What matters in the end

My grandmother passed away 3 months back. 3 months and 13 days ago to be precise. A lot happened before and after she passed away. Her life and passing away made me realize some important facts about life and more about death.

My grandmother was no less than a third parent to me. I have lived all my life in her presence. She has seen me grow up from a baby to a woman, while I had seen her become a baby from a fine remarkable woman that she was. Life is definitely a vicious circle and growing up with Patti taught me that. With her passing away, the one question that hovers in my head is ‘what is it that really matters in the end’?

July 8^th 2016 was the day my Patti breathed her last. Scenes from the day are hard to forget. They appear like a movie scene right in front of my eyes.  Patti had a fall in the mid of June.  She came to eat her dinner one evening like she always would and all of a sudden she lost balance and fell down. My parents and I were right there and didn’t know what caused the sudden loss of balance. We moved her to the bedroom and comforted her.

For the past year and a half, Patti suffered from moderate dementia. She had difficulty doing her daily chores like using the bathroom or draping her saree, remembering names, and recognizing extended family members including her own sisters. She had difficulty comprehending instructions and expressing emotions be it pain or happiness. If she was happy she would smile and take my hand and give me a kiss.  If she was irritated or angry she would tell me to shut up and leave her room. She behaved just like a child and small things made her very happy. She would nudge my stomach when I sat near her and laugh when I twitched. A piece of cake or chocolate made her very happy. Wearing pink nightgown that I had bought for her made her smile and she would become very sad when it had to be changed. Over the past few years, it was a family custom to have dinner together. All of us would gather in Patti's room to spend the whole evening with her. Patti's room was converted to our living room and dining room. If we ate something different for dinner than what she had eaten, she would ask my mother why she wasn't given the same dinner as others. If any day the custom changed because of an unexpected event like going out for a wedding, Patti became very upset and would question us as to why we left her alone.

Patti had started having falls and blacked out a couple of times in the past two years. It was due to mild TIA or Transient Ischemic attacks the doctors said. Older people were more prone to it. The day she fell down in June 2016, was the last day she walked on her own. She was confined to bed after that for 20 odd days. Multiple doctor visits, a short stay at the hospital and back, nothing made a difference or improved her condition. All her parameters were normal and the doctors had only one answer ‘old age’. Eighty nine and a half wasn’t young, but my Patti was always healthy and she had always fought many such incidents in the past. That made us hopeful. She had even reversed her diabetes with a strict diet. She had no blood pressure or cholesterol issues. Despite her fall she didn’t fracture a single bone.

But this time the situation was different. She would lament she was in pain and often cry that she wanted to go. She had made a resolve to leave the world. Every time she spoke she spoke of leaving and said she didn’t wish to live. No amount of coaxing and cheering her up made her change her mind. She would murmur every night ‘ Bhagawame yenna kootindu poidu’ – ‘ Oh lord, please take me with you.’ One day when she was lamenting ‘I’m leaving’ , I asked her where she wanted to go.

“Very Far”, she said.

“Even I want to go Patti. Let me come with you” , I said.

“You’re too young just shut up. You cannot come there. Go do your work” came the reply.

I was astonished and shocked. She refused to take medicines, food, and even water. She didn’t reply when we would ask her if she wanted to eat or drink or if she was in pain. How did she answer me so cleverly?

The sub-conscious mind is a powerful weapon. I learnt that from Patti. She would never speak but would clench my fist so hard that it hurt. She decided to leave the world and she firm in her resolve. She stopped eating or drinking even water during her last few days. We did coax her but it was in vain. She would clench her lips together and just wouldn't open her mouth. She loved any form of sweet, and even the trick of offering her sweets didn't work.  

On the morning of July 8^th, I asked Patti if she would have Proteinex, a drink she normally loved, and she nodded her head. I fed her 2 spoons of Proteinex mixed with milk, with great difficulty as she refused to open her mouth. My brother had come home to see if things were fine and if we needed any help.  I noticed her breathing was not fine and she was having breathing difficulties. We checked her oxygen concentration and it was around 70. Normally the oxygen concentration should be around 95-100 and anything below 70 was a cause for concern. I immediately called up the doctor and rushed to my uncle's house to get an oxygen concentrator. We came home and fit the oxygen concentrator but her oxygen gone down further and the reading in the pulse oxy meter showed 58.

The doctor arrived and said she had suffered a pulmonary edema, which meant there was excess fluid collection in the lungs and her chances or survival was only 20%. Even if she did survive she would need ventilatory support. We wanted to rush her to the emergency and I was frantically calling for the ambulance. Meanwhile, my mother sensed that Patti might be nearing her end had phoned up her sisters who lived close by. Patti's sisters did not want to put her through the torment of hospital, injections and ventilatory support and wanted her end to be peaceful. She was surrounded by her sisters, her maid who had served her for the last 45 years, her son, daughter in law and her grandchildren. I held her hand for the last time. She had no grip. She threw up the last bit of milk I had given her. Her eyes kept rolling looking at everyone surrounding her as she was struggling to breathe and suddenly she stopped.

While most of us talk about the quality of lives we want to live, hardly anyone talks about the quality of death.  Atul Gawande, wonderfully expresses this phenomenon in his book ‘Being Mortal’. I wonder if death could be gratifying. While it does bring sadness and takes away our loved ones from us forever, it makes us realize that it’s nature's terrible game played with mankind. That’s how I saw it. While death to many is an end of suffering, it is an abrupt end to dreams and future for many. Some are lucky to escape suffering. Some are lucky as they get to say their good byes. But death always leaves questions that are unanswered.

When I think of old age and the kind of old person I want to be, I always think of downsizing. I should be able to downsize all my needs into a single suitcase, light enough that I could carry by myself. That way I wouldn’t accumulate too much junk or wouldn't regret not having used half the things I accumulated during the course of my life.

My Patti didn’t carry anything with her when she left. She hardly wore any jewels except for a red plastic bangle that she had always worn. The red plastic bangle was a gift from her husband who died when she was barely 32, and she would never remove it from her hand at any cost. Eventually, she forgot the sentimental value the bangle had. She carried no memories. 

Patti carried with her a sense of fulfillment, she had lived a long life and decided it was enough. She carried with her love from people around her. She had everyone around her telling her she would be fine and everything is going to be ok when she was dying. These soothing words, however far from the truth, is something we always yearn to hear. Hearing these words from loved ones as we fight our last battle on earth, could define the quality of death. 

Anbulla Rajinikanth

Dear Rajini,

I am writing this in good faith and in the belief that one day you would prove your critics wrong. It disheartens me to see the ridiculous Rajinikath jokes float all over the internet. What disheartens me even more is the fact that none of your movies resemble anything close to what is stated in such ridiculous jokes. But Lingaa proved me wrong. Unfortunately, the climax scene of Lingaa is a testimony to those ridiculous jokes.

