03 Aug George & the Art of Clear Vision
St.Columba’s in 1984 – Everyone played football at break-time. OK, there was no football, and some dozen odd games would be underway at the same time, using equipment ranging from dog-eared tennis balls to squeezes of aluminium foil from the mid-day sandwich. It wasn’t Sport at its best, and everyone managed to play the wrong ball or pass to the wrong person atleast once each day. But it was Sport in a boys’ school, and everyone was expected to play. Nearly everyone.
There was George, looking quizzically at the football ground like those Nat Geo pictures of trekkers surveying a vista of ice-caps. We had just chomped down our daily rations at the canteen, and this was always an awkward moment, with me reluctant to jettison a pal, and George just playing the philosopher.
Thoughts were exchanged. “Too sweaty”, he said, and pointed to the ice-cream cart that stood in the shade. Clarity. I spent 20 minutes getting kicked in the shin, while George settled under a tree with an Orange-bar, and nursed it like a wine glass.
That there, was my friend. Unequivocal about what he won’t get into, yet, completely non-committal about the thing itself. He never criticized the human urge to kick a ball. It wasn’t bourgeoisie, it wasn’t a waste of time or good shoes. It was just sweaty.
Clarity. It’s an instinct I wished a smidgeon of dozens of times in my Life. It keeps you out of trouble. It keeps your eye on the ball.
A couple of years back, I quizzed George about being a Dad. Years of being leveraged as the discipline guy in my family had started to affect my scene with my kids.
“Sam”, he said, serenely exhaling tobacco smoke into the wings of a truant mosquito, “Being a Dad is simple. You need to make sure the kids have as much fun as they can. That’s the only yardstick worth judging by.”
This is the kind of thing that still confounds me about George, after knowing him 36 years. He’s just the guy on the sidelines, holding his pose like the chief guest at Republic Day, enjoying the show. Then you clink in a penny for his thoughts, and you get Parenting in a sentence. In may ways, he’s like the Swiss watch he’ll never buy.
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