Let’s meet up

So she called me.

It’s tough be in touch with friends, I understand. There’s work, career, social life, kids, husbands, television, movies to catch, things to buy, status messages to update, maid politics to manage, people to poke, ping or whatever it is they do these days, pedicures to get (although I think a pedicure is the best time to make pending calls to friends), sex to think about but not have, gossip to spread..

So you need time and consistency of purpose to be in touch. So I never complain when someone is not in touch or hasn’t popped into my inbox in a while. There are friends I talk to once a year. Some who I meet once in five or ten. But that’s ok. There’s no pretence of trying, but not being able to make it, or feeling guilty about not trying .

What’s not okay is someone who actually calls you when they need something. But they make it out to be about a bonding that never was. “I have been meaning to call, but just been so busy running around,” she explained. I never understand what that means, unless someone is getting married or house-hunting, in which case I do.

I am sure I am a target for such calls since I am a reservoir of information and contacts, or resourceful enough to get it even if I don’t have it (and it started way before my media job). I don’t have a problem with that.  You need information. I have information. You call me. I give it to you.

But then, don’t disguise it as a chat call. Or a ‘I called because I thought of you’ call. Say it like it is. I called because I wanted a favour, a number,  a pass to something, whatever.

She: How have you been? How’s R, D, your friend x, friend y?

Me: (gives her all the dope while wondering where this is going)

She: It’s been so long! We must meet up!

Me: Sure. Say when, and I’ll show up.

She: By the way, your friend z? Isn’t she a designer?

Me: (Realising that there is an agenda to this) Yes, why?

She: I wanted to talk to her because I wanted some information on a story I was working on.

Aha. So that was it. So much for thinking she was actually interested in how my boy and my cats were doing.

Recently an ex-colleague called me, all chatty and chirpy, and asked me if I had a nanny. I presumed one of two things:

a)     She was pregnant and wanted one

b)    She wanted to do a story on nannies

It turned out to be b. But at least she didn’t make it to be out about anything else, or pretend she wanted to do a movie or lunch or some such sacred metaphor for friendship.

Moral of the story: It’s totally okay to call people only when you need something from them. At least have the balls so say so.

Must do lunch

You know a scam when you hear one. In my book, “Must do lunch” makes it quite high on the list. Coming close are “Must meet up”, “Have to catch up”, “We must chat,” or “Let’s have coffee sometime”.

I have a quick detection program for such scammers. I set a date. “How about Tuesday?,” I ask. It is enough to sift the ones who want to do the work from the ones who don’t. For the doers, I’d do anything. Cook up a storm, negotiate downpours, ignore cats, travel great distances, drive on second gear, anything. And they would return the gesture in ample measure.

Which brings me to wonder why people say things they do not mean. I am not talking about the dating game or work politics or filmi interviews. But food? And eating! Why mess around with that?

Unlike, “Must meet for a drink,” “Must do lunch” is three words not to be used shabbily and without sincerity. It is certainly not like clicking “like” on Facebook which essentially comes with no set of deliverables, no call for action, nothing.

To me, food dates are sacrosanct. I find it easier to cancel on someone going clubbing than having lunch with them. And I would never suggest food and not mean it. It’s just not on. It doesn’t take much. Not a great table or silverware or French wine, just a desire to bond over food, which I find a great leveller. Unlike alcohol for instance, which sort of blurs the real issues and makes you micro focus on the idiotic ones.

I know we live in Bombay and there’s all that traffic and work sucks and no one’s getting laid, so more is the misery, but none of this is reason enough to not “do lunch” if you have proposed it. So what if you had a nervous breakdown and are busy recuperating. You still have to eat, right? Or if your dog died. Or your cat gave birth, and you didn’t know she was pregnant. Or if you have graduated from having bad hair days to having a bad hair life. Now, I mean I am not dating you or wishing to date you or anything. Just that you proposed an idea and I am suggesting how we take it further. When I want to do lunch with someone, I do something really simple. I fix a place or invite myself or the other person over for lunch, and it’s done.

So. If you really want to "do lunch" with someone, well, you just have lunch with someone. So whether or not you pray or love, eat!

Now that I’m in possession of a child, it’s graduated to “Must do play-date.” But more about whiny moms later.