I started watching you since I was three. I watched Raja China Roja and you were the hero who could capture my heart when I was barely three. More than your looks, your style made an impeccable impression on fans like me. Your gait, fast paced walk, dialogue delivery, and those piercing eyes were the potent combination that was required for a hero. The story of your life from being a bus conductor to the Super Star of Tamil Cinema inspired and instilled hope in every ardent fan.

You were the hero who was different from the yesteryear heroes, because you were just like the common Tamil man - unassuming.  In an era when Tamil cinema was dominated by Heroes who ran behind trees and applied make up with rouge and lipstick, you broke all stereotypes by making your entry as a hard core, despicable villain. You stunned people with your performances in Aboorva ragangal, Moondru Mudichu, and 16 vayathinile.

Before people could type cast you as a villain, you surprised us with your comic timing in Thillu Mullu, Guru Shishyan, and Dharmathin Thalaivan. You moved audiences and made us weep with roles in Padikaathavan and Dhalapathi.  Fortunately or unfortunately, today you are one of the stars whose stardom and larger than life image overpowers your ability to demonstrate your multifaceted acting skills.

A friend of mine never reads self-help books. She tells me that watching a Rajini film gives her a high and motivates her.  Both of us have watched  Baasha, Annnamalai, Muthu, Padaiyappa,  at least half a dozen times. These movies had the perfect formula of fights/ comedy/ romance and the punch dialogues. Dialogues  like “Kanna, Kettavangalukku aandavan neraya kudupaan aana kai vituduvaan, Nallavangala andavan neraiya sothipaan, aana kaividamaatan” ( Bad people will get many things in life but ultimately god will not help them, God might give a lot of troubles to the good people but ultimately he will help them when needed ) are pills of motivation.  If you listen to the song ‘Vetri Nichayam’ from Annamalai, you’d never find the need for self helps books ever. In the past decade or so there is hardly any dialogue from your movies that has remained etched in my memory.

It pains me to see my hero at the age of sixty, battle with health issues, force himself  pull some moves and dance like a twenty something year old. It pains me even more to see that there is no formula that will help Rajini showcase his acting skills more than his style. It pains me the most to see you trapped in the cloud called stardom, and see you push yourself to perform unbelievable stunts like jumping from a cliff to a hot air balloon and act with actresses half your age.

As an ardent fan, I just have a humble request of you Rajini. We fans want to see you do what you love doing the most –leave everything behind and  just act. Act like a sadistic villain, act like a foolish comic or act like a just the common man.  We don’t expect you to dance, wear lipstick or do stunts that are unbelievable (Like flying in air and kicking a time bomb). We don’t expect you to be larger than life. We love you because of your simplicity and only because you are just like one of us.
Please give us a chance to celebrate you winning a national award. Pleaseeeeee…..

Yours ever faithfully,

A random fan

30 Undeniable facts about the 'Average Indian Male'

1. The average Indian male stares at women.
2. The average Indian male thinks he can woo girls by humming random songs or whistling.
3. The average Indian male aspires to go to Amerikaaaaa.
4. The average Indian made has at least one matrimonial profile.
5. The average Indian male always wants a virgin, slim, and fair skinned wife.
6. The average Indian male never praises his wife. 
7. The average Indian male loves cricket more than his wife. 
8. The average Indian male never buys roses regularly for his wife.
9. The average Indian male thinks he is doing a favour if he cooks for his wife.  
10. The average Indian male doesn't know how to give his wife pleasant surprises.
11. The average Indian male never pulls up the chair for a woman.
12. The average Indian male never gives a woman the way in a crowd. 
13. The average Indian male is pampered by his mother. 
14. The average Indian male wears dirty socks. 
15. The average Indian male watches porn.
16. The average Indian male always idolises another man. 
17. The average Indian male doesn't fold his own clothes neatly.
18. The average Indian male has peed in public at least once in his life. 
19. The average Indian male enjoys jokes about women and so called victimised men. 
20. The average Indian male honks on the road. 
21. The average Indian male slurps.
22. The average Indian male wears a pair of jeans on a beach.
23. The average Indian male gossips.
24. The average Indian male wears at least one gold ornament.
25. The average Indian male holds another man's hand while walking on the road.
26. The average Indian male indulges in self pity.
27. The average Indian male thinks his moustache makes him very manly. 
28. The average Indian male thinks he is witty and humorous. 
29. The average Indian male doesn't mind roaming around topless. 
30. The average Indian male prefers beer over champagne. 

Mane Matters

Just as I was cleaning my cupboard last week, I found something that I hadn't used in years - a bun clip. It was nothing fancy, it was a half concave flap of polyurethane with two holes on either ends to insert a stick that looked like a snooker cue. I don't remember if I had bought it or if one of my aunts had left it behind. I had never used it because I always felt that a bun was to be adorned by older women in their 30's and I still had time.

Buns are out of fashion today. They became out of fashion in the late ninety's or may be even before that. These days when I travel by bus or an auto I hardly find any middle aged working woman adoring a bun. Thanks to the dwindling cost of hair straightening products, the bun has lost its glory. Every woman these days wants to look good, young and have the perfect hair. Permanent hair straightening as they advertise it, although is not permanent gives you a shot lived happiness. On the flip side hair straightening can be compared to a mistress in a man's life. It comes with its own terms and conditions, it is very expensive to maintain, you know its not going to stay for ever and when your relationship with your straight hair comes to an end, you are left counting the few sporadic stands of your original crowning glory.

During the 70's and 80's the bun was the only hair style you could spot on any heroine. It made every woman look naturally dignified with a certain class. Buns came in various shapes and sizes and no matter what dress the actress wore the bun never went unnoticed. When worn with a string of Jasmine flowers around it, the bun did make heads turn. Be it curly hair, wavy hair, medium length, long length, dry hair, oily hair you could bury all your worries about your mane inside your bun. One could even bury a hand grenade inside the bun. Many women prefer the bun more for comfort, than anything else. It is customary for police women, nurses, air hostesses in Indian Airlines and women who work as security to wear a bun. I cant imagine a nurse with free hair flying all over her face giving me a shot.

During summer, I cant sport a hair do other than the bun when I am out in the sun. While denim which was invented for factory workers is still in fashion, I wonder why the bun lost out in the fashion race and has been discarded. The other day I was aimlessly walking around in a mall that was recently opened near my house, and I noticed that only one out of every 5 women who passed by had her hair tied up.The mall was very crowded and people were standing in a queue at the entrance of a few shops. I got in line to enter Big Bazaar and just as I entered inside the air curtains at the entrance worked more efficiently than expected. With the sudden gush of air from the air curtain, a lady's hair tickled the another man standing behind her and he sneezed right away. It was quite unexpected that the residue from his nose would land on her hair.

