I was born in 1987 in a small village in central India. We had a large family house that was built over a hundred years ago—so I was told—where my grandfather and his siblings, my dad and his siblings stayed together. It was a loud house, bubbling with love, jealousy, drama, chaos, and most of all, laughter. The foundation of this house was strong, both in the way it was built and in how the family shared their lives. There was a common kitchen large enough to handle our big family, a spacious verandah where we ran in circles, and cows that provided fresh milk.
I remember my childhood as fun and eventful.
Dad loved cricket. If it were up to him, he would have become a cricketer himself. He ended up running a small business in our town, where nothing really happened. To cope, he would often close his shop to participate in cricket tournaments.
One day, he brought home an amazing, sturdy cricket bat that became the talk of the town. My brother and I, organized a gully tournament and invited all our friends to try the bat. After a few games, my brother scored a duck and blamed it on bad umpiring. When the decision didn’t go his way, he took the bat with him, ending the tournament in chaos and drama. No one thought of bringing another bat.
After an eventful day of playing, shouting, and fighting, Mom would calm us down by making us the best lemonade in the world. She could do all sorts of things, like prepare a full meal instantly as if it appeared out of nowhere, make up stories about glorious kings and queens, read an entire magazine—including the ads—in less than fifteen minutes, create passcodes on our landline phone so opportunistic relatives wouldn’t take advantage, or speak to bus conductors and co-passengers on trains to get us window seats. And when we were late for the school bus (which was all the time), she would persuade the bus driver and 20 kids to wait while we got ready and ate our breakfast in peace. Somehow, she always managed to convince us that we were better than we thought, no matter how poorly we performed.
Over the years, as the family grew, my father and uncles decided to go their separate ways. It all happened so slowly and gradually that I have little recollection of growing apart from my extended family. Soon, the large gathering became a nuclear family of four.
Mom and Dad decided that our little town had no future for our education. Even though they could barely afford it, they sent us to a city boarding school in the hope that we will discover our own path. And we did, I fell in love with Physics, and my brother with Chemistry. We both ended up at one of the most prestigious universities in the country and had our names published in the local newspaper.
Four years of college flew by, surrounded by some of the smartest folks I’ve ever met or will ever meet under one roof. Some were geniuses, some hardworking, some without a worry in the world, some highly creative, and some who got drunk and thought it was a great idea to break into an ATM machine. There was no ragging, but one night our seniors summoned us to the common hall and demanded we take off our t-shirts. My friend Brant misunderstood the command and stripped naked instantly, leaving seniors scarred for live. In that moment of fear and anxiety, we became friends for life.
I met Nish, who strolled around our hostel wing, looking confused, searching for the right company. Instead, I found a friend who inspired me with his razor-sharp focus and determination to achieve his goals. Nish is a fighter to the core, except when something doesn’t interest him. And rarely anything interested him, so he flunked a few courses before finally finding his love in algorithms. We’ve been best friends even since.
Being good with numbers, I tried my hand at various roles. Some I took seriously, others not so much. Some paid handsomely, others not so much. The essence of my career, spanning over two decades, has largely been creating sensible bullet points and ensuring they don’t end with full stops.
Shru and I attended the same school, and reconnected years later while working in the same city. Our friendship blossomed into love, and we got married just as we turned thirty. Since then, we’ve been building a life together, finding joy in day-to-day boring affairs—like making the bed; cooking meals; fighting over whose turn it is to do the laundry (she always wins); spending money on silly things that we may never use; auguring over who should answer the door evening leaving the guest believe we are not home. There are sweet moments too— Shru can hardly resist chocolates but will always leave the last piece for me, she would buy cloths that would suit me, or tap my shoulder when my PJs are too bad for the room. Our life finds meaning in these endless chats, laughter, and occasional fights.
Shru comes from a large family, where her dad and four uncles all grew up under the same roof. She built her circle of friends among her cousins. I, having lost touch with many of my own family and friends over the years, found my way into hers. My nuclear family of four is now blossoming into a large, lively gathering.
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