Home

Home - the very word conjures a sense of belonging, and permanence. Yet - our home keeps changing throughout our span on... Well... Our home in the larger sense - planet Earth.

Does Chennai become my 'home'town simply by virtue of the fact that I was born there? Or is it Delhi - where I spent all my formative years? Or is it the US - where I have earned my living the last decade or so ( probably not, considering the number of times I have to fill in forms where I am referred to as an 'alien'). 

But then I thought about the times when I have "felt" at home, far away from home.

Throughout life, we meet all kinds of people - some that leave a sour taste in your mouth, some that you never want to see again, a lot of people that give you happiness and pleasant memories and those special some, that transcend the artificial walls that we build around ourselves and touch your heart. People who open themselves to you and open their hearts to you, for you to establish your own little corner there. 

I walked in wearily through the doors of the Human resources department at my university. I was in a foreign land, It was a hot Texas summer day, I had walked for almost an hour trying to find the Damn place; and behind the desk was this grandmotherly lady that I approached. She looked up and there was something about her kindly smile and friendly voice that immediately brightened me up and made my tiredness wither away. From those first few mins of conversation, she became a friend for life, someone who insisted on checking on me every now and then to make sure I didn't lose my way, or as she referred to it "keeping me straight". Anytime I felt like it or if I felt like I needed some reassurance about myself, I would head on over to the HR building and just have her natural warmth envelope me would provide much needed comfort and solace. She would have seen many a foreign grad student walk through her doors and yet I was privileged to have been granted a special place in her heart.

A couple of years later, It was the summer season, and I was working as an instructor at an engineering summer camp. It provided a diversion from the dreariness of the long vacation as well as much needed supplemental income for a poor grad student. It was towards the end of one of the weeks of the camp and the staff were catching a breather for a bit. I found myself seated next to this lady, who I knew handled some of the paperwork and logistics for the camps. I had briefly interacted with her the previous year and she was never really present around the camp events itself. So it was sheer Providence that she was there and seated next to me that evening. We exchanged pleasantries, started chatting and before I knew it, the conversation had moved on to topics as disparate as faith, my formative years, my family.... It flowed so smoothly. And then, at the concluding dinner, I was seated opposite her husband. If my bond with her happened over a few minutes, this probably just took a few seconds. Our shared interest in aviation meant that our bonding was instantaneous. From there, that couple would become my adopted parents in the US - praying for me, caring for me, providing me with much needed strength and support. 

I ll always remember with gratitude, my graduation day - dressed in my regalia, thinking I ll be all alone, only to see them there - standing in for my parents along with the lady from HR. I will forever cherish that love and affection - so pure, so divine, so selfless. I had nothing to give them, and yet, they gave me all the love possible, without expecting anything in return. That day, I felt truly at home. And the day before I left Texas to move to Michigan, I spent a delightful evening with them and it reminded me of the time my parents sent me off to the US. It told me that Water could be as thick as blood, if the heart was large enough. 

My first real 'gang' if you will, were this bunch of guys I met playing parking lot cricket at university. I wasn't from the same place, I didn't speak the same language, and we didn't live in the same apartment, and yet - these people embraced me wholeheartedly. We shared so much - food (donuts at 4 AM) , beer, cricket, frustrations, challenges and above all, happiness. The cheer they gave when I told them I got a job, the last evening spent with them, the send off at the airport that made me feel I was leaving 'home'.... 

Over the years since I have moved for work, life has thrown me it's full gamut of challenges - Becoming a working professional, having to start afresh in a new place, deal with the vagaries of professional and personal life - all of which has felt bewildering and sometimes frustratingly confusing, along with the bloody winter that seems to get colder with each year ... And yet - this place has grown to feel like home, only because of friends or as a friend put it to me - friends that become family. The knowledge that good or bad, you have people you can turn to, who will rejoice in your happiness and commiserate in your sadness. Who at times may have differences with you,  but by heaven will be there for you. Through thick and thin. And that's quite enough. 

