The Anchor

JUL 21, 2026

Dear Alpa,

Three years ago, you crossed fifty. I sent you a short birthday note at the time, built on a cricket analogy, and that analogy has stayed with me ever since. Watching you in the years since has convinced me that I undersold it. So consider this the longer letter you deserved, written with the benefit of hindsight.

A half-century is one of the sweetest numbers in cricket. It is a significant achievement that carries the promise of more, usually celebrated with a raise of the bat and sometimes a kiss on the helmet badge. For those who do not follow the game, think of a running back rushing for a hundred yards or a point guard posting a double-double: a feat achieved within a single game, applauded in the moment, and carrying the promise of something bigger, the way a hundred-yard game hints at a two-hundred-yard game and a double-double hints at a triple-double. In cricket, the something bigger is a century, and a fifty is never an accident. It is the mark of a batsman who has put in the hard work: studying the conditions, reading the pitch, respecting the good balls, and punishing the bad ones. And the fifties that get remembered are rarely scored on flat tracks under sunny skies. They are scored on difficult pitches, when the ball is misbehaving and the scoreboard offers no comfort.

Every batting side has its flashy strokemakers, the ones who fill the highlight reels and sell the tickets. But every great side has an anchor. The anchor bats quietly and gives away nothing. She holds one end steady so that everyone around her can play their natural game. She guides the new batsman who walks in nervous at the fall of a wicket, and she supports the set one chasing a big score. She takes no credit when the team wins and all the questions when it loses. Her value never shows up in the highlights; you have to know how to read a scorecard to see it. You, Alpa, have always been our family's anchor. The most dependable one, and if we are being honest, the smartest one too, reading the conditions long before the rest of us knew there were conditions to read.

You are also the one most like your father, though the two of you wore it differently. He was happiest being the Mota Bhai, in the middle of everyone's lives, dispensing advice to anyone who asked and to plenty who did not. You are happiest in your own cocoon, a bit reticent, letting your actions do the talking. But the calm underneath is the same, and so is the steadiness. I once wrote about the lessons your father taught me, and you know better than most the influence he had on my life. He was the anchor at the other end when I was a nervous young batsman new to this country. When I look for him now, I often find him in you.

I will admit something here that I have never said to you directly. Of all my cousins, ours was the bond that took the longest to build. That was an accident of fate rather than a choice. I lived with Aasha and Anupa when I came to America for high school, so I got to know them in the unguarded way you only know the people you share a roof with. Ajay has always treated me as a younger brother rather than a cousin, and I spent many college weekends visiting him in Greensboro when I was at Georgia Tech, a bond that now extends to Sahil and Neema. You were already building your own life by then, quietly and in your own way. So I made my effort where I could. I still remember the road trip a friend and I took from Atlanta to St. Louis to stay with you and Mihir: a Rams game, dinners out, long conversations at your table, and evenings babysitting little Nitya with Mihir's mom. That little girl would one day follow me to Georgia Tech, which delights me to this day.

Then I moved to California, and life did what life does. We lost constant touch, though the Thanksgivings and Christmases kept us stitched together over the years. In cricket terms, ours has been a slow-building partnership. It grew in singles taken patiently over the decades rather than in quick boundaries, and that is the kind of partnership that is well set by the time it matters most. Your visit to Mumbai with Naman in early 2024 proved that to me. We talked like we never had before, about our lives and about the things that test a family. Those conversations will stay between us, but they told me that our best overs are still ahead.

Somewhere along the way, without anyone planning it, our family assembled a proper playing eleven of doctors, and like any good cricket team, everyone has a role. You, the allergist and immunologist, are the one who understands defence better than anyone on the field. Mihir is the genuine all-rounder, an orthopaedic surgeon who repairs the team's frame and a hospital administrator who runs the club. Rushit, the cardiologist, looks after the engine room. Heta, the infectious disease specialist, is the strategist who studies the opposition no one else can see. Aasha, the pediatrician, brings up the young talent, and Anupa, the dentist, makes sure the whole squad can still smile after a tough day in the field. And watching over this team, the way he always has, is your father, our ever-present coach. He played his own long innings as an ophthalmologist, close to fifty years spent helping people see clearly, and any coach will tell you the whole game rests on watching the ball. He may have retired from the field, but his voice is still the one we all hear when we take guard. On the field itself, you and Mihir have been the senior pros, guiding Rushit and Heta the way experienced batsmen guide the newer pair at the crease. They may never tell you this plainly, so I will: your mentorship has meant a great deal to them, and to me.

But here is the thing about a fifty that I did not understand three years ago: it is remembered by what the batsman does after reaching it. Anyone can play a pretty innings when the sun is out and the bowling is friendly. The anchor shows herself when the pitch turns. In the years since your fifty, the game has asked hard things of our family. Aunty needs more looking after now, and you have quietly taken on the greatest share of her care. You brought her to a new home close to yours, and you check in on her weekly, and often daily. No one had to ask you. You took guard and stayed. That is the innings I am really writing to honour, and your father would recognize it anywhere. It is the one he taught us all to play.

You may have guessed by now why I write these letters at all. Your father marked every birthday and anniversary in the family with a poem. He would take the letters of a name and begin each line with one, so that if you knew to look, the name ran down the page. Some of those poems were profound and some were wonderfully silly, but every single one was an act of showing up. I do not have his gift for verse, so I write letters instead, occasion or not. It is my attempt to continue his tradition gracefully, in my own hand. But for you, and for him, let me attempt just one:

‍ ‍Anchors hold one end steady so the rest of us can play our shots.

‍ ‍Long innings are built on patience, and yours is beautifully set.

‍ ‍Pitches turn, and you stay.

‍ ‍Applause is overdue, so here it is, in writing.

Crossing fifty ushered in your golden period, just as it does in cricket. By now you know yourself, and you know the pitch you are batting on. The hard graft of the early innings is done, and the field has opened up for you to play your shots. I hope these years bring you a sense of calm, the settled feeling of a batsman who knows that, like all things before, she can handle whatever the game sends down next. And I hope that now and then, between overs, you raise your bat in your own quiet way and enjoy the moment. You have earned it, and the best of your innings is still to come.

Love,

Rumit