Happy happy

Birthdays and babies are like visa-not-required ports. Almost anyone has the right to engage with you to wish you on your birthday or likewise, when you are with child, and there’s no need of clever lines to open the conversation.

So it’s a free for all, including mutual fund managers, personal bankers and insurance agents, Facebook friends, cute boy in the yoga class, PR insects, or anyone in your mailing list. And everyone deserves a thank you.

I somehow grew up on minimal birthday fuss in my childhood (being a May baby meant not being able to flaunt the birthday cake the mother baked, as most of the friends and neighbours were off to cooler climes, wearing polo necks and skiing or rolling in snow, ala Rishi Kapoor and Neetu Singh of yore), but birthdays have been getting more and more populated as I justify my greys. Almost enough to have a ready template for replying to messages/calls/emails.

As for the mother, the husband, the siblings, the BFF, the favourite aunt and cousin, birthday wishes are a given and slighting in any way will be an unpardonable offence, so they stick to what they do best, i.e celebrate you.

But outside of that, almost anyone has a free chance to “like” you on your birthday, or use terms of endearment, everything in the past forgiven. For potential crushes or fans, birthdays are an open window in the era of Facebook. Whether it’s the wall or a message is a choice they have to make, and whether to reply or not is a choice you have to. But how can one ignore a birthday wish? It seems wrong, somehow.

For contentious relationships, birthdays are a way to tell you, “Yes, I am still pissed, so I am not going to wish you on your birthday, see!”

So there were people who were conspicuous by their absence. May be my acerbic tongue might have said something they didn’t want to hear. May be we have outgrown each other and our friendship has reached its expiry date. May be it’s a decadent relationship that has lost its fire and is not worth stoking any more. May be we are just not into each other like we used to be. May be they just don’t have Facebook or birthday calendars or phones with reminders or just a good memory.

And then there are the excuses. “Oh, no, my Facebook page isn’t showing birthdays anymore.” Or, “I forgot to put a reminder on my phone.”

For unresolved romances or relationships that haven’t had closure, it’s a point of re-entry. “Yes, I still have feelings for you. See how I can’t seem to get your birthday out of my system?”

So ex-boyfriends, new flames, admirers and fans (not that I am trying to show off but you know what I mean) can all happily coexist under the birthday radar, say their piece and leave, if only to return after a whole year.

But then, as they say, keep the good energy flowing. It can never hurt, can it?

An inconvenient truth

Friendship is not always convenient. There was a time when you dropped everything that you did for a friend. And friends did the same for you. Now is a time when people ask you to drop by “If you are this side” or “If you are not doing anything” and making plans to “catch up” which they have no intention of keeping.

This is an age of promises, of “must do” and of “like.”

Why doesn’t anyone say, “Come and see me?” or, “Can I come and see you?” Why would I want to do anything else if you want me to do something with you? After all, you are my friend and you happened to me much before the trappings of marriage, motherhood et al.

And yet, friendship, unfortunately does not operate on autopilot and takes work. Sometimes much more than a relationship. Since most of us have more friends than relationships, it takes work on different counts. And some people are more demanding, more complex, less articulate about their feelings than others, so you have to read between the lines.

I thought I was good with the motions. I never wanted to be one of those people who ‘forgets her friends once she is married,’ so I try harder to prove myself. Sometimes it is confusing, as people still look at you suspiciously when you say, “Call any time you want to unload, or you feel like a home-cooked meal” (that much therapy I can do for friends anytime)

But when you move from the world of singles to doubles (in my case, threesome, or fivesome, if you count the cats), there is a kind of reluctance that comes in making a plan with you. It’s like you are being punished for leaving the singletons’ clan, or that you have to try harder to be taken seriously, or that you are guilty until proven innocent. I think it’s unfair.

Yes, it is about maximising, and yes there are friends who would club you with airport rides or visits to Oshiwara furniture market, and it’s not that Bombay is such a large city, but I am willing to let that pass.

It’s almost as though the motions of friendships have changed from calls to text messaging. And that’s another can of worms altogether. The instant reply versus the delayed reply. The instant call-back versus the delayed call-back. It’s like saying, “Yes, I know you called/texted, but I have a life full of things to do, so it took me time to reply.” Do people really think that an instant revert means you are just sitting around with nothing to do?