All this has made me reevaluate what home means. I have realized that the term is more metaphysical than merely physical. A physical brick and mortar 'home' is as ephemeral as this body that the soul inhabits. But the real 'home' is the place where you are essentially yourself, in comfort, at peace and bliss, even if it's momentary. And that doesn't require any of the superficial, man-made qualifications ; you may be from different cultures, call God by different names (or even call God names :-p), you might speak a different language, dress differently, eat differently, think differently, you may know them for years or might have only met them for an hour at an airport or talked to them for a few mins in the galley of an aircraft ... Yet - you ll find a strange kinship, affection and bliss in their embrace and, stripped of all your pretenses, feel completely at home with them. 

That's because 'Home' is where the heart is! 😃 

The love that defines me …..

Love - it's an emotion all of us (or at least most of us) experience in our lives. And while it can happen in different ways at different times, through different motives (Yes- indeed), there'll be that one love that will leave an indelible mark on you.... Or better still, stay with you in some way as long as you have a beating heart. 

The love I try to relate here is the kind of love that's beyond being merely a matter of the heart; a love that’s visceral, penetrating every sinew, every molecule of your being and infusing you with a sense of pure joy and purpose. 

Cupid first struck me when I was a 6 year old boy - as a kaleidoscope of color - a lush green field, colorful outfits and a guy running in with yellow cream on his face and releasing a white ball that was then struck around by guys holding a bat. The colors on the outfits changed everyday - yellow with a green stripe, Grey with a maroon stripe and of course - light blue with a yellow stripe - which held a special place for me because that was supposedly 'my' team - scrawled across the front of that jersey in beautiful cursive writing, the name of my country - India.

Much like how one would dress up for a date (not that I knew much about it at that age), I would eagerly wear a blue t shirt and make sure my canvas shoes were polished white and canter off to try and wield the willow much like the guys I saw on the telly. And gradually, even without realizing, the arrow was well and truly lodged in my heart.

Adolescence - that age of fluttering hearts and raging hormones, and an innocent belief in miracles, brought with it an increased passion for the game, daily battles in the neighborhood parks and roads, tales of valor in winning games, and along with it, dreams... The sort of dreams you have as an adolescent - huge crowds cheering you in the arena while you play, that girl in your neighborhood you secretly harbor a crush on a part of that audience, looking at you with adoring eyes as you get down on one knee........ and play that perfect cover drive; when really it was only a couple of elders interrupting their evening walk around the neighborhood to watch for a few mins, comprising the audience.

And then just like that, like most first puppy love affairs, it all came crashing down one fine day.... Going down in a heap along with me, in a pool of blood streaming down my face from a head injury thanks to a cricket ball in a school game. I remember mumbling to the coach carrying me to the clinic -"sir.... Please tell my dad not to pull me out of the game because of this..." before passing out. But the real villain wouldn't be that injury, it would be that cruel phenomenon called reality.... The realization that a stable future for a middle class boy lay in academics; wielding a pen, not the bat. Just like in the movies, I would walk away one day, not knowing I wouldn't return for a long time. The gates of the princess' palace were well and truly shut for the stable boy. 

Years would pass.... Through high school and college, with impromptu games in varied settings - the front yard of a house, the terrace, a city field, by the beach... Idyllic, but hardly ideal; Friendly, not frenzied; hotly contested, but not quite competitive. 

Little did I know when I boarded a flight to the US, that those dormant feelings would actually get a new lease of life in a place where I least expected them to. The sight of a few students from the Indian subcontinent playing cricket late one night in a parking lot at the University of Texas at Arlington actually felt like a warm embrace from the homeland to an uprooted soul in an alien country. Soon enough, late night parking lot cricket became a way of life for us homesick grad students. And what started as recreation took on a larger role - parking lot cricket forged tons of friendships, provided an outlet from the rigors of academics, served to ease personal pain, and.... renewed the flames of a long lost love in my heart once more. 

It started with a friend asking me if I would be interested in playing in a tournament in Dallas. I immediately said ok. It offered the chance to travel outside my university town with no public transportation, and maybe get some good Indian food. Cometh the day and we reached the venue..... And I stood there - watching the dreams of my childhood coming back in a rush.... A lush green field, a pitch and..... An actual audience J. And suddenly I knew again what it was to be in a moment of pure, unadulterated love... Holding the taped tennis ball in my hand, running in with my heart pounding, gripping the bat, watching the ball wide-eyed... The balls I bowled that day probably travelled a lot farther than the ones I actually hit while batting (as is usually the case :)) but I didn't care. I was Craig McDermott and Allan Donald (minus the war paint), Sachin Tendulkar and Ricky Ponting, Jonty Rhodes.... all at once. 