I wonder who felt more disgusted. Was it the man for he had foreign particles, that too someone else's hair inside his nose, or the lady with free hair who obviously couldn't be free anymore.

Ha Ha Ha

“Mama, Mama!”, “Yes Beta!”
"Can I go out with friends?"
"Yes you can, but don't overspend,
and wear clothes that would offend."

“Mama, Mama!”, “Yes Beta!”
"Can I go to a late night party?"
"No my dear we live in a country,
where men are flirty and play games that are dirty."

“Mama, Mama!”, “Yes Beta!”
"Can I go to the temple and pray"
"Yes but make sure you don’t go astray
and don’t forget to carry a pepper spray."

“Mama, Mama!”, “Yes Beta!”
"I just updated my face book status"
"Make sure you hurt none, at the cost of fun,
you could be chased by a cop holding a gun."

“Mama, Mama!” “Yes Beta!”
“What does the word 'Ban' mean?”
“Ban means to forbid and also
movies, Rushdie, and paintings of a few queens”

“Mama, Mama!”, “Yes Beta!”
"What does the supereme court do?"
"It provides support when the government goes boo hoo
and sends the bad to a human zoo"

“Mama, Mama!”, “Yes Beta!”
"Do we live in a democrazy?"
"Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha."

The Perfect Story

On the perfect day of the year,
At the perfect time of the day,
The perfect baby was born to the perfect parents.

The baby was so perfect, it had no wrinkles,
The perfect parents were proud to have her,
Theirs was one of the few perfectly happy families in town.

The baby grew up to have the perfect childhood,
Reading about little Red Riding Hood,
And her table manners were always good.

She grew up to be the perfect teen,
No pimples or blemishes on her face were ever seen,
Her parents presented her a Lexus when she was sixteen.

She got a perfect SAT score,
She studied the preferred course in the best of grad schools,
She graduated with the perfect job.

She fell in love with the perfect man,
The perfect man was just like her,
He was born a perfect baby to the perfect parents.

Theirs was a perfect love story,
No Complications, no quarrels,
And the perfect couple had the perfect wedding.

The wedding was on a perfect Wednesday,
With the perfect choir, perfect bridesmaids and best men,
The oldest wine in town was served to the guests.

The Sperm from the perfect man,
Fused with the Ovary from the perfect lady,
And they gave birth to the perfect baby.

The perfect Couple’s baby had the perfect childhood,
The most exciting teenage, the best education, a high paying job,
And finally the perfect wedding just like his parents did.

A perfect granddaughter was born to the perfect grandmother,
The perfect grandmother recited stories from her perfect life,
And the perfect baby instantly went to sleep.

There is more to life..

There is more to life than
A Hitler like boss,
Meeting your ever procrastinated plan of weight loss,
And the Indian cricket team winning today's toss

There is more to life than
Honey moons and happy married lives,
Being pregnant and yet so naive,
Or watching a football match live.

There's more to life than
Today's morning being very bright
The movie you saw last night,
I don't care if it's the dark knight.

There is more to life than
What you ate last night,
Or having a dinner amidst candle light,
You don't need to publicize it on a satellite.

There is more to life than

Graduating from an IVy League,
Taking home a glamourous pay-check every week,
And struttin stuff from uber chic boutiques.

There is more to life than,
Facebook status updates,
A 100 likes for a photo of you in a pair of Skates,
Or a living in a private villa in the United Arab Emirates.

There is more to life than
Covering your grey hairs and bald spots,
Trying to become like you're neighbour who now looks very hot,
And appearing to world as someone you are not.

There is more to life than,
The viscious circle we live in,
The tales about us that others spin,
Or thinking about all our sins.

There is no more to life than,
Showing your finger at every adversity,
Laughing at people's absurdity,
And carving for yourself a unique identity.

The Writing Instrument

"Two four four one eight ... " my father was calling out every digit of the telephone number as he was speaking on the phone. He had barely finished calling out the entire series of numbers and the pen in his hand, had imprinted the last drop of ink on the blank piece of paper kept beside the telephone. The thing about pens in every house hold is that, you never find a writing pen when you need one, but you always find them strewn all over the house.

Writing is my fetish, but that is confined to the window of my blog and I don't write with ink on a paper anymore. With almost everything becoming digital, the pen as an instrument does not seem like the most important thing that one needs to carry when they go out. These days the only time I use a pen is when I buy a book to read. I open the first page and write the date on which the book was bought and sign under it, a habit that I have inherited from my father who in turn inherited the same from his grandfather. It helps me keep a record of when I bought the book and for how long its been with me, or sometimes it reminds me of how long its been lying in my shelf without being read.

My father collected about 15 pens lying all around the house, and it so happened that 13 out of the 15 pens did not write and were not in a good condition. My father demanded that I go and get all the pens repaired immediately. I told him that we lived in a generation of use and throw and it would be better to get a set of new pens for the house. I told him that pens are like plastic covers, you use them and throw them. Repairing was out of question. My father's firm conviction and belief in the concept of repair and re-use led me to Rasi pen shop on L.B road in Adyar.

The last time I ever visited this shop was before my final year examination. I grew up buying pens in this shop and I have been loyal to buying pens from Rasi Pens.Over the years the shop had changed, the old man who owned the shop didn't seem to be there. There was a younger man, I presumed that he was the son.The shop had changed a lot in its appearance, a clear indication that business had slowed down. The shop now sold all stationary items from rulers,pencils,sharpeners to fancy watches.There was a glass rack inside which were placed the famous Parker pens and some other pens which had a gold finish. He told me that the money he earned from recharging mobile phones and selling fancy watches and watch straps was much more than what he earned from pens.

I asked the man where his father was and he told me that he had been sick and visited the shop only once a week. As he was changing the refills in the pens that I had handed over to him, he told me that his father did not like venturing into the sale of products other than pens. He used the same tools that his father had used to repair pens and I always loved watching the process of a pen being repaired, cleaned and washed. Repairing the 15 pens that my father had collected cost me 65 rupees altogether.

I came home and found a letter from my bank. They had rejected my form to open an account on the grounds of a signature mismatch between my pan card and the form. As I sat down to practice copying my own signature, I opened a packet of chips this time not using a pair of scissors but of course the pen.

Tamil Cinema's Chauvinism

A few years ago, when the popular Tamil Actress Kushboo made a public statement that women should be careful while indulging in premarital sex and must take appropriate precautions in order to avoid sexually transmitted diseases, the women activists and political parties took to the streets, burning effigies of the popular actress. According to them, Kushboo had questioned the integrity of their Tamil culture and more importantly the integrity of their women. How could a north Indian who came to their land to earn a living, make such remarks. It wasn't something that could be accepted.

