Kshitij was confused. He normally liked to watch the sunset, he liked the pastels it generated because he knew that he would be around for the crisp new day which it would give birth to. Every sunset marked the culmination of another day in Kshitij's life but today he was looking elsewhere. He was confused because he had just finished having a conversation with his nine year old son Anmol. He had asked Anmol, quite playfully, what his ambition in life was. As a nine year old, Kshitij had expected him to come up with answers like a soldier or a pilot or any other heroic pursuit seeking to find expression within a child's mind. Kshitij remembered fondly that when he had been asked the same question , he had shouted out "Superman!" with a proud grin on his face. But Anmol's answer was different, "Investment Banker" Kshitij was surprised more than anything else. He stared at the setting sun and thought about his days as a nine year old, when dreams were utopian yet simple.
He smiled as he thought of how his late Uncle Kapoor would have been extremely surprised and maybe even a little aggrieved at Anmol's reply. Uncle Kapoor had once said "When you are five you want to be like your father, when you are ten you want to be a superhero, when you are fifteen you want to be a soldier, doctor, scientist et al. By the time you are twenty, you do not know what to do with your life and when you are forty you want to be five year old again." Uncle Kapoor was not around but his words still brought a smile on Kshitij's face.
He sighed and switched on the television. Even here his confusions were multiplied. A grim faced news-reader informed him that a certain section of the crowd had jeered at Sachin Tendulkar as he was walking back to the pavilion. He was utterly perplexed. Wasn't Tendulkar supposed to be the messiah of Indian cricket? Wasn't he supposed to be the flaming symbol of exuberant greatness? He remembered a time when he had a fist fight with one of his classmates just because the latter had said that Gavaskar was not good on the on-side. He wondered about the fickle mindedness of the people around him. Uncle Kapoor had once said, "Legends never fade away. They just reinvent themselves from time to time. You just have to wait." Yes, Uncle Kapoor still made sense.
He switched the television off and decided to check his mails. Here again his brows furrowed. He read about his cousin Ashwin who was a fourth year mechanical engineering student in 'one of those obscure colleges in Bangalore'. Ashwin had been offered a job by one of the software companies which he had readily accepted. Kshitij was surprised. What did mechanical engineering students have to do with software consultancy? How can a student who has toiled hard for four years, studying subjects like fluid mechanics, work in a software firm doing the 'donkey work' for MNCs? Uncle Kapoor had once said, "Engineers are the creators of the nation." Kshitij was not sure about the prospects of creation of a nation in Ashwin's career.
Kshitij felt thirsty. He walked to the kitchen to fetch himself a glass of water. There he found his nine year old talking to his mother animatedly about 'Rang De Basanti'. Anmol was telling his mother how nice he had felt when he heard Aamir Khan narrating 'sarfaroshi ki tamanna...' "Did Aamir Khan write those lines himself? Aamir Khan is a true national hero. First he defeats the haughty British in Lagaan, then he shoots corrupt politicians and now he comes back to show how the educational system needs to be revamped. He should be given the Bharat Ratna. What does sarfaroshi mean Mom?" asked Anmol excitedly. Kshitij just smiled and nodded his head. He remembered that as a child he had a photograph of Subash Chandra Bose on his desk. He used to have long discussions with his father about the repercussions if India had gained independence the Bose way. Back then celebrating heroics was more cerebral than today where icons are selected out of the reel life. "True heroes are those who appeal to your sense and question your sensibilities," Uncle Kapoor used to say. Kshitij sighed and thought about today's times when excuses like 15th August, 26th January or an occasional movie like "Rang De Basanti" are needed to feel patriotic.
Kshitij looked at the watch and realized that it was time to take his son for his cricket coaching at the academy. His mind instantly jogged back to his childhood cricketing days. They called themselves the "Cheerful Chums". Some of them could play and some could not; but they still had a lot of fun. They played with whichever ball they could lay their hands on. They played anywhere and over any distance. And they got together to read a book about Gary Sobers whom Uncle Kapoor called the 'greatest cricketer in the world.' ever since he had read it, Kshitij had wished that he were left handed. Now his son talks to him about his thigh pad before putting ball to bat, he puts all his gear on and does a shadow practice in front of the mirror. "Why do you need all those gloves and and pads before you learn to bat?" Uncle Kapoor would have asked. But the boy went to an academy and the coach had insisted that he buy these. He had almost been talked into buying an expensive helmet.
He returned to the sunset. At least the sun does not assume the garb of modernity. He thought about his times, the innocent times when emotions, ambitions and aspirations were real and devoid of all the mundane attributes of materialism. He thought about the times when a man could choose his dreams rather than buying them.
Kshitij switched off his sunset, called out to his son and talked to him about peaked caps, sandwiches in the canteen, shirts that puff up in the evening breeze, colours during Holi, animated conversations on the way back from school, stylized radio commentary and a lot of fun. His son asked him about television rights, cartoon network, Mc Donald's, ambush marketing, sting operations, branded shoes.....and he smiled. He looked up at the photograph of Uncle Kapoor. He too, was smiling.