So then, there are friends I have known for decades, now all measured about putting themselves out, and I am left wondering what did I do. Why so? Why has friendship (aside of a few exceptions, and thank god for that) become political? My theory is: it’s the imbalance of life. There will always be someone who has more money, a better job, a dream house, more sex, more friends, better networking capabilities than you, but in my world, friendship has always transcended such politics. Or has it really?

Till meet do us part

Reunions make me queasy. I am not one of those people who had a Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na campus life, I haven’t gifted anyone a kitten (though I still believe that gifting someone an animal is a very contentious issue) and I have never danced with Pappu and Co. at a friend’s birthday party.

I would say that 40% of my life on campus was miserable. For most of my professional degree years, chasing first, a Bachelors’ and then a Masters’ in Pharmacy, I was miserable, and wanting to be someplace else.

Why did I waste a seat? I am still asked.

Forget the seat, I almost wasted my life. What about that?

It has taken years, almost decades to wipe out those memories and make new ones. Why then, would I want to go for a college reunion?

Well, for one, the person who asked me is someone I like and found redeeming in the whole experience, although, even then, he was largely a nerd, and chased the clichéd going-to America-doing- a PhD-finding-a-suitable girl-and getting married-and-living-happily-ever-after-dream. But he had the balls to call a spade a spade, and make no bones about his dream. There were a couple of others too who alleviated my state of misery, but about the large majority, the less said, the better.

There are people in your life who turn you into who you are simply because you don’t want to be like them. Running into such people and their sterile auras is reminding yourself about the ‘you’ that was.

Most were just roll numbers—I know them more for their positions at their lab work stations than their personalities or how they made me feel. And the funny thing is, with my tam-bram memory, I remember each and every one of them. I thought I’ll take the husband along so at least we have each other, but he firmly stated that he had no intentions of meeting my ‘molecule’ friends.

The last time I went to such a reunion, which was eight years ago, I came out feeling like an oddball. I had completely digressed from the field, had nothing in common with any of them, was still single and dating, a concept none of them really understood.

This time, we will be more or less on par as far as marriage, spouse and baby goes, but I still feel like an oddball.

Okay, so I am not giving back to the world of drugs and molecules. I will never find that vaccine for cancer or synthesise that radically cheap drug for AIDS. But I will also not be the one who is responsible for repackaging a vanilla pill and selling it in the market for four times the cost. Or making you realise that ZPTO (or whatever it is in shampoos) is a big thing. I write, therefore I am.

Family reunions are another thing. You decide you must do them, because “after all, it’s family”. So you make an effort to get to the back of beyond to attend your cousin’s cousin’s wedding. You decide you will try and be nice to people who were not very nice to you, or your parents. But when you come face-to-face, it’s the same thing. They still look like roll-numbers.

Happy new year and all that!

Woman, interrupted

“I expected you to be fatter,” he said, accosting me at a house party. The chronic smug singleton was visibly shocked at my reappearance in the circuit in what was almost my old form, pre-pregnancy. Funny thing is, he looked disappointed, as though I had proven him wrong, or beaten him at the ‘I bet she will never get back in shape’ game.

I told him I had good genes, but it was clear that I had the will to get my life (and body) back post pregnancy. However, it got me wondering. Shouldn’t he be happy for me if he is a real friend? Shouldn’t there have been delight and not disappointment in his eyes upon sighting me?

What he is actually thinking is, “Hmmm… it’s not all that bad then to get married and have babies. She can still score..”

What he is not saying is, “I love how you can have a baby and not lose yourself.”

What I am thinking is, “Did you actually expect me to be a fat cow, you loser!”

What I am not saying is, “Why is motherhood=loss of sex appeal=out of the game?”

The fact is, I just wanted to ‘get on with it’ and fill my life with other things that also deserved my attention besides the infant. That simple. No glorious motherhood theories there.

People live their lives by extrapolation. What they see around them, they apply to themselves and visualise. If it doesn’t work, they reject it. It’s a great way of not changing the course of one’s life. The thing about the chronic smug singleton is that he/she always finds excuses to feel happy about not being in your shoes.

If you don’t show up at social dos post a change of status to mother, you are a sad sack who has no life, who cannot multi-task, who probably has a low body image, who is probably so emotionally overwrought that she could actually be bad company.

If you do, you are a careless mother.

