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It is hard to put a finger on it: the intensity of this curious feeling – this affection and camaraderie for our batchmates, friends of fifty years and more. Perhaps the symptoms are easier to articulate – the childlike excitement that makes us wake up too early or go to bed too late, as if every extra minute spent sleeping is time lost, time that could be spent with our brothers.

And so, in the thirty-six hours that we spent together, we laughed incessantly, talked, reminisced, and sang. We became ourselves – uninhibited, silly, genuine. We shed the years that made us old. We were rejuvenated and became young again.

We ate together, drank tea by the poolside in the early hours and ended our days in song, warmed by the heat of the bonfire and the cheer of our favourite tipple. Our stock of tales did not deplete as every incident we remembered found others that lay deeper in memory, and our recollections traversed our lives like the widespread roots of an ancient tree.

We went to see tigers in the forests of Ranthambore without much hope of seeing one. Yet we withstood the jolt of the canter that took us deep inside the jungle because we knew we would enjoy the drive with our friends and relish the banter, tiger or no tiger. But luck favours the good-spirited and we saw not one but three tigers at close range.

The guide did his best to prevent us from taking photographs. “Ma’am, no, sir, no,” the poor man entreated us, trying to enforce the latest rule against using a mobile phone, but only a regular camera to take photos of the wildlife. The logic of the new law was as obscure as the aphorisms in the Rig Veda. So, as you can only do in India, we ignored the rules and thumped our noses at the mindless diktat. We captured images of crocodiles, deer, monkeys and tigers. The azure sky and the placid lakes with the ruins of the Ranthambore fort up on the mountain framed the images in our memories better than any camera could capture them.

The Anthakshari by the bonfire was something else as our wives outdid us in their quick-witted responses, winning the contest hands down. Two days that seemed like two seconds. Time had a strange way of compressing itself when we were with the friends of our youth.

The food was par excellence, except perhaps for the desserts. Rasagulla and ice cream pretending to be rasmalai, pakoras that emerged only after stern requests – but we didn’t go there to eat. The food was enough to sustain us. The bonhomie carried beyond our group, infecting other guests, some of whom joined in and sang with us – in German! The other tourists didn’t object to our mirth; how could they? Perhaps they carried away with them lessons about beating old age with the drug of fraternal love.

And so we finally bid each other goodbye. The typical Indian goodbye, someone remarked. Yes, it was typical — and something more. It was lingering, never-ending, hugs and kisses and the tears held back but always threatening to burst forth. How wonderful those two days were, how uplifting. We departed with promises of returning soon.

I’ve played many roles in my life but never that of a marriage counsellor – until last evening. I invited some local friends for dinner. They are a couple running an ironing business – Kumaran and Soumya. Their charges are very reasonable; in fact I don’t know how they survive with these rates.

Soumya is from Tamil Nadu and speaks Malayalam with a liberal admixture of Tamil. Kumaran is a Trivandrum local. Theirs was a ‘love marriage’ they had told me (as opposed to an ‘arranged’ one which was the norm in their time.) They’re in their forties.

A few weeks ago, Kumaran had taken me around Vellayani on his motorbike. I got to know him well. Soumya has always been efficient with the ironing, mostly delivering them home at 8 and 9 in the evening. She once said to me she would do anything for us because she could make out my wife and I are a couple who loved and respected each other. She was already in my good books.

As I would be leaving Trivandrum in a few days, I
wanted to say thanks to this friendly, hardworking couple. Moreover – no, I should say above all if I’m honest – I had made too much food. I was going away for the weekend. I had to finish it all. I needed guests.

They turned up at around 9:45 PM. The bickering started as soon as they walked through the door. Soumya complained bitterly about Kumaran and after listening quietly to her complaints, he said, more to himself than to me,

“In 27 years, she has ruined my life.”

I didn’t know what to say as I sat there watching the two of them verbally mauling each other.

Then I remembered something. I told Soumya,

“You know when he took me around the other day on his motorbike, we discussed many things. But not once did he speak ill of you. He only said nice things.”