One thing led to another and soon I found myself playing league cricket. From those early times in Texas to a full flowering in Michigan - Smelling the leather of the shiny red cherry, hearing the fulsome sound of willow impacting ball, the fresh fragrance of the green grass as you slid across it.... finally consummating a love that burst forth after having been bottled up for a decade. 

Sure - when I look at some players that are so obviously better than I am, who got better by playing repeatedly at a higher level up from school days, I can't help but wonder wistfully - what if?..... Yet I find myself more content now, the earlier feelings of anger and frustration at having missed out on those years now morphed into a quiet satisfaction. I have probably gotten way more from this great game than I ever hoped for during those years in the wilderness. 

As I look back on the evolution of my feelings toward the game, it's pretty much followed the pattern you imagine a person's love life would take - falling in love, exhilaration at finding reciprocation, heartbreak, learning to love again, falling and getting up again, and finally finding a sweet spot that you realize was the place you were destined to end up at.

A plethora of visuals stream past as I reminisce - smiles, sweat, blood and tears - in equal measure. But yet - there is something about these feelings that go beyond the pain of defeat or the joy of victory. Cricket gave me a sense of identity and self worth at times of strife in my academic, personal or professional life. It gave me friends when I thought I was all alone. It taught me to value myself, to love myself. Knowing that I was valuable to a team and that victory or defeat rested equally on my shoulders as any of my other team mates made me feel responsible and look forward to every weekend.

It taught me the true import of Rudyard Kipling’s words – “If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster, and treat those two imposters just the same; Yours is the earth and everything that’s in it, and which is more – you’ll be a man, my son!”

“One of the greatest joys in cricket is the people you meet” – said the great Richie Benaud. Being in cricket has enabled me to meet and greet some of the greats of the game, legends that I grew up watching on television and idolizing, and given me a chance to speak to them, see them in the flesh, and shake their hand. It has brought me in touch with scores of people – many of whom are now friends for life.

When people ask me what is it that I see in this game, I am at a loss as to how to explain. All I can do is shrug and say – “you’ll never understand”.  They wonder how do I find the motivation and energy to play day in and day out (and pay to do it at that!). I just point to the tons of people who do it alongside me. They finally give up and say – “You re mad”.  

All I can say is – “I am just a guy hopelessly in love – truly, madly, deeply !”

 

The Hero Pakistan needed - An ode to Misbah ul Haq from across the border

Misbah ul Haq - the name became familiar to every Indian on one evening in 2007. He had rescued Pakistan from a difficult position against arch rivals India in the inaugural world T20 final - after losses in each 50 over world cup game between the two foes stretching back 15 years to 1992, here was a man who looked like he'd finally put one past the enemy... Until he played THAT shot.... Scooping a length ball from Joginder Sharma into the rather nervous hands of Sreesanth at fine leg. It would launch the celebrated captaincy of M.S.Dhoni; while looking at the distraught Misbah hunched down and leaning on his bat, hence forth to be taunted by the cruel chant "Mis-bah-4 runs", one would hardly believe he would play again for his impertinence, let alone lead his side one day. 

And yet, the man who made his national debut at the rather ripe old age of 27 would do just that. From being the villain of the World T20 final, he would resurrect himself as a hero - the knight in shining armor - to redeem and restore Pakistan cricket from the actions of the real villains - the 3 rogues who sold their country under the lure of money. Pakistan cricket was already in infamy - from being the original hotbed of match fixing, to being perennially plagued by internine strife,to controversy, to star tantrums to the terrorist attack on the Sri Lankan cricket team, things had come to such a state that no team would tour the country. And just when Pakistanis had been robbed of the chance to view their men in action in the flesh, just when it seemed like things couldn't get any worse, came the moment when Mohammad Amir overstepped by a foot at the hallowed Mecca of cricket - Lord's. A tape of a bookie vulgarly laying out currency notes on the table in his hotel room followed and Pakistanis were on the verge of losing faith in their team for ever. 

