த அனுபவம்...

நான் முதல் முறையாக How Green Was My Valley திரைப்படத்தை பார்த்தபோது ஏற்பட்ட உணர்வைப் போலவே இருந்தது.

அது ஒரு கதை அல்ல.

அது ஒரு வாழ்க்கை.

அந்த மனிதர்களோடு சிரித்தேன்...

அவர்களோடு அழுதேன்...

அவர்களின் வெற்றியில் மகிழ்ந்தேன்...

அவர்களின் தோல்வியில் மனம் உடைந்தது.

புத்தகம் முடிந்த பிறகும்...

திரைப்படம் முடிந்த பிறகும்...

நம் குடும்பத்தாரை விட்டுவிட்டு வந்ததுபோல் ஒரு வெறுமை.

அதுதான் அந்தக் காலத்தின் மந்திரம்.

கடந்த வாரம் என் பிறந்தநாள்.

என் மகளிடமிருந்து ஒரு பரிசு.

அதைத் திறந்தேன்.

உள்ளே இருந்தது...

The Pillars of the Earth.

புதிய iPhone இல்லை.

விலை உயர்ந்த கடிகாரம் இல்லை.

Gift Card இல்லை.

நாற்பது ஆண்டுகளுக்கு முன்பு என் மனதை கொள்ளை கொண்ட அதே புத்தகம்.

அந்த நிமிடத்தில் எனக்குப் புரிந்தது.

அவள் எனக்கு ஒரு புத்தகம் வாங்கிக் கொடுக்கவில்லை.

என் இளமையைத் திருப்பிக் கொடுத்தாள்.

அந்தப் புத்தகத்தை மீண்டும் படிக்க ஆரம்பித்திருக்கிறேன்.

இதில்தான் வாழ்க்கையின் சோகம் இருக்கிறது.

அப்போது...

982 பக்கங்கள்.

நான்கு நாட்கள்.

இப்போது...

பத்து பக்கங்கள் படித்தாலே பெரிய சாதனையாகத் தோன்றுகிறது.

புத்தகம் மாறவில்லை.

நான்தான் மாறிவிட்டேன்.

வாழ்க்கை மாறிவிட்டது.

முப்பது நிமிடம் இடையூறு இல்லாமல் உட்கார்ந்து படிப்பதே இப்போது ஒரு கனவாகிவிட்டது.

புத்தகத்தைத் திறக்கிறேன்.

மனம் வேறு எங்கோ போய்விடுகிறது.

ஒரு மின்னஞ்சலுக்கு பதில் அனுப்பினேனா?

நாளைய மீட்டிங்கிற்கு தயாரா?

யார் மெசேஜ் அனுப்பியிருக்கிறார்கள்?

போன் சிணுங்குகிறது.

வாழ்க்கை அழைக்கிறது.

புத்தகம் மெதுவாக மூடப்படுகிறது.

சில நேரங்களில் யோசிப்பேன்.

வாழ்க்கையை உருவாக்கும் முயற்சியில்... வாழ்வதையே மறந்துவிட்டோமோ?

எனக்கு மிகவும் ஏக்கமாக இருப்பது 1980-கள் அல்ல.

அந்தக் காலத்தில் எனக்கே சொந்தமான நேரம்.

யாரும் அழைக்காத நேரம்.

யாரும் குறுக்கிடாத நேரம்.

எதையும் சாதிக்க வேண்டிய கட்டாயம் இல்லாத நேரம்.

நானும்...

ஒரு நாற்காலியும்...

ஒரு நல்ல புத்தகமும்...

அவ்வளவுதான்.

இன்று வயதாக வயதாக ஒரு விஷயம் புரிகிறது.

வாழ்க்கையின் மிகப் பெரிய செல்வம் பணம் அல்ல.

நமக்காக இருக்கும் நேரம்.

நம்மை நாமே மறந்து போகும் நேரம்.

கனவு காணும் நேரம்.

