Rodevra Republic

I thank you all for your warm birthday wishes. There is a sense of closeness and belonging in your words that is difficult to express, and I am truly grateful for it.

I am, by nature, a quiet and private person, and I tend to shy away from the attention that birthdays and celebrations bring. Yet, reading your messages today, I felt a gentle happiness in sharing this moment with you.

Birthdays have a way of making one pause and look back. Perhaps it is the one time in the year when we become consciously aware of the passage of time. As I look back, the years seem to come together, carrying with them their share of bittersweet memories.

Somewhere along the corridors of life, amidst its many events, one begins to sense that there is a certain order—a quiet harmony that underlies everything. When seen in the right spirit, this brings with it an attitude of faith and acceptance. I am reminded of a line from 3 Idiots: “Bahut mushkil se aaya hai yeh attitude… main mera yeh attitude rakh loonga.”

Over time, this attitude has left little room for regret. When I look back now, it is more as a witness—detached, yet understanding. It allows for a discerning, non-judgemental view of past events. In surrendering to what one may call a larger design, the sharp edges of regret and misgiving begin to soften.

The lines of Omar Khayyam come to mind:

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

On a day like this, when one revisits the past, these words seem particularly meaningful.

And as I look back, I see a young boy of nine who had just lost his father. It was sudden—just a matter of days. It happened during the summer vacation, at the end of the fourth standard, a day before his ninth birthday. There was a sense of loss and a loneliness that was difficult to understand at that age.

I remember one moment very clearly. At the beginning of the next school term, in the fifth standard, there was a form that required both parents’ signatures. My teacher, Ms. Oliveira, called me and asked why my father had not signed. I stood there silently for a while, and then simply pointed to where it was written—“Expired.”

I did not really know my father then. Only later did I come to learn that he was well-read and cultured, with impeccable social grace. What remained with the young boy, however, was a different impression—of a handsome, well-dressed man (a Zodiac man), stylish, perhaps even a little flamboyant.

Those school years carried a certain loneliness. In the absence of a guiding presence, I turned to books. Writers and authors, in many ways, shaped my thinking and outlook. I read widely, across subjects, and that perhaps explains my ability to relate to varied ideas and themes.

Alongside literature, I found myself drawn to art and cinema. I became part of film societies, art groups, the NCPA, and even an art library at the Jehangir Art Gallery. Much of whatever I understand and appreciate about art and films today has its roots in those years.

Why do I share this on a birthday?

Perhaps because that young boy has travelled a long way and now finds himself among you—sharing thoughts, reflections, and fragments of what matters to him. Perhaps, in some quiet way, this sharing is also a way of reconnecting with a past that once felt distant.

I would like to believe that you find something of interest in these musings, and that you indulge them with patience and understanding.

What has gradually emerged as a guiding thread in my life is the search for an inner purpose. Everything, in some way, seems to converge towards that. Along the way, life teaches us to be kinder, more forgiving, and more compassionate.

I seem to be in a slightly sombre mood today, and I hope it has not been passed on to you. Birthdays have a way of bringing this with them. But perhaps it is just as important to acknowledge what one feels, rather than set it aside.

I will end with lines from William Blake, which have stayed with me over the years:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour.

Lines by William Blake that have quietly shaped a way of seeing

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