That's when the second and glorious act of our hero's career commenced. Amidst the king-sized egos and self-anointedstars, in the post-Inzamam era, with the retirement of Shahid Afridi (from test cricket) the selectors chose the unassuming man in the room - Misbah ul Haq - to be Pakistan’s Test Captain. This cool, calm, soft spoken man was the one entrusted with the onerous task of shepherding that talented yet rowdy bunch back from the wilderness. His task wouldn’t be easy. Admiration or appreciation wouldn’t be instantaneous. Despite leading Pakistan to a drawn series against South Africa and a series win against New Zealand in New Zealand, Misbah would yet again be vilified for the semi loss to India in the 2011 world cup for having batted too slowly. Named ODI captain as well the following year, he would work gradually towards building back the team and earning the affection of the fans. Robbed of their home venues, Pakistan under Misbah would make the UAE their fortress – achieving series wins against Sri Lanka, England and Australia. A hallmark of Misbah’s captaincy was the way in which he utilized whatever resources were available to him and ploughed on. Early in his tenure, he would lose the services of Shoaib Akhtar and later, when it seemed like Saeed Ajmal was at his peak, he would be cast aside due to a suspect action thereby robbing Pakistan and Misbah of their frontline spinner. Yet – Misbah would take under his wing the prodigious talents of Wahab Riaz, Mohammad Irfan, Yasir Shah and Azhar Ali to name a few, and seek to mould a fighting unit. It would seem that this was the perfect practical application of Misbah’s MBA degree – efficient and stoic use of all the resources at his disposal.

His tenacity coupled with his own anchoring of the team through performance would lead him to become the most successful Pakistan test captain, surpassing even a certain other leader with the last names ‘Khan Niazi’. Misbah might not have had the flamboyance of the ‘cornered tiger’-rousing Imran but in his own understated way, inspired similar awe and commanded authority from his unit. The level headed, serene demeanor serving as the perfect counterfoil to the brashness personified by an Ahmed Shehzad or an Umar Akmal. Colleagues current and past would run their mouths on Television, each with an opinion on how they would have done his job better and yet rarely did Misbah stoop to retort. Not for him the headline grabbing soundbites. Bouquets and brickbats off the field were dealt with as straight a bat as bouncers on it. 

Yet in the shorter format of the game, his captaincy would continue to be clouded by losses in the 2014 Asia Cup, to Australia at their adopted ‘home’ and the forgettable performance of the green team in the 2015 World Cup, with Misbah choosing to retire from ODIs after the event. Albeit on the test front, Pakistan would score series victories over England in the UAE and Sri Lanka in Sri Lanka, thereby boosting Pakistan up the ladder in the Test rankings.

Misbah was probably the best man to handle the sensitive task of reintegrating the tainted Mohammad Amir back into the test squad. 6 years after being banned, Amir would again appear in his country’s whites at the very venue of his act of infamy, a turn of events not wholly approved of by certain members of the Pakistan Team. And yet Misbah would keep the focus on the game. His century at Lords at the age of 42would make him the oldest captain to score a test century, en-route to a memorable win for Pakistan, who would eventually square the series 2-2 and go on top of the world rankings for the first time. His celebration of his century in the first test by doing a series of push-ups was a rare display of showmanship from the otherwise sedate statesman.

The first signs of fatigue would show at the end of a difficult tour of Australia, where Pakistan were outplayed by the Aussies. The normally reticent Misbah conceded that he was seriously considering his future. And yet, he would decide to stay on till the tour of the West Indies the following summer. 

And so here we are – with Misbah leading his country for one last time. Irrespective of the result, he will retire as the most successful Pakistani Test Cricket captain, surpassing even the great Imran Khan and Javed Miandad. If in Younis Khan, Pakistan will lose one of their all time great batsmen, in Misbah, they will lose a leader, an elder brother figure who kept the flock together and mentored a whole generation of cricketers who will do well to imbibe lessons of attitude and fitness from the master. Misbah’s crowning glory lies not just in taking Pakistan to the top of the test rankings, but in also choosing the time of his departure, a privilege not often accorded to other Pakistani cricketers. And yet – the man will probably not show much emotion or make too much ado about his impending retirement. He will soldier on as he has always done, till the end. The curtain will fall and the protagonist will bow out.