ஒரு புத்தகத்தின் வழியாக வேறொரு உலகத்தில் வாழும் நேரம்.

இப்போது The Pillars of the Earth புத்தகத்தின்

leave the titles of the bookls in english

Absolutely. I actually think leaving the book and movie titles in English makes the blog feel more authentic. Here's the revised Tamil version with all book titles and movie titles kept in English.

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என் மகள் எனக்கு ஒரு புத்தகம் வாங்கித் தரவில்லை... என் இளமையையே திருப்பிக் கொடுத்தாள்!

சில நாட்களுக்கு முன் என் மூத்த மகள் என்னிடம் ஒரு கேள்வி கேட்டாள்.

"அப்பா... 1980-களில் உங்களுக்கு போன் இல்லை, இணையம் இல்லை... அப்போ நேரத்தை எப்படி கழித்தீர்கள்?"

சிரித்துக் கொண்டே சொன்னேன்.

"ரெண்டு மூணு டிவி நிகழ்ச்சிகள் பார்ப்போம்... மாலை இருட்டும் வரை கிரிக்கெட், கால்பந்து விளையாடுவோம்... மரம் ஏறுவோம்... சைக்கிள் ஓட்டுவோம்... அதற்குப் பிறகு புத்தகங்கள் படிப்போம்."

உடனே அவள் என்னை நிறுத்திவிட்டாள்.

"ஒரு நிமிஷம்... நான் பிறந்ததிலிருந்து இன்று வரை உங்களை ஒரு நாள்கூட புத்தகம் படிப்பதை பார்த்ததே இல்லையே!"

அவள் சொன்னது நூற்றுக்கு நூறு உண்மை.

அந்த ஒரு வாக்கியம் என்னை சற்றே உலுக்கியது.

வேலை...

குடும்பம்...

பிள்ளைகள்...

தேவாலயப் பொறுப்புகள்...

மின்னஞ்சல்கள்...

மீட்டிங்கள்...

கால்பந்து...

இப்படி வாழ்க்கை ஓடிக் கொண்டிருந்தபோது...

நான் புத்தகம் படிப்பதையே விட்டுவிட்டேன் என்பதை நானே கவனிக்கவில்லை.

பிறகு நாங்கள் நான் மிகவும் விரும்பிப் படித்த எழுத்தாளர்களைப் பற்றி பேச ஆரம்பித்தோம்.

Sidney Sheldon...

Robert Ludlum...

Frederick Forsyth...

Alistair MacLean...

Jeffrey Archer...

ஆமாம்...

இப்போது ஒப்புக்கொள்கிறேன்...

யாருக்கும் தெரியாமல் Mills & Boon நாவல்களையும் ரசித்துப் படித்திருக்கிறேன்!

ஒவ்வொரு புத்தகமும் என்னை ஒரு புதிய உலகத்திற்கு அழைத்துச் சென்றது.

Where Eagles Dare என்னுள் சாகச உணர்வை விதைத்தது.

Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less தான் நான் கணக்கியல் துறைக்குள் வந்ததற்கான முதல் விதையாக இருந்திருக்கலாம்.

ஆனால்...

இவை எல்லாவற்றையும் விட என் மனதில் சிம்மாசனத்தில் அமர்ந்திருக்கும் ஒரு புத்தகம் இருக்கிறது.

Ken Follett எழுதிய The Pillars of the Earth.

அதுவும் நான் தேடிப் போய் எடுத்த புத்தகம் இல்லை.

ஒருநாள் நூலகத்தில் நான் விரும்பிய எல்லா புத்தகங்களும் ஏற்கனவே யாரோ எடுத்துச் சென்றிருந்தார்கள்.

நூலகர் சிரித்துக் கொண்டு அந்தப் பெரிய புத்தகத்தை எடுத்து,

"இது ஒரு மாதமாவது உன்னை பிஸியாக வைத்திருக்கும்..." என்றார்.

982 பக்கங்கள்.

அவருக்குத் தெரியாது...

