Hardik Rajgor

I n my callow youth, I’ve had many flings. My passport was my first love; I remember holding on to it for dear life as I took my first flight abroad. When I turned 18, my driving licence, my gateway to make all my testosterone-fuelled  Fast and Furious  dreams come true, came into my life. This was followed by the voter ID card, definitive proof that I was now an adult worthy of electing the esteemed representatives of our country. Soon after I had a short, summer romance with the PAN card (although we were more like  friends with benefits ) I don’t regret any of these relationships. They all did their bit for me, helped me grow into the person I am today, and I’m still friends with most of them. But they failed to complete me; I couldn’t see them as an integral part of my life. I wanted something more from my partner. And then on a fine winter morning in January 2009, I met  Aadhaar . It was love at first sight. I was awestruck the moment Aadhaar scanned my eye...

W hen you grow up in a middle-class home, outlets for creativity are limited, much like political options in India. Right from  school , pursuits like drawing,  singing , and craft are considered “extracurricular activities” — basically a waste of time. If you excel at them, the only stage you’re offered is at family functions where dad tells you “Beta, uncle ko ganaa gaake sunao” or “Beta, dadi ki liye birthday card banao”. As a career choice, art is considered the bottom of the barrel. If you told your parents, you wanted to join a design school, they’d sit you down to tell you, “Yeh ameeron ke shauq hain, beta.” Only rich people can afford creative careers, because “scope nahi hai”. Middle-class folks are required to curb their creativity the same way Hardik Pandya curbs his attacking instincts in  Test cricket . However, there is one festival which turns into a mosh pit for the creative types – Ganesh Chaturthi. Ganesha is the God of Fun, associated with music, ...