We Indians have our own heroes – none more so than M.S. Dhoni. His own cool and calm exterior no matter what the situation, his folksy, cheeky responses to tricky questions from the press and his confident leadership winning us the biggest prizes in all formats is the stuff of legends, worthy of worship. Yet in Misbah, I saw a man who personified the old fashioned charm of what it was to be a test cricketer and a captain. A leader of men, who exuded leadership without the need to be assertive or authoritative. A captain who was never bigger than the game. He never went looking for the role; leadership sought him out.

In the line of mercurial Pakistani captains, Misbah was an exception, almost too sedate for the hot seat. While his more illustrious predecessor from Mianwali went out in a blaze of flashbulbs holding aloft the World Cup trophy, Misbah will trudge off in that thoughtful manner of his, into the sunset. Because with him, it was never about Misbah; it was always about Pakistan. Because he was just what Pakistan required back in 2010. He was the hero Pakistan needed.  

Avinash Raghu

Me, My dad, and Tetris

Music …. There’s something about it that tugs at the heart strings and jogs the cerebral cortex unlike anything else. Memories, buried deep underneath layers laid upon by time passed, burst forth all of a sudden – euphoria, pain, loss, gain …. Upon hearing a particular song or tune. A moment of triumph, crushing loss, the first time you fell in love, heartbreak – a shuffling of emotions … all due to the shuffle in your playlist, really.

One of my fondest recollections from childhood is hours spent playing video games, especially the music accompanying them. Not today’s electronic overload, but the simple 8 bit chip tunes (to indiscernible Japanese characters on screen). The pulse racing theme of Contra, that made you feel like Rambo, to the gentle albeit peppy tune of Super Mario, to the thumping beats of Street Fighter, making you (almost) believe you could bash up the class bully the next day. So I was on YouTube, listening to the tones of my childhood, when I chanced upon the theme of the game ‘Tetris’, as it appeared on the handheld console Gameboy from Nintendo. As the digitized version of the Russian folk song ‘Korobeiniki’ rang out, wafting along with the notes came a plethora of emotions that swept me up and took me back in time. A time when life was simpler, a time when I was a child, pure, innocent, thoroughly adoring of my mom and, patently terrified of my dad. My dad, Appa - The strapping young man with flowing hair falling down his forehead; a thick, bushy moustache and a fearsome temper. The guy whose return from office in the evening would fill me with a sense of foreboding. I was mostly a good kid growing up, not getting into much trouble, and yet even the remote thought that I had committed an infraction would make me shudder and beg mom – “amma, don’t tell appa, please!”  And yet – the memory of Dad that came to me at that moment wasn’t of the guy with the imposing manner that I was scared of. It was of a version of my dad that I didn’t experience much during my formative years, a version that I desperately wished had been there more often during my adolescence, a version that would manifest itself years later – on a wonderful evening in an alien setting (ironically, a place where I would be referred to as an ‘alien’, but more on that later) – my dad, the friend.