நான் அதை நான்கு நாட்களில் முடித்துவிட்டேன்.

இந்தக் கதையை என் மகளிடம் சொன்னபோது,

அவள் என்னைப் பார்த்த பார்வை...

நான் இமயமலையை நடந்து கடந்துவிட்டேன் என்று சொன்னது போல இருந்தது.

"நான்கு நாளா??"

அவளால் நம்ப முடியவில்லை.

உண்மையைச் சொன்னால்...

இப்போது என்னாலேயும் நம்ப முடியவில்லை.

அந்தக் காலத்தில் நான் புத்தகங்களைப் படிக்கவில்லை.

அந்த புத்தகங்களுக்குள்ளேயே வாழ்ந்தேன்.

The Pillars of the Earth படித்த அனுபவம்...

நான் முதல் முறையாக How Green Was My Valley திரைப்படத்தை பார்த்தபோது ஏற்பட்ட உணர்வைப் போலவே இருந்தது.

அது ஒரு கதை அல்ல.

அது ஒரு வாழ்க்கை.

அந்த மனிதர்களோடு சிரித்தேன்...

அவர்களோடு அழுதேன்...

அவர்களின் வெற்றியில் மகிழ்ந்தேன்...

அவர்களின் தோல்வியில் மனம் உடைந்தது.

புத்தகம் முடிந்த பிறகும்...

திரைப்படம் முடிந்த பிறகும்...

நம் குடும்பத்தாரை விட்டுவிட்டு வந்ததுபோல் ஒரு வெறுமை.

அதுதான் அந்தக் காலத்தின் மந்திரம்.

கடந்த வாரம் என் பிறந்தநாள்.

என் மகளிடமிருந்து ஒரு பரிசு.

அதைத் திறந்தேன்.

உள்ளே இருந்தது...

The Pillars of the Earth.

புதிய iPhone இல்லை.

விலை உயர்ந்த கடிகாரம் இல்லை.

Gift Card இல்லை.

நாற்பது ஆண்டுகளுக்கு முன்பு என் மனதை கொள்ளை கொண்ட அதே புத்தகம்.

அந்த நிமிடத்தில் எனக்குப் புரிந்தது.

அவள் எனக்கு ஒரு புத்தகம் வாங்கிக் கொடுக்கவில்லை.

என் இளமையைத் திருப்பிக் கொடுத்தாள்.

அந்தப் புத்தகத்தை மீண்டும் படிக்க ஆரம்பித்திருக்கிறேன்.

இதில்தான் வாழ்க்கையின் சோகம் இருக்கிறது.

அப்போது...

982 பக்கங்கள்.

நான்கு நாட்கள்.

இப்போது...

பத்து பக்கங்கள் படித்தாலே பெரிய சாதனையாகத் தோன்றுகிறது.

புத்தகம் மாறவில்லை.

நான்தான் மாறிவிட்டேன்.

வாழ்க்கை மாறிவிட்டது.

முப்பது நிமிடம் இடையூறு இல்லாமல் உட்கார்ந்து படிப்பதே இப்போது ஒரு கனவாகிவிட்டது.

புத்தகத்தைத் திறக்கிறேன்.

மனம் வேறு எங்கோ போய்விடுகிறது.

ஒரு மின்னஞ்சலுக்கு பதில் அனுப்பினேனா?

நாளைய மீட்டிங்கிற்கு தயாரா?

யார் மெசேஜ் அனுப்பியிருக்கிறார்கள்?

போன் சிணுங்குகிறது.

வாழ்க்கை அழைக்கிறது.

புத்தகம் மெதுவாக மூடப்படுகிறது.

சில நேரங்களில் யோசிப்பேன்.

வாழ்க்கையை உருவாக்கும் முயற்சியில்... வாழ்வதையே மறந்துவிட்டோமோ?

எனக்கு மிகவும் ஏக்கமாக இருப்பது 1980-கள் அல்ல.

அந்தக் காலத்தில் எனக்கே சொந்தமான நேரம்.