A few days back on my way back home from office, I heard a song from a new Tamil movie, whose lyrics seemed outrageously chauvinistic. The chorus of the song was something like this:

Adi da avala ( Beat her )
Odha da avala ( Kick her)
Vidra avala ( leave her)

Vennaam da Venaam Indha Kadhal moham ( I don't need this Lust)
Ponnunga Ellam nam Vazhvin Saabam ( Girls are the Curse of our life time)

After listening to this, the first thought that came to to my mind was questioning the virtues and values of the lyricists and the singer who had agreed to sing the song. I immediately, took out my phone from my bag and goggled the details of the song. the song was from a movie named Mayakam Enna. Both the singer and the lyricist was Dhanush, the son-in-law of Super Star Rajinikanth and the recent national award winner for best actor. His brother Selva Raghavan was the director of the movie.

If this song had been targeted against a particular community or any caste, people would have taken to the streets and at least 50 cases would have been filed against the lyricist, the producer of the movie, the director, the singer and the music director. But this song talks about long lost lovers, who love to blame their women to have dumped them and wail. The dialogues that demean women who have ditched their lovers or husbands, are often welcomed with whistles and applause in the theaters. The heroine of the movies earns respect only if she sides her man, however evil he is.

Why aren't those who questioned Kushboo questioning the lyrics of this song? Is it because the lyricist is a MAN from their own land? Or is it because he is the son in law of the Super Star?. Tamil Cinema, which often portrays its Hero as true men who are dark unwaxed chests, should stop showing heros wailing bitching about their lovers.

As long as songs like these are written and get 12434545 likes on Facebook, with comments like super macha, I am sure that girls won't stop getting friend requests from unknown Karthiks, Rameshs and Sureshs,who sit and while away their time in shady net cafes.

10 Best Ways to Avoid Marriage

If you are in that stage of your life where your parents want to perform their so called last duty for you called marriage and get back to honeymooning, or a stage when the "Single" or "In- a relationship" status seems more appealing than  "Married" then please read on.

10 Best Ways to avoid Marriages in India.

1. Shaving your head: This is highly recommended for women. (Those who aren't regular customers at Dr. Batra's hair fall clinic kindly refrain from such activities).

2. Wearing Braces: This is a temporary stint and can help you avoid marriage for atleast 2 years depending on how awful you appear.

3. Getting a Tatoo or piercing at a strategic location: The more strategic the location, the more easy it is to sabotage the plans of  a life long commitment.

4. To appear as someone who has renounced all forms of communication: Not recommended for those who are already in a relationship. Stay away from Facebook and other social networking sites. No one would want to marry you if you don't have at least an email account or atleast a mobile. This might make your parents a little anxious, but assure them that you are not following the foot steps of Baba Ramdev or Nithyananda and they needn't worry.

5. Faking homosexuality: This has the highest success rate when compared to any other method. If you have parents who are ready to get you married at any cost, then this might boomerang on you.

6. Quoting unrealistic demands: Tell your parents that you would want to marry someone whose name begins with an 'X'.

7. Appearing ungroomed: This is recommended only if you are extremely desperate to not get married and run out of all options. Dress up badly, forget table manners, display the gaseous outflows from your body openly( Burp loudy), scratch your head and pick you nose.

8. Feign depression: This is works only with emotional parents or partners. Warning: Will not work always.

9. Declare Bankruptcy: This should work unless you are a descendent of the Mursi Tribe in Africa.

10. Stick posters of Baba Ramdev, Bappi Lahiri, Rakhi Sawanth, Imraan Hashmi, and Lady Gaga in your room: A good enough reason for people to avoid you. 

Caged

She didn't want to be a free bird,
Exploring the limitless world,
She wanted to be a caged bird,
Living in her own little world.

All alone, left to herself,
She wanted to dance to her own tune,
Sit all alone watching the bright new moon,
With the only companion being her Imagination.

She didnt want to be a part of the herd,
She was a happy caged bird,
Every other caged bird thought she was being absurd,
But lived a happy life as the only happy caged bird.

The Young Urban Professional (Yuppie) - Home Edition®

"I'm just fed up. Fed up of all this competing and trying to come first. What am I even trying to prove. I'm just gonna call it quits Amma!"

It was the third time that I had not made it to the top management schools in the country. What made it worse was that, Dolly got through IIM-A. Night after night we studied together, while talking to each other on the phone we discussed every mock CAT paper, and every time it was me who faired better. It was a matter of a few numbers that changed my life, her life and our life all together.

My phone rang, it was Dolly, " Dude Chill! You'll make it next year. Why do you worry. You missed it in a narrow margin"

"Dolly, What about us? Now you'll pack off to study. What about you, me and everything else?"

"Oh God! You're such a typical man. Stop getting over Senti. Nothing will happend to you, me or us"

"Dolly, I mean you're now gonna meet some awesome guys. Some of them are gonna be the CEO's of the future. I'm never gonna make it like big like them. May be I just want don't want to be them. Look here Dollzz, all that I want out of my life is a happy family with a dog, and some good memories to cherish.

"Oh God! I think you must first stop reading those self help books man. They are so full of baseless nonsense, that teach humans to live like animals.  Listen I know you're worth is more than what a bloody b-school can determine. So Chill. And I'm not going anywhere. I'm on the phone always hon. So Chill. Okay.. I'll just call you back.

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Dear Dolly,

Although I feel faintly suicidal at the moment, I have made up my mind. I have discovered what I want out of my life. You might think that this decision of mine is sudden, and that I haven't given it much thought.This time I am clear and my goals are set. I do not wish to succumb to the pressures of society and digress from this. When I'm 70 years of age all that I want is a happy family and a family photo beside my bed, where everyone is all smiles. I am ready to take the extra step and ready to sacrifice anything for this. My decision has been propelled by two factors. Firstly, my limitless love for you, and secondly the trickle down effect of seeing the difficulties my mother faced as a single parent and a home maker has been the driving force behind my urge to become a successful House Husband.

When man began to take up cooking as a profession, he made a world of a difference to it. It was a man who invented the gas stove, the mixer, grinder, oven, iron and steel without which, there'd be no utensils today. I pay all my respect to that one man who thought of venturing into cooking, and there by changing the face of kitchens world over. The difference is between the way we men work and you women work. Women view cooking as a duty, since men don't view it as a duty we give in a lot more scope for experimentation.

When a man is given a task, it is a simple concept of input versus output to him.Whereas to a woman, for a given input the out put is based on her current mood, feelings, what she is wearing, how messy the task is, whether she would get dark circles after the completion of the task, hormonal fluctuations, what her friends are doing at the moment so on and so forth. This is what I have gathered from my common perception of the men and women I have met, and it is certainly not a random generalization that I am making.