I waited with bated breath as my dad opened his suitcase. Appa had just returned from a business trip to America! What gifts had he brought for me? Out came a white remote controlled car (Yay!), a set of plastic cars (No wonder, upon me joining the automotive industry years later as a young man out of grad school, one of my aunts remarked, “Oh … You were always meant to end up there !”) and a brick like grey colored box with pink buttons on it with a little slot in the back for a cassette. I quickly lost interest in the box, and spent the next few days happily terrorizing my mom by operating the RC car all around the kitchen floor. Soon enough though, along with the battery, my interest in the car ran out as well. My desperate curiosity piqued, I turned my attention to the grey box. I had seen my dad fiddle around with it early in the morning with some funny yet catchy sounding music emanating from it. Now, I noticed the words Nintendo GameBoy on it. Game? Now that sounds like fun! Why didn’t I look into this before? My dad saw me fiddling around with it and excitedly came over and showed me how to play “Tetris” – a game in which blocks of varying shapes fall from top and your job is to arrange them in a way in which ‘rows’ get formed and therefore vanish, reducing the height of the stack of blocks, thereby freeing up space on the screen and increasing your points. The goal of the game was to make sure the screen didn’t fill up, thereby ending the game. With every 10 lines cleared, the level would increase and so would the speed at which the blocks came down. Simple enough. At first it seemed rather tough and not so exciting but gradually as I got better at it, the game started to extend a certain obsessive grip around me. The driving force was two pronged – a desire to better my own score and also to beat appa’s score. Gradually, from dreading appa’s return home from office, I started looking forward to him coming home, setting down his office bag and beaming at me saying” Alright Abbu (my dad’s nickname for me), what score did you reach today? Gimme that console now!” We were friends in competition, spurring each other on to outdo the other, and yet secretly wishing that we would win. And this went on for days and months on end, father and son competing at a game of Tetris. Till time passed, we both grew out of it, life happened and we gradually fell back into the more formal nature of our father-son relationship. And my dad remained just that – appa. The guy who enquired about my studies, my plans for life and supported me through it all, as a father would his son. Not the friend who would put his arm around my shoulder to check on how I was dealing with the vagaries of growing up, the troubles of adolescence, the worries of young adulthood. Sure – over the years, there were the odd moments that transcended our formal relationship; Like the day I got home from successfully clearing my first job interview, when I put out my hand to shake his hand(yes – that’s how formal we are) and he actually gave me a hug or when just before I walked into the airport terminal before flying off to the states for the first ever time, when he caught up with me just out of earshot of mom and said “You re on your own now, son. Just live your life! (Wink-wink).” I suppose he did have it in him, he just didn’t know how to express it often enough.

It went on that way, through high school, college, grad school and ultimately till I became my own man (so to speak) and settled down into a routine 9-5 life of my own in the US. While my family as a whole visited me on 2-3 occasions, just once, he came over to the US on yet another official visit and we got to spend a whole weekend together exploring Chicago. Just father and son, talking about random things, walking along the waterways through downtown Chicago, and bonding over a glass of …. Let’s just say – good stuff ;)  And having downed it with the panache of a seasoned campaigner, my dad leaned over conspiratorially and said “Abbu … don’t tell amma !” J  I looked at him - the flowing hair long since thinned and receded, the moustache grey and the demeanor, while still fiery at times, largely mellowed with age, and just smiled and shook my head. The child had become a man and the man had become almost child-like. And yet – it was those childhood days all over again. Here was the friend I had longed for  and missed for years. I wished for time to stand still then and there.

In today’s hectic life, with us being on opposite sides of the world, I and appa hardly get to interact. There is no real excuse for it; that’s just how we ve always been. Dad has never been a man of many words. It’s usually mom that monopolizes my interaction with home, relating every single little happening of the day, just to make me feel like I am still there with them and not missing out. But every now and then, Appa does go beyond the cursory “Hope you re doing ok. I ll give the phone to amma”, enquiring about my cricket matches or some post I put on Facebook, or sharing pics of a rocket launch that he captured from the beach in Chennai. But typically after a couple of minutes, we both relapse into awkward silence, not quite knowing what else to say. I guess that’s just how we will always be.

When I look back over all those years, I can perceive the influence my dad has had on me in so many ways – some tangible, many intangible. From the walking style to his ‘classy’ bearing to being there selflessly for the family, putting our needs and happiness over his, and equanimity in joy and sorrow, struggle and success; I would say – if I could be one-hundredth the man my dad is, I would consider myself accomplished.

 Inspiration, guide, living example …. He’s been everything a good father can be. The everyday life I lead today is testament to that. And yet – whenever I listen to the GameBoy version of the ‘Tetris’ theme, I will always remember, with a certain wistfulness, that version of my dad that was, is and will always be my favorite – Appa, my friend. 

TopGun

A sense of Purpose ....

I was walking through the exhibits, mesmerized, much like the impressionable sixth graders surrounding me, when I came across this old man standing next to a collection of photographs, pointing at one every now and then with a long stick, relating his story to the kids. Intrigued, I stopped to listen, surrounded by the school kids I had accompanied on a field trip to the 'Frontiers of Flight' Museum in Dallas, Texas. The school students were here as part of an Engineering Summer Camp organized at The University of Texas at Arlington, where I, as a Grad Student, worked during my summer break.