If you get back into shape, you obviously care more about yourself than a new mother usually does.

If you don’t, you are just another new mom who has lost herself in her baby.

Which brought me to…Am I also guilty of ‘Been there, done that’? Perhaps I am. Like once-upon-a-time, I would look at married couples who barely spoke to each other, let alone laugh, and think, “That’s how relationships decay,” and then feel happy about being single.

Clichés are a double-edged sword. Damned if you fit, and damned if you don’t. This is how it happens.

Scenario one: Girl gets married. Girl has no time for friends. Girl disappears.

They say: “We knew it…”

Scenario two: Girl gets married. Girl still hangs out with old friends, with or without husband.

They say: “Something must be wrong. Why is she hanging out with us? Doesn’t she have a life?”

Either way, you lose. At least they think you do.

Jenny from the block

All a girl needs is five kinds of friends. One that knows style, one that knows books, one that knows money, one that knows food and one that knows men. If you have a friend that scores four out of five, you have hit the jackpot. Like I did, with Jenny.

Okay, so she can never give a satisfactory answer (at least according to her) to the utterly unimaginative, “What do you do?” or worse, “Where do you work?” query. She doesn’t have a real job (read doesn’t get a pay cheque which comes attached with a salary slip that constantly reminds her how much she has sold your soul for). She will probably never make it to Lotus Notes or KRAs or any such trappings of working in an organization, but she’s got what it takes.

She knows people (she has that sixth sense), clothes (she is a trained designer), money (although she doesn’t make too much of it), taxes (at least ways to get the husband to save them), food (she is the only carnivore who can make also love to vegetables) …and she knows a good deal when she sniffs one. Plus she knows men—she is as much a guy’s girl as a girl’s girl—one of the few people I can have a long (read more than five minutes) conversation with on the phone.

Her high-achiever brother, the cross-dressing son of a friend, the stubborn karigar who wants his way, the gay neighbour, the laidback husband, the cool brother-in-law, the boisterous uncle, the spirited grand-dad (who died recently), the rough-edged husband of a friend—they all rely on her for advice or just words of wisdom—though sometimes she pretends to be on the receiving end just to humour them.

Jenny has also spent a large part of her life negotiating with doctors—she is a rheumatoid arthritis patient who goes into surgery with nonchalance—each time to replace a major bone in her body. After a knee, a hip and a neck surgery, she might be scheduled for another knee, shoulder and elbow replacements in the future, but that has never deterred her from being a yes-girl to life.

So we meet.. and exchange notes—about the extremely lazy but golden-hearted men that we have married, their extreme incompetence when it comes to money or matters that involve paperwork, their extreme similarities (of falling asleep on the couch at 3 am), their extreme idiosyncrasies (being uber-attached to tattered pyjamas and cold-cuts) their extreme unreliability as far as keeping time or finding directions goes. What binds them is they love us to bits, are among the ‘few good men’ left and have never been disrespectful to women (known or unknown).

At 5’ 10, she is amongst my tallest, most elegant girlfriends. I have never seen her sloppy, or have a bad hair day, even though she doesn’t really have an‘office’ to go to. Her logic is, why dress up for others? She says it like it is. She’s my kinda girl.

Art of not giving

It's funny when friends get married and then you have the typical wedding post-mortem conversations. A friend of mine recently got back from his honeymoon, and we got chatting. Since both of us had fun weddings with zero politics, the big thing to discuss was the presents. One thing we had in common was the utter apathy of some present givers towards the present recipients.

Since he had four times the number of invitees, he was stuck with more presents (read more ugly presents). I have already macro-analysed mine many columns ago—what took the cake were two exceedingly ugly vases (one of which the cat thankfully broke and the other has been sent to the mother’s) and some random photo-frames, toilet kits, make-up, lamp shades, crockery and tea-sets (one of which was a toy set I’m quite sure, and gifted by mistake). I really think the time for the gift registry has arrived in India, and if someone doesn’t do something about it soon, I am going to turn entrepreneur for sure.

A common phenomenon at every wedding is gift defaulters—the ones who eat, shoot and leave, and don’t bother to bring anything, because they think no one is keeping tabs. But they are wrong, because weddings are all about lists and even excel sheets (yes!), and one is taking notes. So I know what you didn’t do, cheapskate!