யாரும் அழைக்காத நேரம்.

யாரும் குறுக்கிடாத நேரம்.

எதையும் சாதிக்க வேண்டிய கட்டாயம் இல்லாத நேரம்.

நானும்...

ஒரு நாற்காலியும்...

ஒரு நல்ல புத்தகமும்...

அவ்வளவுதான்.

இன்று வயதாக வயதாக ஒரு விஷயம் புரிகிறது.

வாழ்க்கையின் மிகப் பெரிய செல்வம் பணம் அல்ல.

நமக்காக இருக்கும் நேரம்.

நம்மை நாமே மறந்து போகும் நேரம்.

கனவு காணும் நேரம்.

ஒரு புத்தகத்தின் வழியாக வேறொரு உலகத்தில் வாழும் நேரம்.

இப்போது The Pillars of the Earth புத்தகத்தின் ஒவ்வொரு பக்கத்தையும் மெதுவாகப் புரட்டும்போது, ஒரு விஷயம் மட்டும் மனதில் தோன்றுகிறது.

நான் இனி அதை நான்கு நாட்களில் முடிக்க மாட்டேன்.

அது பரவாயில்லை.

ஏனெனில்...

ஒவ்வொரு பக்கமும்...

நான் ஒருகாலத்தில் இருந்த அந்த சிறுவனை மீண்டும் நினைவுபடுத்துகிறது.

நான் அதிகம் ஏங்குவது 1980-களை அல்ல.

எனக்காக மட்டுமே நேரம் இருந்த அந்தச் சிறுவனைத்தான்.

நன்றி, Erica.

ஒரு புத்தகத்திற்காக அல்ல...

ஒரு நினைவிற்காக...

என் இளமையை மீண்டும் ஒரு முறை என் கைகளில் வைத்ததற்காக...

முக்கியமாக...

"உனக்காகவும் கொஞ்சம் நேரம் ஒதுக்கிக்கொள், அப்பா..."

என்று சொல்லாமல் சொல்லியதற்காக.

The Boy I Miss the Most Is Me.

 The Best Birthday Gift Wasn't Just a Book… It Was My Childhood

The other day, my older daughter asked me a simple question.

"Dad, what did you guys do back in the '80s to kill time?"

I smiled.

"We watched a couple of TV programs, played cricket and football until the streetlights came on, climbed trees, rode bikes everywhere, swam and sang a lot.. and we read books."

She stopped me almost immediately.

"Wait... I've never seen you read a book. Ever."

She was right.

In all her years growing up, she has never seen me curl up with a novel. That realization bothered me more than I expected. Somewhere between building a career, raising a family, paying mortgages, replying to emails, church, football, and life itself, I had quietly stopped reading.

I hadn't even noticed.

Our conversation drifted to the books I loved.

Sidney Sheldon.

Robert Ludlum.

Frederick Forsyth.

Alistair MacLean.

Jeffrey Archer.

And yes... I might as well admit it now...

I secretly enjoyed reading a few Mills & Boon novels too.

Every one of those books took me somewhere.

Where Eagles Dare made me dream of daring adventures.

Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less probably planted the first seeds of my accounting career.

But towering above them all was one masterpiece.

Ken Follett's The Pillars of the Earth.

Ironically, I never intended to read it.

I had gone to the library looking for something else. Every book on my list had already been checked out.

The librarian smiled, reached behind him, and handed me this enormous novel.

"This should keep you busy for a month or two."

Nine hundred and eighty-two pages.

Little did he know...

I finished it in four days.

When I told her that story, she looked at me as though I had claimed to run across India barefoot.

"Four days??"

She couldn't believe it.

Truth be told...

Neither can I.

Back then, I didn't just read books.

I lived inside them.

Reading The Pillars of the Earth gave me the same feeling I had when I first watched How Green Was My Valley.

You weren't simply watching or reading.

You became part of their world.

You laughed with them.

You suffered with them.