I saw her eyes soften. She looked at her husband as if reconsidering him, like taking another look at something she planned to throw away. Soumya went quiet and studied her hands in deep thought. I could almost hear the churn of her mind.

I probably made a small difference. They certainly didn’t quarrel during the meal. Maybe there’s another career waiting for me?

I have thought long and hard about memories, particularly those with a long vintage recorded on camera. Are the images in photographs deluding me by pretending to be memories? How is this to be resolved?

My parents’ silver wedding anniversary was celebrated sometime in 1968 with a visit to Bolgatty Island in Ernakulam, Kerala. There was no bridge to the island in those days. I don’t remember the boat ride, but there was no other way to get there. We didn’t swim there, nor did we fly.

All my memories of the occasion are derived from family photographs. I remember nothing else – not how we spent the day there, not what we ate or drank – nothing. I had concluded I had no personal recollection of the event. The pictures were the scaffolding of my past, but with nothing beyond them.

This realisation was quite disturbing. How many other memories are genuine?

Recently, I joined a school reunion at Bolgatty Island, and stayed there overnight. The morning after the party, I sat on the parapet by the lake (Vembanad Kayal). The very spot where the images were captured nearly 60 years ago was right in front of me – an immutable milestone of my childhood.

Lost in thought, a gentle breeze in my face and the chug-chug of motorboats in my ears, I sat staring at the facade of the old Dutch palace and the ancient trees. ‘Surely, you must remember – you were here in 1968.’ I said to them silently, almost accusingly.

All of a sudden, I saw a vision of my 12-year-old self running after my nephew, just two years old then. No photograph had captured that moment.

I moved to the UK in 1992 and drove on an international licence, renewing it every year as I left and re-entered the country. My driving in the UK was predicated on holding a valid Indian licence.

I was working in Liverpool in 1996. On a pleasant spring evening, I was in a pub with some English friends. One of them started joking about ‘chicken-catching’ Indian driving. I argued that we had honed our instincts to perfection and so on. But I couldn’t duck the truth. What my friend said in 1996 is still true in 2026.

At the time, the UK licence was in paper form. Most seasoned drivers had tattered old paper licences. I dished out my plastic Indian licence card and scored a point.

“At least our licence looks respectable,” I said smugly.

One of them took it from me and examined it closely.

“It’s expiring soon,” he said.

True enough, my driving licence — a requisite for keeping my job — would be invalid in months.

I immediately applied for a provisional licence and, after three months, found a test slot in the city of Bradford. On the test date, I drove from Liverpool to Bradford on the motorway, put on an L-plate after I reached the centre, and presented myself for the test. The examiner told me,

“Don’t do anything special because I’m here. Just be your normal self.”

So I put on Dire Straits at full blast, rolled down the window, stuck an elbow out, and took off with screeching tyres.

I failed the test and had to take six driving lessons, unlearning most of what I had picked up over some fifteen years of driving in India, before finally obtaining a UK driving licence.

More than driving, I learned that in life one sometimes has to put on an act to succeed

We worry when we forget things. Going upstairs to look for something but forgetting what we came up for. Searching for the phone while talking to someone on the very phone. Forgetting appointments despite making diary entries.

‘How come?’ you ask, incredulous. We forget to check our diary.

‘Talk about yourself,’ you complain.

OK, I’ll use first person singular.

I’m not talking about forgetting as in ‘forget and forgive’. The topic here is the pure and honest form of not remembering, or alternatively, remembering things earlier than required – like arriving at a training course a day too soon. Let me demonstrate anecdotally how forgetting can work in your favour.

A colleague and I had visited Oban in Scotland for an accident involving a small fishing trawler. Oban has an out-of-this-world beauty. The lochs and glens viewed from the passenger seat of a car are breathtaking. My colleague, like most of the male colleagues I worked with, preferred to drive. Now, don’t start doubting my driving skills – most of my colleagues were serious alpha males.

