Bangalore Rising

I quiver as I read comments elsewhere on FB, questioning the value of a man’s moustache. I quiver because of a recurring nightmare I’ve had - of me, staring into a mirror, completely bare of all facial hair, bar that thin black furry waif that separates my forehead from my eyes. I just cannot fathom myself surviving even a day without my moustache. It has been a part of me for nearly four decades, even longer than family – my wife as you would have guessed, came much later. What started off as small, odd, black, shy sprouts here and there over my lips, got denser progressively, much like castaway parthenium weeds that found nooks and crannies to flourish, to eventually form a green carpet. I ignored those efforts probably for a couple of years, even as it made brave attempts to set up shop above my lip. And then one morning I noticed it. As I rubbed my bleary eyes in front of the bathroom mirror, I noticed that the thin, soft, black apology that had made the strip above my lip its h

K S Sadasivan, August 3, 1926 - May 24, 2014 24th May would mark a year of my dad’s passing, after fighting a losing age-related battle. He was hale, hearty, and healthy till 2011, when a relatively minor stroke started his slippery slide down. He lived a full life, and I believe, enjoyed almost every moment of it. While I am sad at his passing, it would be wrong to call it untimely. Like men his age, my dad too was a proud man. He loved being fawned upon, but despised being attended to. If the male attendant tried to help him up from the chair, he would be curtly admonished. He never liked being bathed; the attender was expected to get a bucket of warm water ready, place the soap, and towel close by, and leave the bathroom. It was tough for us to see this proud man slowly wither away; from a healthy 75 kilos into a 45 kilo bag of skin & bones – gone were those healthy cheeks, the fat around the belly, and the not-so-obvious muscles. But he never lost his humor, or his