When the final page was turned or the credits rolled, you felt as though you had left behind friends you had known all your life.

That was the magic of those days.

Then came my birthday last week.

Among the gifts was a neatly wrapped package from her.

Inside was...

The Pillars of the Earth.

Not the newest bestseller.

Not another gadget.

Not a watch.

Not a gift card.

The very book that had captured my imagination forty years ago.

I don't think she realizes what she actually gave me.

She didn't buy me a book.

She bought me a memory.

She reminded me of a young boy who could disappear for hours without anyone wondering where he was—because everyone knew he was probably buried inside a novel somewhere.

I've started reading it again.

And here's the heartbreaking part.

Back then...

982 pages in four days.

Today...

I'm celebrating if I manage ten pages.

Not because the book has changed.

I have.

Life has.

Finding thirty uninterrupted minutes has become almost impossible. Even when I sit down with the book, my mind wanders.

Did I reply to that email?

Did I forget that meeting?

What about tomorrow's deadline?

Who texted me?

The phone buzzes.

Life calls.

The book quietly closes.

Sometimes I wonder if we've become too busy making a living that we've forgotten how to simply live.

More than anything, I miss something we rarely talk about anymore.

I miss having "my time."

Time that belonged to nobody else.

Time that wasn't scheduled.

Time that wasn't interrupted.

Time that didn't have to be productive.

Just me...

...a comfortable chair...

...and a great book.

The older I get, the more I realize that the greatest luxury in life isn't money.

It's uninterrupted time.

Time to lose yourself.

Time to dream.

Time to travel without leaving your chair.

Time to become sixteen years old again for just a little while.

As I slowly turn the pages of The Pillars of the Earth once again, I know I'll never finish it in four days.

And maybe that's okay.

Because every page reminds me of who I used to be.

And every chapter reminds me of something I miss more than the '80s themselves.

I miss the boy who had all the time in the world.

Thank you, my girl.

For the book.

For the memories.

And for reminding your old dad that perhaps it's time to find his time once again.

"Doctor says it's SWS... Thank God they found a cure!"

 

Surviving Soccer Withdrawal—A Serious Medical Condition, According to Me!

The FIFA World Cup is over.

The stadiums are empty. The flags have been folded. VAR has finally stopped disturbing my blood pressure. My alarm no longer rings at strange hours, and I no longer need to pretend that watching two matches during office hours is “international market research.”

Ladies and gentlemen, I am officially suffering from Soccer Withdrawal Syndrome—SWS.

There is no known medicine.

There is no vaccine.

The only proven cure is another major tournament.

Unfortunately, FIFA has not agreed to conduct a World Cup every six months just for my emotional well-being.

I have followed football since the 1982 World Cup.

I was born in India and now live in the United States, but football has followed me everywhere. Some people remember their lives through birthdays, graduations and anniversaries.

I remember mine through World Cups.

“That happened after Mexico 1986 but before Italia 1990.”

“We bought that house sometime between France 1998 and South Korea–Japan 2002.”

“Was that before or after Zidane headbutted Materazzi?”

This is how a proper football historian maintains his records.

In fact, Germany played Mexico on my wedding night.

Most newly married men spend their wedding night looking lovingly into their bride’s eyes.

I was probably wondering whether Germany should press higher or whether Mexico could score on the counterattack.

Fortunately, my marriage survived.

My wife learned very early that she had not married just one man. She had married a man, eleven football players, several substitutes, one nervous coach and a referee whom I would occasionally accuse of ruining our evening.

Some people remember their wedding through flowers, music and photographs.

I remember mine through Germany versus Mexico.

That is when you know football is not merely an interest.

It is a family member—an uninvited one that arrives every four years, takes control of the television and refuses to leave until the final whistle.

The 1982 World Cup introduced me to Paolo Rossi, Brazil’s magical football and the painful truth that the best-looking team does not always win.

Since then, every four years, I have reorganized my sleeping schedule, work calendar, family responsibilities—and apparently even my wedding night—around football.