Moreover, I could be a godfather to a new generation of house husbands a certain species of men who'd fold clothes, make the bed, pack Tiffin boxes, change diapers, and do every other womanly task, with great finesse and complete ease. You like the so many other typical dramatic women, might tell me that although I can do every womanly task, I cannot carry the by product of our love making in my stomach. My answer to this is, I am no god to change the chores of nature, all I can do is change my nature. I would give you full time company  when you are on your maternity leave, apart from taking care of all the domestic chores that I am in-charge of. How more exciting can that get?

Moreover, the advent of the house husbands could lay the foundations for new research and inventions. Out of the world products like an automatic diaper changing machine, automatic story telling cum patting machine that would put babies to sleep, an automatic kicker that kicks you out of bed when you are late to work, an automatic nagger that keeps nagging you when you ain't doing the right things at the right time, an automatic emotion booster that would say 'Awwww' in between every sentence one utters, an automatic festival detector that decorates your house for every festival without you having to move a finger,an automatic hunger detector that would keep food ready on the table when one is hungry and many more innovative machines would come into existence. Being a house hubby would be considered of high stature. Many universities would offer diploma courses like ' House Husbandry' that teach you the science behind becoming the perfect house husband.

As the the concept of House hubbies becomes popular, more magazines discussing about topics like ' How to please you wife when she comes home from work'and 'How to be a good motherish father'. The Ads in matrimonial columns would change to 'Seeking a well manner, homely, adjusting, god fearing, well groomed bride groom from a good family'. The only harm that this might cause is that, with the advent of house husbands, feminists and women activists might be rendered jobless. Otherwise, the revolution of House Hubbies would do more good than bad. And guess what? I'd be the forerunner to all this.

I earnestly want to begin this journey towards a revolution with you.

Yours Sincerely,

House- Husband - in the making

PS: You are a complete jerk if you deny this offer.

The Beer Drinking Mataji

I didn't understand what his problem was. Was it me, or my parents? Ours is a open family. To us, consuming alcohol together is not considered blasphemy, or least bit scandalous.

"We cannot continue this anymore. I mean, I'm okay with you drinking, but I can't picture myself saying cheers to your mom. Thats scandalous. I can't accept living with the daughter of a beer drinking Mataji. I guess its better we part ways, our upbringing is different." those were his last words. After that I never met him.

Thirty Five years later history had repeated itself.

My daughter came home crying. She said the man she was seeing had parted ways with her.

"I can't believe that your mom drinks. I'm okay with you drinking, but I cannot say cheers to a beer drinking Mataji.", she told me that those were his last words.

Scams bend the rules for Babajis, but rules are never meant to bent for Matajis.

Transitions

I never count the number of years I have been associated with anyone in my life. This is primarily because of the fact that it reminds me of two things, firstly the time spent with the person always seems less and secondly there is a constant urge to spend more time with the person. I was in class 11 when we first met. It wouldn't be appropriate for me to call it a meeting, since I had just written to him. I don't know if  I still have the letter in my mailbox. Back then, he was a journalist owning a his own little space in a weekly news paper. His story about a woman, who coaxed him into buying her a "pair of black trousers" amused me. The presence of a Yahoo ID printed below his story made me curious. We were still in the age of Yahoo Messenger and cell phones were not as prevelant as they are today. Why not add this man, I thought. I didn't have anything to lose. If he reciprocated, it would be a new beginning, otherwise I'd be just one among the many friend requests he would have declined.

iamtoobrainyforu was quite an interesting Yahoo ID, and its quite tough for anyone to deny a friend request from an id that is so presumptuous. The id gave me all the attention that I never got in real life and I did not complain. So the journalist and I got chatting and before I realised, we were talking each night, all night long until dawn. I still question myself as to what conversations can a man who is in his early thirties and a lady who is barely out of her teens can have? On the outset our story would seem like one of those tabloids on a news paper where two strangers met online, became friends and eventually one of them was taken for a ride. But neither of us expected anything from each other right from day one and the same continues till date.

I became friends with the man, before he started his own blog. We were friends before I began writing. One of the best things to happen to me in my life is writing. The man helped me discover that I could write. One afternoon the time when I was confused about which undergraduate course to join, I went to the yellow smiley beside his name and began lamenting to him. I always wonder if anyone else would have had the same amount of patience to deal with a school girl's cribbing. Anyone else would have brushed me off and said it happens everywhere. But the man told me, "Why don't you write it down?". And hence was born "Frustrations Amalgamated and my first news paper story.

When he began his blog, he often asked for my opinion on what ever he wrote. At 17, I viewed sex as a taboo and was very conscious of even uttering the word. I glanced through a few of his posts and at the very look of  the word sex, I felt uncomfortable and told him that his blog was sick. It never occurred to me that those words would be completely shattering for a man who had just set out on a his journey to become a writer. The man still tells me that he can never forget the day I told him those words, the words I wish I had swallowed. It never occurred to me that no one who meets a 17 year old girl online, would take her seriously. If  they did, it would be only for sex. It was later that I realised, the man sought my opinion on what he wrote because he viewed me as equal to him and my age never mattered. If I ever write anything noteworthy of being printed, I would dedicate the first page to the man and no one else.

Days passed by and years flew by. Yahoo changed to Gmail and people began switching from Orkut to Facebook. But over the years we grew with each other, and so did our writing. And as we grew, the Ganga Mail grew with him and my Frustrations grew with me and made me wise. Today the man is an established writer. We don't talk as often as we used to. On those lonely nights, as I stare into a blank blog screen, even without exchanging a single word between our chat windows, the presence of the green dot beside his name on my friends list renders a feeling of security. The feeling that only the both of us feel. And you can feel that only when you have never counted the number of years you have been associated with somebody.

Cheers!

I don't think I've had enough experience when it comes to relationships. Therefore I refrain from passing any sort of judgment, when it comes to men and a women who chose to be with each other. But I do have a considerable amount of experience of dating a considerable amount of inconsiderate men, which entitles me to define my way of how a perfect date should be. If I feel that my date was a complete waste of time, I rename it to a friendly meeting. I've faced at least at least a dozen of friendly meetings that ended with a handshake, some with a just hug, some with a kiss and some with all the three. But not a single one gave me a sense of fulfillment or the feeling of complete indulgence.

The primary reason I decide to date a man, is to know him better. I wouldn't deny the fact that there is a huge element of physical, emotional or mental attraction involved in it. It is the physical or emotional attraction that propels the urge to know a person better and the reason behind every date. But you don't call every friendly meeting a date. A date is when two persons, who are physically and emotionally attracted to one another, decide to meet with the sole purpose of wanting to know each other better. A perfect date is when two persons ( irrespective of gender) decide to meet anywhere without any purpose, but feel the warmth between each other not necessarily by touch, and at the end of it depart with an enriched mind and a fulfilled heart.

