The lady you see in the picture – also the elder of the two young kids – is my friend Deval. The gentleman in the picture is her dad Girish M. Swami. He spent his life in three different continents – Africa (Tanzania), Asia (India) and then North America (USA). If he were alive today, he would be 80. Unfortunately, he left the world at the age of 60.

Sitting with Deval this week over dinner, I got to know the life journey of her dad. And the values that he had instilled in his daughters. While he had no formal training in music, he listened to a lot of classical Indian music.

And I have to say – he had great taste in music. Or at least, it was remarkably aligned with mine. You know how I know that? Because, Deval and her sisters have gifted me the entire vinyl record collection of her dad!!

Just glancing thru the old LP records of Ghulam Ali, Farida Khannum, Saigal, Bade Ghulam Ali and the likes, I was simply mesmerized. This was like handing candy to a kid. I knew right then and there which would be the first record I will start with!

Thank you Deval, Krupal and Rachana for letting me be the caretaker of your dad’s passion! Wish I had met him once to discuss Indian classical music!!

Lata and Mukesh in Albert Hall, London. More than 47 years back in March 1974.
Takes me back to the early school days of listening to Hindi songs…

I had not read this one before. But it touched a chord in me as I find myself more and more absorbed in thoughts of my own mortality, impending empty nesting and a minimalism impulse to shed off things and break free…

“The Moment”
by Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.