The Symptoms Have Already Started

My family has begun noticing the warning signs.

“Why are you watching highlights from the 1986 World Cup?”

“Research.”

“Why are you watching Ecuador against Tunisia from twenty years ago?”

“Tactical research.”

“Why are you checking your passport?”

“Routine inspection.”

“Why is Google Maps showing train routes between Madrid, Lisbon and Casablanca?”

At that point, I quietly close the laptop.

Soccer withdrawal makes a man do strange things.

Yesterday, I opened the FIFA website hoping there might be another knockout round hidden somewhere.

Perhaps a secret quarterfinal.

Maybe a replay.

At least one controversial VAR hearing.

Nothing.

I even began rewatching old matches while pretending I did not know the result.

“Maybe England will defend properly this time.”

They did not.

“Maybe Brazil will not concede that goal.”

They did.

“Maybe Roberto Baggio will score the penalty.”

I had to turn the television off. Some wounds should not be reopened without adult supervision.

From Match Predictions to Household Confusion

During the World Cup, every day had a purpose.

Wake up.

Check the schedule.

Make predictions.

Annoy friends.

Watch the match.

Criticize the coach.

Praise the same coach twenty minutes later.

Blame VAR.

Post on Facebook.

Repeat.

Now I wake up and stare at the television like a striker waiting for a through ball that never arrives.

I tried watching regular television, but nobody was pressing high, tracking back or making an overlapping run.

I watched a cooking program and started analyzing the chef’s formation.

“Too many people in midfield. The onions need more width.”

During a family discussion, someone said, “Let us not make this an argument.”

I immediately replied, “Let VAR decide.”

This condition is getting serious.

Waiting for the Sons of Legends

Soccer withdrawal also forces us to think far into the future.

I am already wondering which country Cristiano Ronaldo Jr. will eventually represent at the senior level. He has several international connections, has represented Portugal at youth level and was born in California.

Naturally, I am hoping he chooses the United States.

Come on, young man! You were born here. We have a jersey ready for you. We will even allow you to shout “Siuuuuu!” after every goal.

Imagine Ronaldo Jr. leading the USMNT at a future World Cup.

The American commentators would spend ninety minutes explaining that his father was also “a pretty good player.”

Portugal would not be amused, but America would suddenly discover another historical reason why soccer was always destined to become our national sport.

Then we have Luca Zidane, son of the great Zinedine Zidane. He represented France at youth level before choosing Algeria for senior international football.

In my imaginary football transfer window, I would like him to move from Algeria back to France—not because it is realistically possible, but because football needs a little more drama.

Imagine the headlines:

ZIDANE RETURNS TO FRANCE!

French fans celebrating.

Algerian fans protesting.

Television experts shouting.

FIFA lawyers reading rule books.

And an Indian-born American sitting in California adding spicy masala to the entire controversy.

It would be France versus Algeria with Zidane’s name in the middle.

That is not merely football.

That is a full Bollywood production—with extra time, penalties and an interval.

Unfortunately, international football does not operate like club football. You cannot simply wake up on Monday, call your agent and say:

“I am tired of Algeria. Please find me a loan move to France.”

But during soccer withdrawal, facts should not be allowed to interfere too much with imagination.

Euro 2028: The Next Treatment Appointment

The next major appointment on my football medical calendar is Euro 2028.

Normal people may think it is too early to plan.

Football supporters understand that it is already dangerously late.

I have not purchased tickets.

I have not booked flights.

I have not reserved hotels.

But mentally, I have already attended several matches.

People ask:

“Why are you planning so early?”

Because football tickets disappear faster than defenders trying to catch Kylian Mbappé.

By the time everyone else starts planning, I intend to know the stadiums, train stations, hotel zones and nearby Indian restaurants.

A football trip without proper food planning is simply bad management.

Pep Guardiola would never enter a tournament without controlling the midfield.

I will not enter Europe without locating the nearest biryani.

