I do not know cricketer Sanju Samson personally. But something tells me that he is a kind man
in real life. I write, “…in real life”
as though he plays fictional characters on screen! But what I mean by that is, my exposure to
Samson is limited to those moments on the screen, mostly on the field and a few
glimpses off it. Recently, I watched a
clip of his interaction with a cheeky little kid to whom he gifted his
cap. After watching the clip, I mentioned
on Twitter that the kid’s love for the game will increase manifold. I also added that the child’s belief in the
value of kindness will grow. It will, if
he remembers to grab that moment, bottle it in his mind and pour out the same
kindness unto others when(ever) he has the opportunity. This interaction made me think of the times
in my own life where people, owing to their fame, position or age, did not have
to extend kindness to me but they did. And
in the process, created a lasting impact on me.
In this piece, I have picked three people and my interactions with them
where I was in the shoes of the kid whose evening was lit up by Samson. (You
may not know two of the three people but it shouldn’t matter, trust me.)
Diwali 1993. That was
a time when my love for cricket was at its peak – not that it has ever ebbed! I had developed not just a love for the game
but also its history. I had watched
highlights (heard of video cassettes, anyone?) of more vintage games than most
12-year-olds. I would speak of specific strokes
and deliveries from games played at a time even before my parents knew of each
other’s existence. In this context, my
maternal Uncle, who was (and is) the best friend of former cricketer Krish
Srikkanth, was going to the latter’s place to celebrate the festival. When my grandpa got to know of this, he had
asked my uncle if he could take me along.
He did.
I had the excitement of an Energizer bunny that
entire day. When we reached his house,
there was a huge crowd of his friends and relatives. I could barely get a glimpse of him. I watched him play tennis in the court
adjoining his house. I was yet to get my
proper introduction. When it was time
for bursting crackers, he led the way, with the stash of fireworks. I was eagerly awaiting an opportunity for my idol
to see me. But I was among several kids
on the street. His first words to me
were, “Thambi, pattasu vekkariya?” (Kid, do you want to burst crackers?) He did not know that I was his best friend’s
nephew. I happily accepted his kind
offer. The real fireworks were happening
inside my heart, which was beating in sixes and fours!
Later that evening, my Uncle introduced me to Srikkanth. I asked him what his favourite shot was. He said, “It’s the straight drive.” Without missing a beat, I asked, “What about
that square drive off Roberts?!” He was pleasantly surprised – shocked, maybe? –
that a 12-year-old knew of a specific shot that he had played when the kid was
a two-year old infant! I have known him
for the past 32 years. I have grown
older, with silver linings in my sideburns.
In the meantime, he has grown progressively younger at heart. When I visited him a few months back, he spoke
with much kindness and affection, urging me to take good care of my
health. The visit was brief. But the impact of the interaction lingered in
the way a good movie refuses to leave your mind after exiting the theatre.
One such ‘good movie’ refused to leave the mind of Mr MSJ
Venkatraman. MSJV Uncle was my mom’s
manager in the early 90s. I had this habit
of stopping by Mom’s office during the lunch hour when I had exams. (I would go
there to tell her how well I did! You
see, I had no confidence issues as a kid!)
Or during the evening, when I would accompany our driver. I loved visiting her workplace since it was
filled with people who were unfailingly sweet to me.
MSJV Uncle was one of my favourites. I had once gotten full marks in a bi-weekly
test, a performance that I thought that merited his attention more than my mom’s
work! While I was waiting for my mom to wrap
up her day, I knocked on the door of his cabin.
He welcomed me with a huge smile.
When I shared the news of my score, not for a moment did he sound or
look dismissive. He said, “Congrats,
man! On the way back home, ask Kousalya
to get you a Five Star chocolate!”
He added, “There’s this movie about a little girl. Do watch it.
It ends with a shot of the girl happily going on a bike ride. Fantastic film!” The movie, of course, was Vasanth’s
remarkable debut, Keladi Kannmani.
I watched it afterwards. I didn’t
think much about his recommendation at the time. But now I know why he liked it. He probably saw a bit of himself in the lead
character played by SPB. The innate affection
towards and an unfussy manner of demonstrating respect for everyone, regardless
of age. To this day, I remember the sweetness
of his character as much as I do the Five Star that I gleefully had my mother
buy me that day.
Sweetness, of course, comes in different flavours. Just like how product labels separate out
natural versus added sugars, there are people whom we fondly remember as
naturally sweet. One such naturally
sweet man I remember with much gratitude is my maternal uncle NR Murali. When I was 12, my grandpa died in an accident. NR (as I affectionately called him; it used
to be “Murali mama” when I was a kid) was one person who showed up day in and
day out to show support to my grandma (to whom he was very close) and the rest
of us. Apart from the demonstrative
moments of solace at a time of grief, there were several quieter ones where he just
let my grandma purge to the extent she needed.
It would have been easy for him to ignore me because kids
are rarely the focus in grieving homes (from what I have seen). But he did not. He cheered me up with the help of cricket,
something that cemented our bond for life.
He would spend quality time with me chatting about the game, its history
and teaching me a thing or two about technique. (Now you know how I learned of
Srikkanth’s square drive off Roberts!) NR would take me and my cousin (his son)
along to cricket games at the Chepauk stadium.
More than one individual moment, I am simply thankful for the time that
he had for me. I just wish I had more
time with him, for he passed away in 2008, aged just 58.
Krish Srikkanth. MSJV
Uncle. NR Murali. Three people from different walks of life. Despite the differences in my relationship
with them, what binds them together in my eyes are two related traits. And those are the ability to provide a sense
of belonging and exhibit kindness through little gestures. Kids learn a lot less about kindness through
story books, cartoons or verbal advice than they do by observing the behaviour
of elders around them. At that age, they
may not be able to articulate what those little moments mean to them – I certainly
could not. Singles and twos in a long cricket
partnership do not make it to a game’s highlights package. But astute observers of a game know of their
importance. Similarly, little gestures
of kindness are what keep the scoreboard of our lives tick. We just need to be alert enough to observe
and thoughtful enough to acknowledge the people who, through their acts of
kindness, make our partnerships with them meaningful and memorable.