Most dates are like the Deepavali sale you come across at big malls. They come with a conditions apply* tag. You go with the intention of gaining something, but in the end you find that you have shelled out more than what you had planned for, and you always wish the conditions, "no exchange or return" could be reversed. If I dated a man only because of physical attraction, I always lost interest in the first half hour and my attention would sway to a couple of other better looking or even stunning ones seated on the other tables all around me. Sometimes in life we make wrong choices. The best thing about a date is that you don't have to put up with the wrong choice you made for too long. And you could always live with the hope, that the next one would fill the void created by the previous one.

What most of us do during a date is, we begin running a compatibility check. We begin to check if we have similar interests, disinterests, and try to further the chances of meeting again if the compatibility meter showed a high. Measuring compatibility after a single meeting is as absurd as consuming alcohol for taste. It takes a couple of encounters with alcohol, before you decide which drink suits your taste. The experience with the first peg is always bitter. It takes a few bold encounters to get accustomed to the bitterness. Once you are accustomed, you know with which drink you are compatible. Compatibility doesn't occur in the first go. I'd be a complete hypocrite if I would say, I never judge the other person who dates me. I don't run the compatibility check, but behaviors and conversations often lead you into the path of judgment.

I try hard to refrain from judgment of a person's appearance or attire. A few months back, I dated a common friend. We knew each other through a school friend of mine. He texted me a couple of times and we decided to meet. He seemed a nice guy and just when I was considering meeting the man again, an awful thing happened. After the wonderful round of drinks and dinner, when the bill arrived the man insisted that he would pay, unlike the Hazar men who never even offered to dutch, and shamelessly made me pay. He took out his card in style from his wallet and handed it to the waiter. The waiter brought the bills which had to be signed. The waiter had not brought a pen with him, and I immediately got a pen from my bag and gave it to him. He signed the bills and we were still talking while waiting for the final bill. As he was using his hands to talk the man used my pen, to clean the knit in his nails. I made no judgment.

There have been many instances when I have been x- rayed throughout by a person’s eyes, and the only thing  the man carried back was contours of my anatomy, while I had to carry back nothing more than mere disgust. When I say that I've never had a perfect date, it means that I never had anything worthwhile to carry back, besides flowers and chocolates. But yesterday I had an encounter with a near perfect date. The venue was one of the best restaurants in the city. The setting and ambience was perfect, not too flamboyant and not too plain. It was a cozy place. We opted to sit on a couch. Couches give you the feeling of sitting at home, and when you are on a couch, you are forgiven for forgetting your table manners.

The man looked handsome, clean shaven, neatly dressed and as he walked, I could smell a whiff of the Hugo Boss cologne he wore. He was calm, he smiled as he spoke and had many interesting things to say. It seemed as though we hadn’t planned this. We discussed about a lot of books, and even had a minor argument on whether Shobha De was a good writer. The man dropped me back home. We hugged tightly and he made sure he walked with me all the way till the door of my apartment which was on the 7th floor. It was a wonderful evening indeed, but the feeling of fulfillment and completeness was still missing. As I lay on my bed, I began recalling every moment of the evening, starting from our warm hand shake to him dropping me home. Just when everything seemed perfect, I found out the missing link that seemed like a black spot on a flawless mirror. The man had forgotten to say ‘cheers’ before the drink. He had forgotten to toast for our health, wealth and well being. Ah how could he?

Yet another friendly encounter..........

How does it even matter?

Whenever I am posed with a question about where I am from, my answers in turn lead to more questions which very often result in questioning about the social class of my ancestors. Thanks to my not so black hair and a mild deficit of melanin, I am often misconstrued to be a descendant of the area above the Tropic of cancer in the Indian sub- continent. I hate being questioned and I hate it more when the questions pertain to my descent.

Most of the time, I try avoiding such questions or choose to remain silent when I am asked these questions. The reason being, the clan to which my ancestors belong is immaterial to me and I think it shouldn't be of any relevance to anybody today either. Today we live in a world where origin and descent, just pertain to the country one belongs to and nothing more. Every time I refuse to answer such questions and I remain silent, my silence is associated with arrogance.

Here's the scene that unfolds every time I meet someone new at my work place.

New Person: Hi, Where are you from.

Me: I am from Adyar.

New Person: I mean, where are you actually from?

Me: I am actually from Indira Nagar in Adyar.

New Person : Which is your native?

Me: Chennai.

New Person: You are basically from here?

Me: DUH!

New Person: You don't look like you are from here. You look like you have descended from the borders beyond the tropic of cancer.

Me: Err!

New Person: What do you speak?

Me: I speak English.

New Person : Whats your mother tongue?

Me: Its Chennai's official language.

New Person: (Shamelessly) Are you higher?

Me: Silence.......... I studied in a higher secondary school.

New Person: (Doesn't realise I am evading his question): No I mean are you higher?

Me: I am no buyer.

I answer irrelevant things until the person forgets what he/she initially asked. I wonder why someone's descent is of any relevance or importance at the work place. Leave alone work place, I wonder what relevance it has anywhere. As we arm ourselves with technology and prepare to become Global citizens of the world, questions of one descent, or origin are irrelevant.

When we know these questions are irrelevant, why ask them at all. The sad thing is, it is against the HR policies of a company to ask one about his/ her salary. It is considered ill mannered to ask someone his/ her age. But we shamelessly prod into questioning one, about his/ her ancestral clan.The sad part being, the person who is questioning never realises that he is asking something that he shouldn't be asking.

Invariably, nine out of ten times it happens that every man I meet, would first question me about my descent, or try to decipher it by decoding my name. I'd prefer the man who's hitting on me to tell me that I look sexy ( trust me it makes my day) rather than ask me if I were higher or lower.  Higher or lower? Does it really matter?

Of Middle Age Masalas

I am a MASALA woman. Now don't assume that I am a self proclaimed part of the SPICE girls and look like Victoria Beckham. MASALA is the Middle Aged Severely Agitated Ladies Anxiety Syndrome. I manage both, menopause on one hand, and a balding husband whose belly seems like he's pregnant with a twin Hippo on the other. I hope now you understand the reason for so much of MASALA in my life.There is a myriad of problems associated with the MASALA syndrome and all of them begin with an 'M'. Starting with Money- you always have to think about saving and not spending, Managers, Maids, Mother- in- law, Mutual Fund Investments that never yeild returns, mugging up the map of India with your 12 year old kid, Multi-tasking,  Microsoft operating systems, Mallika Sherawat - my husband is her fan, Marriage, the Maruti-800 thats on the verge of death, and the list that leads to My MASALA syndrome is endless.