World Cup 2030: My Itinerary Has Already Begun

After Euro 2028 comes the 2030 World Cup in Spain, Portugal and Morocco.

Four years may sound like a long time.

It is not.

I have already started mentally planning the itinerary.

Madrid.

Barcelona.

Lisbon.

Porto.

Casablanca.

Perhaps one match here, another match there and a third match somewhere that requires two trains, one flight and an argument with my luggage.

My wife may think I am casually browsing Google Maps.

I am actually conducting high-level logistical planning.

Some men plan for retirement.

I plan knockout-stage transportation.

The biggest challenge will not be getting tickets.

It will be explaining why traveling through three countries to watch eleven men chase a ball is a necessary spiritual and cultural experience.

Saudi Arabia 2034—Lord Willing!

Then comes Saudi Arabia 2034.

If the Good Lord grants me health, wisdom, strength and enough common sense to save the necessary money, I would love to spend the entire month there watching as many matches as possible.

Of course, wisdom may tell me to stay home.

That is why I am specifically praying for the correct kind of wisdom.

I want the wisdom that says:

“Book the flight.”

“Buy the ticket.”

“Attend the 3:00 p.m. match.”

“Take a short break.”

“Then attend the 9:00 p.m. match.”

I want to wake up every morning, check the schedule and ask only one important question:

“How many matches can I attend today without requiring hospitalization?”

By 2034, I may not be able to run toward the stadium.

But I can still walk purposefully.

And when necessary, there will hopefully be golf carts.

Football Taught Me Geography

Football has taught me geography better than school ever did.

I can locate Montevideo faster than Montana.

I know where Tbilisi is.

I know that Cape Verde is not merely the name of a luxury resort.

I know the flags of countries whose capitals I cannot pronounce.

Football has introduced me to cultures, songs, foods and people I might otherwise never have encountered.

For ninety minutes, strangers become family.

We sing together.

We celebrate together.

We complain about the referee together.

Then one team scores, and half the family stops speaking to the other half.

That is football unity.

My Temporary Survival Plan

Until Euro 2028 arrives, I will survive on club football, Champions League nights, Premier League weekends, La Liga drama, MLS surprises and transfer rumors created by people sitting in their bedrooms.

I will watch old highlights.

I will argue about Messi and Ronaldo.

I will continue examining Ronaldo Jr.’s international future as though the family is waiting for my recommendation.

I will dream of Zidane family drama involving France and Algeria.

I will prepare imaginary World Cup itineraries.

And occasionally, I will pretend to focus on work.

Soccer withdrawal is painful, but it is also proof that the tournament gave us something special.

The goals fade.

The results become statistics.

But the memories remain.

The stadium noise.

The national anthems.

The strangers hugging after a goal.

The underdog refusing to surrender.

The giant collapsing.

The goalkeeper becoming a hero.

The striker becoming a national villain because he missed a penalty by two inches.

And all of us promising never to watch football again—before returning for the very next match.

So yes, I am suffering from Soccer Withdrawal Syndrome.

But I will survive.

See you at Euro 2028.

See you in Spain, Portugal and Morocco in 2030.

And, Lord willing, save me a seat in Saudi Arabia in 2034.

Until then, I will be watching highlights, studying train routes and waiting to see which country gets the next Ronaldo.

Because football is not merely a sport.

For some of us, it is the calendar by which we live.

P.S. My doctors assure me that Euro 2028, the 2030 World Cup in Spain, Portugal and Morocco, and the 2034 World Cup in Saudi Arabia are all excellent long-term medications for Soccer Withdrawal Syndrome.

However, I sought a second opinion from my family practitioner.

After a thorough examination, he smiled and said,

"In the meantime, a successful LA Rams season should significantly reduce your symptoms."

I asked if there were any side effects.

He replied,

"Only excessive shouting at the television, spontaneous high-fives with strangers, and an uncontrollable urge to say, 'This is our year!' every Sunday."

I'll take the prescription.

Go Rams! 🐏