The Singles and Twos: An essay on three kind men

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.