Middle age is usually between your late twenties and early sixties. About 30 years of your life, you live in the middle of nowhere, hoping to get somewhere at the end of it. You battle dark spots, wrinkles, stretch marks, and hairfall only to accept defeat, and when you touch the sixty mark you convince yourself that it is a natural phenomenon.  The only two women who have won this battle with conviction are Shobha de and Hemamalini. I am 40 years old, and I have to fight 20 more years of middle age, before I  am crowned as a senior citizen, and the Indian Railways can bestow me with economical fares.

Being the average Indian Woman who works in a corporate I need to juggle between my identity as a professional, wife, mother and a daughter-in-law. I need to keep up with the ever changing versions of softwares so that I am not termed as obsolete,and can battle out the game called appraisals on an equal platform with men who are half my age, and bear not even half of what responsibilities I carry. I need to update my wall quite often, treat and tweet along with the virtual society so that I can show the world that apart from being a woman with MASALA syndrome, I am pretty cool. I need to remind my husband who is more worried about stocks than our diminishing intimacy, that I might be a MASALA woman but I need love and loads of it to relax. I need to play Mortal Kombat with my kids and watch Animes with them, otherwise I get branded as a boring mom. I need to watch soap operas and visit temples along with my mother-in-law once in a while, so that I don't get branded as the outrageous, ill- mannered Bahu. My identity is caught between a smart professional, loving wife, interesting mom and obedience. At the peak of outrageous anxiety, the only four letter word I can use is Fool and nothing more. I constantly remind myself that I am a mother now, which means that I need to safeguard my kids from words that they ought not to know at their age.

If I ever refrain from wearing my Mangal Sutra or Bindi, it would be blasphemy. I not only need to carry responsibilities but wear them and showcase to the world that I am a married woman who suffers from the MASALA syndrome. Its been ages since I wore my trousers and shirts to office, while I still appreciate the women who carry off their trousers with a pair of gold bangles, toe rings and a little bit of Kumkum on their foreheads. At the same time, I find women of my age saying the common dialogue "How can I wear this ( what ever it is ) at this age?" Age never as anything to do with wearing things, sharing or for even pairing.  Middle age is the only age where you are forgiven for a bulging tummy and out of shape body. Everyday, I need to swtich between gym clothes, office wear which is usually a Salwar Kameez and if its a friday, a saree and some appealing apparel for parties that my husband never cares to notice. Phew, I adorn a new attire for every avatar that I transform into as each day unfolds. 

The only time I get for myself, is during my time at the parlour. I go to the parlour usually on Saturdays, to spruce up a little and feel good about myself. A facial would at least cover up my dark circles and never ending wrinkles. I don't even remember the last time I bought Pond's age miracle. It has been in my bag ever since and I keep reminding myself to get into a routine of applying it each night, but routines never change. Just as I get my strawberry pedicure done, my black berry would ring. My kids would ask me when I would be back home and demand for a Kinder Joy. Damn these advertisements. They know the perfect ways of getting kids to torment their parents. The other phone call would be from my maid, who'd invariably call to let me know that she wouldn't be coming the next day. I have instilled the corporate culture of calling up when you are taking leave in her. 

Thanks to MASALA, my mother gave up singing when she was 26, after she became pregnant with me. She would often tell me that she gave up on her dreams so that I could achieve mine. I would often retort back saying stop cribbing and lamenting. I would quote " If there is a will there is a way".  I dread the day when my daughter grows up and says the same thing to me. Until I got married, until I reached middle age and until I became a MASALA woman I never realised what Amma had gone through. Middle age makes you weigh your dreams against reality, and passion against practicality. 

What makes Maska Chaska ( 50-50 ) biscuits taste better than Marie biscuits is the Masala. It is the MASALA that adds spice not only to our food but also to our lives. It makes our food eatable and life livable. 

I wish I Were a Pig

If you remove the first letter from the word Fairy and replace F with an H, you get the name that I adorned once upon a time. I even hate to mention the word 'Hairy'. It was in class 11 that I first started becoming conscious about having facial hair. I remember the first day of school after the board examinations, there were many new students who had joined and one girl named ‘Waxed Skeleton (WS)’ came up and sat next to me. She scanned me from head to toe, as if she was preparing for my postmortem. She stared into my unshaped eye brows, my un-waxed hands and made me realize the presence of a mush I never had.

Miss Waxed Skeleton soon changed her place and sat next to the girls who had uprooted what they thought was unwanted off their skin, and made sure it shone like the glaze of morning sunlight on water. WS was one woman who always preferred wearing miniskirts and short sleeves. Her eyebrows were perfectly shaped, her eye lashes were of the perfect length and her hair was coloured with copper streaks. She was one woman who never had a bad hair day and her hair do was always perfect. She came to school in a chauffeur driven Ambassador car and tip toed her way through the corridors so carefully, making sure she never hit against anything or anyone. It wasn't long before everyone started raving about her looks and she was the new sensation.

WS proved to give a huge complex to girls like me, who did not drive to school but instead rode to school, wearing a single plait and pinned our Dupattas to either ends of our shoulders. In life sometimes we hate people without a reason. We hate some stars although we have nothing against them. There are people whom we hate with a strong conviction. For me, WS was on that list. I hated her for multiple reasons. She dated the second biggest crush of my life, and she called me badly groomed and hairy. It was she who gave me the name that gave me the biggest inferiority complex of my life. I wasn't hairy by choice. It was nature that conspired against me and sowed too many seeds of Keratin under my skin, that sprouted out as dead black long cells to make me look badly groomed and wo'manly'. In class 11, grooming to me meant nothing more than wearing starched white ironed uniforms, polished shoes, having clean nails and neatly combed hair.

Grooming to us humans is about what we shouldn't be doing rather than what we should be. Our definitions change as the perceptions of the common majority change. Today, our definition of Grooming would not match that of Adam and Eve's, and their definitions would not agree to that possessed by Ramapithecus. To suit a hypothetical proposition of grooming proposed by a hair- free majority, to get oneself a good groom and later to appeal to him, every woman goes through a painful ritual. The worst part is that we have to pay for the pain.

With utmost courage in my heart, I went to get myself groomed and more importantly rid of not just hair on my skin, but also the name that I disliked the most. I went to ' New Star Shiny' beauty parlour. The board outside had a photo of the Bollywood actress Kajol and a note saying 'Only for ladies and kids'. As I entered, a woman escorted me to a separate room and there I was paying for pain, pouring a hot liquid over my skin and uprooting a layer of it. Every time she poured the hot liquid over my skin, I clenched my teeth and tears rolled out of eyes. As I came out after the ordeal, looking like a victim of the Bhopal gas tragedy, only one thought ran over my head.

