Here's to you Mr.Shadid

I was driving to work a few months ago, while listening to Fresh Air on 91.7. Terry Gross’ guest was this Pulitzer-winning Beirut-based correspondent with New York Times. He talked eloquently about the war in Iraq, the Arab uprising and the future of the region. I had stopped at a light just when he started talking about the future of Iraq. Just then a minivan pulled up beside me. A middle-aged woman, sat smoking at the wheel; the other seats were empty. My eyes were drawn to the signs on the van. The one that said “Iraq- Mission Impossible”, was partially torn off. I thought about the meaning of the sign for an instant. Perhaps, they thought the relevance of the sign had outlived its comedic life and the owner of the car figured it was time for a new sign. Something that said “Iraq was the dumb war,” to reflect then-candidate Obama’s views on the matter. Perhaps the car was bought second hand, and the new owner felt offended by the sign, figuring it was a valiant move on Prez Bush’s part to send in men and women and machinery for a brutal 10-year conflict, and sought to set the record straight for the future generations. In the new owner’s mind, perhaps the sign “Mission Impossible” ought to have instead proudly read “Mission Accomplished”. But all those signs were probably now resting in a dusty old box at the Smithsonian. The power of a strong voice and eloquent thought sometimes does force one to think a bit differently, and break away from the monotony.

I then moved on to other topics to write about and completely forgot about the day. Occasionally, I did struggle to remember the correspondent’s name, but never really took the time to dig it up from the archives. Last week I knew. His name was Anthony Shadid. Last week, he died of an apparent asthma attack, trying to make his way into Syria, while chasing the story of the uprising there. Here is how the official story goes: He was allergic to horses. The day he was trying to get his story in Syria, he was being taken there by guides on horseback. An asthma attack ensued, and he passed away miles away from any medical help.

He was an eloquent speaker, and from the brief few minutes I heard him speak, a journalist passionate about his subject. He spent years in Beirut, writing about life there. It was evident he was surrounded by danger, in a volatile region. And to meet his end with an asthma attack! I can only imagine the shock his family feels. They must have constantly worried about his well-being, what with all the danger surrounding him. And it came from a horse!

To each his own. Goodbye Mr.Shadid. This essay is to you.

Cheery memories of a dreary day

Today was a typical dreary English day. The Mission hills had their tops covered in clouds. The ground was wet; you heard the scrunch of wet pavement when you walked on it. Birds seldom flew away, if only to escape an oncoming car. The air was fresh, crisp, and the breeze gave you goose pimples without freezing the skin; the way only a winter morning can. The fog lent a deceptively sleepy, dreamy feel to an otherwise breakneck day that most people have here.

Maya spoke very less on the way to school, except for “This is my favorite song appa!” to everything that came out of our car radio. I smiled looking at her in the rear view mirror. She watched the distant mountains as she listened to the music. It took me back almost a couple of decades, to the winter of 1993. Everything about today; the fog, breeze and the wet ground, reminded me of the day of Kuzhali’s wedding.

Kuzhali, my buddy Saru’s sister, was loved by all for the cheer she surrounded herself with. I was in my first-ever job, in Bangalore, and the wedding was 300 km away in Coonoor. I had zero vacation days accrued, but there was no doubt of if I could make it to the wedding, but by when. Ooty and Coonoor had received a record rainfall that year, and there was imminent danger of landslides. Rampant denuding of the forests and housing developments had made the landslides a common occurrence by that time. I somehow managed to board a bus the night before the wedding and hoped that we would make it in time without incident.

A night’s bus journey later, I found myself standing at the Coonoor bus depot at 5AM. There was a slight drizzle, and a chilly fog covered everything. Dogs barked not too far away. A man was setting up his tea stall. We chatted a bit while I sipped the first cup of delicious tea he made for the day. I had misplaced the wedding invitation. All I knew was that it was in a hall close to a church in town. The tea-man told me it was 5 km away, and pointed me in the right direction. I hauled my soggy backpack and set out. The directions were pretty straight-forward; “Just take this road up the hill and you will see the church."

There were no cars on the road, save a couple of cows grazing on cinema posters and fresh grass of the season. I could not help smile to myself. It was the first holiday I had taken as a professional. Daylight was fast approaching, and the scenery lit up with spectacular vistas. There were little houses on one side, and tall trees on the other. Rolling hills everywhere, and the smell of flowers hung in the air. I was soaked to the skin, and I could not feel my nose. The pavement gave off a delicious scrunch as I walked uphill.

I must have walked about 2 km, when I heard a loud honk. I turned around and a couple of familiar heads poked out of the taxi. It was my sister, and my soon-to-be-brother-in-law. They had a hunch I would be coming that day and would probably be walking. We did not have cell phones back then. So there were more coincidences and lucky hunches when people made decisions by the seat of their pants.

2 km of walking was good enough for me, and I really needed to shower. I hopped in. Things had turned out better than I had expected. I looked forward to meeting all my friends, and trade stories.

Dreary days remind me of that morning, and brings warmth to the heart.