My knowledge of cricket is round zero. I know Virat Kohli as Anushka’s husband. He is gentle, and it’s fun to see him trying to dance. This post is about my hero.
In 1993, at a time when my monthly salary was less than Rs 800, my dear friend Daljit, who was a close friend of mine, asked me to compulsorily take a day off. She’s pregnant. I was twenty-two or three years old. On that day in December, I stayed almost entirely at a hospital in Ahmedabad’s Paldi area. Daljit’s husband Jasbir had gone out for something. The nurse called out our name—she ran into my trembling arms, and she had a baby.
Things went on like a movie story. Within a few weeks of the death of Gujarat Chief Minister Chimanlal Patel, I was promoted to political affairs correspondent, and there was a slight increase in my salary. We bought some ice cream and shared it and celebrated it.
As neighbors, we shared everything. I didn’t have a phone, I didn’t have a fridge, and I didn’t even have a bed to talk about. Her house beyond a wall was my home.
Her husband died shortly thereafter. Life changed, and we lost all hope. I took care of those kids all that month. I tried to read the books to them. The boy wasn’t interested in it at all; he walked away playing with a plastic ball. While looking after the children, I too used to eat their children’s biscuits from time to time, with nothing to eat.
We faced life by crying and fighting in the midst of hunger. My cute little girl Juhika’s smile and tight hugs gave me hope, and she continues to do so even today.
But the boy’s sufferings were severe. We were not even in a position to buy a packet of Amul Dairy’s milk to give to him. We were all trying to bring the two ends of life together. His mother worked at least 16–18 hours a day.
Once I went to The Westside to buy a kurta on the day I got an increment. An eight-year-old boy was standing by the edge of his mother’s dupatta. He needed a wind cheater to survive the cold. That was the only gift I gave him. I spent Diwali, Christmas, and my birthday without a new kurta. But when he wore that wind cheater, I was content to wear a designer kurta by Rajdeep Ranaut or Manish Malhotra.
He was shy, and he is a legend today. He played a crucial role in helping us win the Cricket World Cup last night. Yet his modesty and simplicity remained unchanged. Every Indian should be proud of him and learn from him; his name is Jasprit Bumrah.
At his mother’s insistence, I had to watch a match, but I stopped midway through it—I don’t understand cricket. Maybe if Angad starts playing football, I’ll see it that day.
The reason I write this long note is to emphasize one thing: that we should never back down because God never forsakes us.
I am fortunate to have received Jaspreet in my arms for the first time. I think about that moment when I have to face any difficult situations, and it gives me hope to face anything. All the cleverness in bringing up such wonderful children belongs to his mother, Daljit. A few months ago, Jaspreet’s beautiful wife, Sanjana, arranged lunch for us. My baby Jaspreet now has little Angad, and he is a handsome boy to Jaspreet. I don’t write personal notes at all. But I have to write this to tell you that no one should give up hope in life.
Think of Jasper Bumrah and the struggles he has fought. And about the way God helped him. God will help us all. But first we have to help ourselves. Join me in congratulating my little Jaspreet on his World Cup victory.
Emerging from an unknown area of Ahmedabad, he makes all of us proud by emerging from school. I would like to thank my mother Daljit and sister Juhika for making him a champion. His wife Sanjana is his life. Sorry, Jaspreet, I didn’t see your game yesterday, but I love you!