I WISH I WERE A PIG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Bathroom Chronicles

When Shahrukh Khan spent about Rs 15 crores in building his bathroom, which has a splendid library inside, the world viewed the man as an arrogant celebrity. He was accused of spending too much on self indulgence, and the media drew nasty comparisons of him with other celebrities, who spent their money in adopting kids from various countries and contributed to charity in a large way. The world could not decipher the hidden message behind his action of building a bathroom whose money could have been used to feed a lakh of children three times a day 365 days a year instead. Showing people a way that can transform their lives is equivalent to charity if not better. Shahrukh Khan has done that.

The bathroom is the only place where you are blessed with complete solitude. You have the luxury to admire things about yourself that no one ever knew. It is the only place in the world where you can be who you are, without having the fear of being judged or laughed at. In a country like ours, where space is a huge constraint not only in queues or parking lots, not all of us have the luxury of a separate room and spend what is known as 'Alone Time'. Schools in Europe and America give their kids what is known as Alone Time, whenever a child does something wrong. The children are asked to to stay alone and ponder over their actions. Not only children but even adults require some 'Alone Time'. In a normal household if anyone is found quietly sitting and thinking about something, he or she is prodded and asked a zillion questions. If you tell someone ' Please leave me alone' you are often tagged as acting pricey or moody. The only place where you can have 'Alone Time' without being prodded or nagged is the bathroom. The best thing about being in the bathroom is that, inside the bathroom, you are your own friend and you are your own enemy.

When you are irritated or angry, it is the bathroom that listens to you patiently without giving you unwanted advice. When depressed, it is the bathroom that takes your tears and welcomes you each time with an open door. You can sing, shout, scream, and cry at the same time when you are in there and no one would ever question you. The walls of the bathroom are always audience to every kind of music and any kind of singer.

A good bath gives one a good heart. The days I wake up late, the process of my daily ablutions is nothing more than brushing my teeth while I simultaneously wash my face and pour two mugs of water over myself. These are the days I come groggy to work with an incomplete feeling. These are the days where I have to coax your mind into work. An incomplete bath gives you an incomplete feeling. Your mind is cross with you that you didn't give it enough time to snap out of the previous night's dreamy fantasy, while the pores of your skin are unhappy that they didn't get scrubbed well. Your mind and you body fight against you at the same time.

Science says that a good bath improves blood circulation in the body and improved blood circulation means you brain becomes more alert. When depressed, there is nothing better than a Jacuzzi or a spa that can make you feel nice. It gets you high while you are grounded. If you can't afford a Jacuzzi a good bath can give you just the same feeling. Lifeboy has been advertising this message for 115 years now.While you visit history, it is said that King Louis XIV (1638-1715), King of France, the Sun King, had a bath only thrice in his entire life. No wonder his life was quite depressing and all he could think of was war and no peace. Had the king known the importance of bathrooms he wouldn't have built the palace of Versailles without a single bathroom.

The special thing about a bathroom is that it treats you the way you treat it. If you keep it clean and neat it gives you a nice feeling. Messy bathrooms with dirty creatures crawling can render you sleepless for nights together. In our country most of us seek solace in temples and snow filled mountains. We believe that meditation can help cleanse our mind. If only everyone of us treated the bathroom like a temple, there could be no better place to cleanse one's mind, body and soul. To me, the first step to living a luxurious life lies in a clean bathroom. I wouldn't mind spending all my life's earnings in building a dream bathroom. To me, it is my self discovered path to knowing myself. All of us cannot afford a bathroom worth fifteen crores. What all of us can afford is at least a clean bathroom.

Never disregard the bathroom for it was the place where Archimedes had his eureka moment. Spend time and have a good bath, for it could lead you into the right path.

Needy Friends

It was 12-30 A.M. Just the day before Deepavali. I was working on an important presentation that I had to deliver at 9 A.M. While I was clicking through it, slide after slide, the phone just rang. It was Piglet. Piglet was my friend since college. We had known each other for 12 years now. Our lives had changed, our destinies had changed, but we remained good friends. We hadn't spoken to each other for a long time and since he was calling at an odd hour, I knew there was something terribly wrong.

I picked up the phone and piglet broke down instantaneously. He had lost his job. I simply didn’t know how to react. I was patiently listening to his story while scanning through the slides on the other hand. Dealing with two important tasks at the same time is like dealing with twins. You need to give both of them the same amount of attention, so that neither feels deprived and you feel satisfied. Six years into investment banking had taught me how to juggle two things at the same time. And then out of the blue, I told him not to worry and assured him of a job in my firm just to make him feel better. As I finished speaking a few soothing words, I got a call from my girl friend. Since I was speaking with Piglet, her call was waiting.

She had been away for a while since her father was ill. We hadn't spoken in weeks. Her father had been diagnosed with leukaemia 3 months back and has been battling for life ever since. I told my friend I'd get back to him and picked up her call instantaneously. She broke down very badly. Her father was no more. When someone so close faces a huge loss it is best to let them pour out their emotions first. Never try knocking sense into an emotional person's head. Sense and emotion never go hand in hand. This was another lesson that I had learnt from the six years as an investment banker. I listened patiently and told her she needed rest and asked her to take care of her mother. Just as I finished telling her this, my phone ran out of charge.

I had spoken for three and a half hours continuously. The battery was bound to croak it. I quickly rummaged through my room looking out for the mobile charger. It was nowhere to be found. I then recalled that I had left it in my bay. I had no option but to get back to both of them in the morning. I had left my phone on charge during the presentation. After I returned from the presentation I switched on my mobile to see twenty five unread messages. Fifteen were from my girl and the rest were from Piglet. Half the messages read 'U there?' One of the messages was “ A friend in need is a friend indeed.”

I called them up and had to spend an hour convincing them about my situation the previous night. I was accused of never being there when needed. My girl friend accused me of giving more importance to my friend while Piglet accused me of giving undue importance to my girl friend, and that I had forgotten what friendship meant.

While driving back home, I recalled an incident that happened 28 years back. It was the third day at school. I had made friends with two boys. I preferred boys over girls, because they played with cars and not Barbie dolls. One of them was named Swaminathan and the other boy was Toni. I declared that Toni would be my best friend because he was generous enough to give me 3 Parle poppins on the very second day of school. Swaminathan, Toni and I would always be seen together.

One day after school, while we were eagerly waiting with water bottles hanging around our necks and handkerchiefs pinned to our pockets, for our rickshaws and vans to drop us back home, Swaminathan's mother came to pick him up. She saw the three of us standing together and asked Swaminathan "who is your best friend?" Swaminathan pointed to me and said,"He is my best friend and Toni is his best friend". His mother smiled and enquired “So who is Toni's best friend?" Swaminathan said "He is our best friend."

We were best friends. We never knew what friendship meant.