Every day, we drove the ten miles from our hotel to the vessel and back. I enjoyed the scenery, untrammelled by the rigours of driving or having to keep my eyes on the road. I simply drank it all in. Each day, the sights held a fresh appeal. On the last day, I said to my colleague,

‘Wow! Just look at the scenery. I have never seen such beauty.’

He looked at me with a slight frown and remarked,

‘Mate, we’ve been driving the exact same route for five days and you talk as if you’re seeing everything for the first time.’

That precisely defines me. Without making a conscious effort, I do see everything as if for the first time. As J Krishnamurthy, the philosopher, has said:

‘Freedom is found in seeing without comparison – without the past interfering.’

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked to do a fasting blood test. I made the appointment at Winchester Hospital using an automated telephone service. The first available appointment was at 3:30 pm on Tuesday. The follow-up appointment with my GP was fixed for Thursday morning. I entered both in my diary, forgetting to note that the blood test required me to fast for 12 hours.

Last week, some writing friends suggested we meet for coffee.

‘How about Thursday morning?’ asked one.

‘Fine,’ I replied without checking my diary.

After the time and venue were decided, I noticed I had a GP appointment at precisely the same time. So, I wrote to my friends.

‘I’m a total idiot, I can’t make it to the coffee. Double-booked. You guys go ahead.’ Grovel, grovel.

On Tuesday, I drove to the hospital for my blood test.

‘Have you fasted?’ asked the nurse. She seemed impressed that I had remained without food for most of the day.

‘No, it’s 3:30 pm. How could I fast so long?’ I responded mildly belligerent. How could she even suggest it?

The nurse told me to go away and return on another day.

‘Don’t forget – you can only have water 12 hours before your blood test.’

I called the GP surgery and apologised – no point seeing the doctor without blood counts. Grovel, grovel. They fixed another blood test and a follow-up appointment for this week. Bless our NHS.

I had an enjoyable morning with my friends, showing off a copy of my book Indishman – Reflections from India, Britain and the Sea.

Sometimes, it’s good to forget.

I personally know someone who has seen Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor naked. They were shipmates in the Navy, freshening up in the changing room after a game of squash – long before the metaphorical stripping of the latter’s royal appurtenances. Talk about foreshadowing.

There has been a tectonic shift in the British perception of the royal family. While politicians are regularly heckled, have eggs, milkshakes and sometimes punches thrown at them, people generally respected the royals. There are also those who don’t care for them. However, they usually stay at home and don’t throng the streets swooning over the anachronistic pomp and pageantry.

Untrue Andrew has dragged the entire clan down to earth from their exalted citadels. People have woken from their dream state and suddenly realised that kings and queens are people too. Remember Albert Camus in The Outsider? His protagonist, a prisoner on death row, talks about the judges who condemned him: 𝐴𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 (judges) 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟.

Perhaps that’s why King Charles III was recently heckled when he visited Lichfield Cathedral in Staffordshire, England.

“How long have you known about Andrew and Epstein?” the protester harangued the King.
“Have you asked the police to cover up for Andrew?”

Unthinkable until Untrue Andrew – the favourite son of our late Queen – ruptured the royal chrysalis and demonstrated what a complete prat he really is.

I like Charles, or at least I appreciate his candour on sensitive international issues. I should speak in the past tense, though, because that was when he was Prince of Wales. He has now been effectively silenced after being secured in the king-box. He chose kingship over free speech. Poor man.

Personally, I have been indifferent to the royal family. I know some of my British friends may be fans of the royals, and my intention is not to cause hurt. But when we remember the atrocities committed all over the world in the name of the King or Queen, you will understand why I am not a royalist.

In a sense, Andrew has done us all a favour by his callous and unacceptable behaviour. He has exposed a deep crack in the institution of the monarchy, and we can all look into the royal changing rooms. No patching up will work now – not even if Andrew were investigated and exonerated. Fat chance of that happening, though, because he has already been found guilty by the 𝘷𝘰𝘹 𝘱𝘰𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘪.

