Tujhe Dosti ki Kasam!

The other day, the most random thing had me pondering over friendship and it's many avatars.

Much against the boy's strenuous protests, I decided to watch Sanjay Leela Bhansali's latest magnum opus. The reason - a couple of my acquaintances  had worked on the movie and hey, it was a Bollywood movie! In this land of goras that I'm stuck in thanks to the boy, a dash of Bollywood every now and then helped keep me "Indian". 

I had pretty high hopes from the movie; after all, these friends of mine had received such glowing praise from THEIR friends all over Facebook. In fact I felt kinda guilty that I hadn't taken the time out and watched the movie earlier. 

It started off with the usual blindingly colourful frames, grandiose sets, OTT costumes that are signature Bhansali. However, instead of the lyrical romances that you've come to expect from Mr. B, here was a tapori Gujju drama that was trying simply too hard to be funny. Or make any sense whatsoever. 

Out of respect for my loyalties towards my friends, the boy gnashed his teeth through a full 25 minutes of the movie. But when the 3rd song and dance routine in 25 minutes came on (set to a terrible music score), all his finer emotions went flying out of the window and the boy fled the room, making the lamest of lame excuses. 

I sat through the rest of the 2 hours left of the movie, wondering all the time about what all those people meant on Facebook when they called this movie the best thing to happen to India after vada pav (Yeah, I miss Mumbai.)

This got me thinking of the various sub-species of friends that we cultivate over the years. 

Jai & Veeru - Chaddi buddies personified

There are the Office Friends - you bitch with them about all that's wrong with your workplace, share your lunch and a few wisecracks with them, but you know when you walk out of the building they're are filed away till the next dreaded day of work. 

Then there are College Friends. You shared memories, beers and innumerable assignments with these guys. You meet them rarely these days, but each time you do, you make a million promises to 'do this again soon'.

School Friends occupy a more sepia toned space in your head. It shocks you each time you see the present version of your skinny, unkempt school buddies - they are (with very few exceptions) at least 10 kilos heavier, their head is lighter by at least 10 grams of hair, and they often have a wailing, attention seeking appendage in the form of a baby (or a spouse, in some cases). 

City slickers would have Building Friends or Colony Friends who were your partners in crime in the evenings after school, but these days bump into you only during Annual General Body Meetings, in line for the free food during Navratri or Ganesh Chaturthi or at the local barber's where a face to face conversation could cost you half an ear lobe.

If you live in Mumbai, you definitely have some Train Friends. You exchange notes on the latest movies, together you haggle with canny vendors peddling random crap on the train,  you save a seat for them when you manage to jump on board before them, heck; you even sing along with them all while you make your daily hour hour long commute to work and back. 

Then there are your Chaddi Friends. These guys have known you since the time you were in your chaddis, they've bailed you out of seriously sticky situations with your parents, they've endured your mopey periods of heartbreak, they've been happier than you were for your small successes, they've cried with you and called you names, they've emptied their wallets for you when the need arose and hung around even when you shooed them away. This the the sub species that inspires sing-alongs on motor bikes with side cars attached, these are the guys who play starring roles in that magical motion picture that has all the requisite Bollywood ingredients - drama, emotions, humour, bad hairstyles and larger than life set pieces - our most cherished memories. 

Dear God, grant me an extra day with this honest-to-God, bitchy, tell it like it is sub species than having to put up with 528  'FB Friends' who don't even know my middle name. Any. Frigging. Day. 

Wet, wet, wet

There's something about the rains that awakens the poet in people. Something about the dewy freshness of the trees around you that makes the day worth looking forward to for millions. Something about the earthy aromas that tease your senses post a gentle drizzle that makes Bollywood actresses shimmy around in wet sarees lip-syncing to pseudo erotic numbers.

I, unfortunately, do not belong to this ocean of monsoon lovers. For me, tropical monsoons + big city chaos  + Indian infrastructure = 4.5 hours of commute time to and fro from work. Am I complaining?

Hell, no. As Ross Geller from F.R.I.E.N.D.S said in one episode about his long commute to and from work, "I've been given the gift of time!".

Mumbai suburban boat

This is the time that I use to ponder on why the beach front at Chowpatty had all it's lights blazing at 11:30 a.m. today or why rickshaw unions went on a flash strike to protest the effects of inflation on the 'common man'  leaving common women like me standing in a queue for over an hour to get  a rickshaw and head home. Sometimes these musings are nudged aside by the thoughtfullness with which the Mumbai P.W.D ensures they start work on flyovers, roads and bridges in May each year, hence adding to the exciting joyride that we all die for in the ensuing monsoon months.  

As raindrops keep falling on my head relentlessly, I make a mental note to kidnap Lord Indra and make him travel by suburban Mumbai trains in the rains for the next 28,765 years.

Go figure!

How many of us could do 500-125 in our heads at the age of 6, in 30 seconds flat? Count me out. (In fact, I'm not sure if I can do that even now in 30 seconds flat :P)

Which brings me to this waist high, chubby, colourfully pigtailed little girl who sells jewellery on the 09:03 Thane - Mumbai CST local train. Dressed in a long floral skirt and a matching top, this little girl scampers between rush hour crowds in the Ladies Compartment, carrying 2 trays loaded with clear plastic jewellery cases on her head between plump ladies squabbling over the '4th Seat', harried latecomers trying to squeeze into the compartment and women peacefully dozing on their neighbours' shoulders.

Speaking of neighbours, the college girls sitting beside me were the reason this little girl now stood expectantly in front of my seat, her soft black eyes filled with the hopes of a good early morning sale. After much picking and choosing, one of the girls finally settled on a 'pearl and diamond' jewellery set.

"How much?" she asks and the little girl replies "150 rupees".
"Way too much! I'll give you 100 rupees for this" says the college girl, "No aunty, that's not even my cost price."(Economics at 6!)
"Ok, 110 rupees then." says the girl, as her friends snicker at 'aunty'. "Make it 125, and I'll not ask for a penny more" says the cherub with a sudden smile displaying a perfect set of pearly whites.
The girl, taken aback by this new tactic in haggling, quietly hands over a 500 rupee note to the kid.

It was at this point that I really got interested and what did I know, amazed too. Within seconds, the kid whipped out two hundreds, two fifties and then with another hundred rupee note in her hand came to me asking "Aunty (grr..), could you give me change for 100 rupees?"

I handed over the change to her, she carefully counted out the notes and gave exactly 375 rupees to my neighbour. Filled with a mixture of admiration and pity, I asked her "Do you go to school?". She looked my way, gave me a smile as bright as the knickknacks in her tray and said with pride "Of course! I'm in first grade"

As she gathered her wares in preparation for her next pitch, all I could do was wonder whether this little kid working the suburban trains each morning was a victim of oppression or a fighter; whose job helped her educate herself, adding wings to an already nimble mind.