The man pointed to a photo showing a bunch of young men, with  bright smiles on their boyish faces in front of a P-47 Thunderbolt fighter aircraft. They were the members of the 405th fighter group. The photograph was taken just before they were all due to take off on a bomber-escort mission across the English Channel on June 6, 1944. It was no ordinary mission - they were taking part in one of the best known events of WW II - The Invasion of Normandy.

The man pointed out each of the men by name, suffixing some of them with the term 'my buddy' and then, without so much as a tremor in his voice, followed up by mentioning who made it back alive and who din't. The majority of them - did not. An audible gasp went up among the 12 year olds at the very thought.

"We flew air support and dive-bombing missions in support of the ground forces, who were advancing through France, liberating the country town by town, and into Nazi Germany." - He said. The casualities were very high, the fighting intense and ultimately, the Allies were victorious in defeating Nazi dictator Adolf Hitler's Third Reich - but at a great cost on all sides - of men and material. "A lot of people sacrificed their lives without expecting anything in return, so that you could enjoy the freedom you have now. Make sure you respect and value this freedom you have" he concluded.

As he was talking, my mind conjured up images of the opening scene from the Steven Spielberg masterclass - 'Saving Private Ryan' - the closest we could probably get to experiencing the carnage that happened on that fateful morning in Normandy, followed by images of the rows upon rows of white crosses honoring soldiers who valiantly laid down their lives.

Maybe it was the feeling of awe at being in the presence of a person who had actually been there - as I followed my train of thought, I remembered articles that I had read about WW II. The Americans regrouping after Pearl Harbor, the heroic defense of Stalingrad, the determined push towards Berlin by the Allies, the frantic push to develop the atomic bomb (although I do not pass a judgement on its use) - all of them seemed to be filled with one underlying feeling - Purpose. There was a sense of purpose to each of the above mentioned events - to rid the world of Fascism and put an end to probably the worst regime to rule a country following an ideology of hate and bigotry. That was a light-bulb moment. That one word brought a feeling of clarity that I had been looking for to whatever I was doing -  Purpose.

Come to think of it - it is a sense of purpose that has driven mankind all thru history. Because without a sense of purpose, we re reduced to nothing. Our ability to think and create are all manifested through the inherent sense of purpose that we perpetually seek. We want there to be a meaning to what we do. Because the knowledge that there is a purpose to what we do spurs us to give it our all, to strive for excellence and to continually raise the bar higher, without which we would all be condemned to a morbid, insipid existence.

It is that sense of purpose that led to the discovery of chloroform, the successful landing on the moon within a decade of envisioning it, the successful re-entry of Apollo 13, the first heart transplant and many other watershed moments in the relatively short yet illustrious history of Man.

Across the world, members of the armed forces willingly sacrifice the comforts of domestic life and serve in unbelievably inhospitable conditions and often pay the ultimate price so that the ordinary civilians of their nation may live, work and sleep uninhibited and secure. They seek no recognition, are often vilified as a whole
for the transgressions of a few, are tragically often pawns in a political game and yet, it is the knowledge that there is a purpose to their way of living and to their dying that makes them willingly put their lives on the line, without once thinking that maybe it isn't really worth it. The fact that their enduring a life of hardship and danger is enabling us to lead lives of comfort and safety is their ultimate motivation.

Similarly, most of us have often wondered whether there is a purpose to what we do. A lot of us go thru our lives without so much as a purpose to what we do - yes - we want to be engineers, we want to be doctors, we want to own flashy cars and big houses. But in the case of most people, those are paths programmed into our brains by parental, societal or peer pressure. But how many of us have striven for a greater purpose in life ? How many times have we dared to take an unknown trail because our heart asks us to, even if that means leaving our comfort zones ?  Often, we find ourselves wistfully thinking "What if I had ?" before going to sleep, dreaming of ourselves as what our deepest desires want us to be and then waking up and going back to our pre-dictated routines. Admitted - it is not easy. Why take a chance and risk incurring the wrath of your family and ridicule of your peers ? Why not just settle for what comes our way and be contended ? Well - It may work for some people but not for a lot of us. And most of us end up going to our graves without having even tried and with regrets in our hearts. "Bah ... nice words, but why don't you try it yourself ?" - I find you asking. Sure .. I say it because I have gone through it.