All the King’s horses and all the King’s men cannot put Andrew back together again.

Autumn colours stop me in my tracks. I’m not usually fond of yellows and reds, yet when the leaves turn yellow, I’m captivated, mesmerised, gob-smacked. It’s as if the tree has absorbed all the yellows in the neighbourhood – a pure, blazing yellow, the yellowest of yellows. And when those same leaves deepen to ochre, umber and orange-red, they imbue the air with enchantment.

Every shade appears at once on the same tree – as if some leaves are clinging to the comfort of summer while others bravely embrace winter. Green leaves yet to change, golden intermediates, the final dazzling reds ready to fall with the right flick of wind – I feel I’m witnessing a painting by one of the great masters. For an ephemeral moment, I wonder: am I in the National Gallery savouring a Monet, or in a garden hypnotised by the riotous colours of autumn?

But that’s not the whole picture. I haven’t mentioned sunlight – the quiet protagonist in this drama. It’s not the harsh sun that beats down on the head, but a gliding, warm light that renders the leaves translucent, their surfaces trembling in the gentle breeze.

Ah, would it ever be possible to describe the joy this sight induces, the reassurance it provides – that time gently ushers the seasons along, that what I witness today will soon yield to the strong winds of late autumn, carpet the ground with its munificence, and give way to the starkness of winter, when beauty of a different kind plays out the eternal cycle of seasons.

I can handle almost everything: temper tantrums, grief, mockery… However, I don’t know how to handle insinuation. If anyone has a foolproof method of dealing with this particular form of taunt, please tell me, for I consider it a taunt by someone who does not have the courage to openly accuse me of something but does it anyway. I am unable to respond in any constructive way because the moment I challenge the insinuation, the other party will deny it.

Consider this sentence I found in a Sanskrit study book: खलाः सुरां अपिबन्, which means ‘The wicked drank alcohol.’ Now why am I unhappy? Because the sentence presupposes, without explicitly stating, that only wicked men drink alcohol. I understand this is called presupposition in modern linguistics. It is a loaded sentence that is trying to impose a cultural or moral bias on me. The bias is built into the lexical choice. If it had said ‘only wicked men drink alcohol’, I would have torn up the book. But I can’t do it because all it says is that some wicked men drank alcohol. Insinuation – I hate it.

Another example: I once wrote an accident investigation report while employed at the Marine Accident Investigation Branch. A colleague read it and said to me:
‘It’s an excellent report. Did you write it?’
How was I to respond other than to put on a fake smile and reply,
‘Yes’, while I seethed inside for days after that, imagining several scathing ripostes such as,
‘No, my dog wrote it’ or ‘Yes, but I wrote it with my left hand’ or ‘No ghostwriters were harmed in the making of this report’ or something equally clever. But then one should not jump to conclusions from what’s implied.

Should he have asked me such a question? What was he insinuating?

1. You are not capable of this. Did you get someone else to write this for you?
2. I did not realise you could write so well and organise your thoughts so succinctly. I am amazed.

I think my interlocutor meant the second. His existing bias was probably dented a bit. I forgot about the exchange after a few days, but remembered it again today based on the ‘wicked men drinking’ sentence from my Sanskrit book.

On another occasion, I volunteered to talk about the use of AI in a creative writing context. I had informed the chair that although I have a PhD in the subject, I have very little professional experience in the workplace, but that I have a decent theoretical understanding. When he introduced my talk to the members of our writing club, he said,
‘Gopi says he is an AI expert.’
I bristled at this comment but again, I was in no position to challenge him because he only repeated what I said to him minus the accompanying caveats. If he had said, ‘Gopi is an expert,’ I could have graciously lowered the expectations of the crowd, but he said it in a way as if he didn’t really believe what he was saying. It was an innuendo. What to do? I am clueless.

If I had anything to do with law-making, I would write into the statutes that insinuation of all kinds would be punished by severe flogging.