There have been times, in my academic career and in my personal life, when I have had to choose - between following my conscience and accepting things as they are. To a third person, it may seem like I am over-dramatizing, but trust me - those decisions can have deep ramifications. And each time, I looked inside and analyzed - What are the pros and cons of each option ? Am I jeopardizing anyone else with my decision ? and most importantly - what could be the consequences of failure ?  Anyone who tells you that the thought of failure should not even cross your mind is being utterly foolish - You should most definitely take into account the possibility that things may not work out. That way you can always have a Plan B. Following your heart does not mean being foolish or selfish. There is a clear distinction between the two. Following the heart in conjunction with the brain is sensible, following one blindly to the exclusion of the other is not. Having decided that following my inner desire would not put others or me in jeopardy, if it came to choosing between the easy, well beaten track that however did not appeal to me and the tougher, uncertain path that my heart galloped towards, I have unequivocally chosen the latter.

Going in for a Masters' degree in Aerospace Engineering - knowing fully well that it was a tough academic field and to top it, with restricted job opportnities; almost losing the battle to inner turmoil on the way; journeying across a continent for a personal trip leaving everything else in the doldrums - knowing that the result would probably not be favourable - but nevertheless making it, because victory lay not in the outcome but in having the courage to make that journey; deciding to take on the challenge of doing a second research thesis in an extremely short time after the first one failed; choosing to hold firm and not succumb to the temptation of seeking help in getting employment from the very people who criticized your choice or insulted your family even though it had been ten months after graduation - each of these decisions was made after a lot of thought, painful self-introspection and brutal honesty with my inner self. And of course with the wariness that Murphy's Law is omni-present (and funnily enough - Murphy was an Aerospace Engineer).
And believe me - when these decisions are to be made - you are on your own. Ultimately its YOU who makes the call and YOU who reaps the results.

But make them, I did. Behind each of those decisions lay my conviction in the underlying sense of purpose. Whether I won or lost, I knew I had made a decision from a clear conscience and that is what gave me the motivation to re-enter the battlefield day after day after day. It was the knowledge that there is a meaning to what I am doing that kept me going.

That is the reason for me writing this piece  - to tell whoever reads this that we all face the kind of situations that I did and whenever you chose a particular path, stop, take some time to think whether what you re about to embark on has a meaning to it, and if it does, go at it hammer and tongs. Put your faith in it and throw everything you ve got into it. And take it from me - once you have made a clear, honest decision, you will find guidance and support along the way. What matters is that you follow your heart, your desires, your conviction - believe in your sense of purpose. Purpose is priority - Purpose is all.

Now, after becoming an Aerospace Engineer from The University of Texas at Arlington, having walked through the same hallowed corridors as one of my idols - Kalpana Chawla, the first Indian woman Astronaut and a UTA Alumnus, and having defied the odds and gotten a job (albeit not in the Aerospace Industry but still a core engineering job in the Automotive industry, which is the next closest thing), I still find myself wondering from time to time whether there is a purpose to what I do; whether I am even on the right path, whether I will get suitable recognition for my work as I go on and the goals I have. But whenever I find myself wracked with these doubts, I go back to that day at the museum when I was going through something similar. As the visit was winding up, I went up to the man to try get a few words with him. He handed me a card about himself - Captain Charles D. Mohrle, one among 6 out of 24 pilots of the 405th Fighter Group who made it back alive. Winner of a Distinguished Flying Cross among other medals and entitled to wear a Presidential Unit Citation Ribbon. I told him how inspired I was at having listened to him speak and that it was a privilege to have met him and offered my hand. What happened next is a memory I will cherish forever and something that provides me with the sense of purpose I need - As he took my hand, he asked me what I did. I told him I was a Graduate Student. "Of what ?" asked the veteran fighter pilot. "Aerospace Engineering" I said proudly. His clear eyes gazing intently into mine, the hands that had once gripped the control stick of the P-47 over Normandy now gripping my hand tightly, the old man said - "Bless you, son".



Photo Courtesy : Dusti Martin's Picasa album on the web and online information on Capt. Charled D. Mohrle - both in the public domain.


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