I decided to get into the mind of the gifter and was surprised by how many types there were:

1. There are those who play safe (I find that sensible), decide what is the amount of cash you are worth, put it in an envelope, seal it, give it, and forget about it.

2. There are those who either think cash is impersonal or are embarrassed to let you know how much they think you are worth, so they ask you what you want. Better still, they take you shopping soon after.

3. Some will ask you what you want beforehand and get you exactly the thing.. hurrah!

4. Some will angle for a house invite, so they can check out what you don’t have and give you that. Except that you have to do the work.

5. Some will ask you what you want and get something totally different and make you wonder.

6. Some compulsive gift shoppers will spend hours hunting for the one thing you might like, personally gift-wrap it, and bring it (this populace is shrinking)

7. There are those who, for months after your wedding still keep telling you, “I still have to get you your wedding present,” and not do anything about it. They will also keep throwing possibilities at you, and even if you bite, nothing happens.

8. There are those who keep blaming you for never telling them what you wanted, and hence depriving them of the privilege of giving you a present.

9. There are the cheap recyclers who recycle something old, something they got at their wedding, wrap it back, and gift it to you. The clue to this is big packages. Bigger the package, more the chances of it being recycled.

10. And finally there are those who don’t gift, and don’t care.

F.R.I.E.N.D.S

At a house party recently, I ran into someone I kind of knew a few years ago, at best as a work colleague, although there was a fair bit of random socializing involved. Since I don’t believe in making friends at work, and since our sensibilities were as different as chalk and cheese, I had unwittingly checked her off my list thereafter. However when we met this time, there still was residual warmth, and we kind of bonded. The husband asked me if we were friends, and I didn’t quite know the answer to that. “Not really,” I said. He was perplexed.

The problem with women—at least most of the ones I know, is that we have higher benchmarks in friendships compared to our male counterparts. The transition from acquaintance to friend takes a while, that from friend to close friend, or someone that forms part of your inner circle takes even longer, and that from close friend to best friend takes a lifetime, and usually never happens.

Men on the other hand have very low expectations. In fact they don’t even care if the friends never show up, except when it is convenient to them. Notice how easily they use the term “best friend” while you analyse to death even before you use it for someone you’ve known over two decades?

It’s quite simple for them:

Anybody you drinks the same beer as you is your friend.

Anyone who smses you is your friend.

Anyone who answers your sms is your friend.

Anyone who supports the same football team as you is your friend.

Anyone who loves making tequila shots is your friend.

Anyone who plays pool with you is your friend.

Anyone who shows up… anywhere is your friend.

It doesn’t matter if they never showed up at your wedding.

It doesn’t matter if they never called when your mother was in hospital.

It doesn’t matter if all they did was freeload off you, and never delivered when it came to their turn.

It doesn’t matter if they don’t know where you live.

It doesn’t matter if they don’t know your cat’s name. Or the fact that you have one.

It doesn’t matter if they got you into a financial mess and then threw their hands up.

It must be truly liberating to be a man.

I have several male friends who are never sure who will show up at their parties, so just to add numbers, they invite absolute randoms. On the contrary there are others who only hang with one or two select friends for years, decades, and are not embarrassed having a birthday party for four people. I totally get that.

Which is why, whenever there is talk of inviting people over, and we are down to a list, and the husband says, “Lets invite four or five extras in case people don’t show up,” I am amused. If you are a friend, you show up, there is no two ways about it, at least in my book.

May be if men invested as much emotion in their friendships as they did in their beers or football, they’d end up not so poor after all.

Return to innocence

At the end of a particularly rotten day, nothing helps more than a good cry. It helped that I chose a movie to do it over and my best friend to do it with. So it didn’t matter that we chose single screen over multiplex. It didn’t matter that we had to buy tickets from a sandwichwallah at a 200% premium (they were still cheaper than what I’d pay at a sterile multiplex). It didn’t matter that the décor was kitsch, the elevators missing, and that there were grotesque planetary delights for murals. It didn’t matter that we had to buy Bobby chips and Saiganga water. It didn’t matter that ‘upper stall’ was all we could manage and the alleged 'back row' seats turned out to be the fifth row from the front.

What mattered was that the tears were real, and they came gushing. What mattered was that the crowd was cheering a little boy trying to paint as much as they were the entry of a really famous Khan. What mattered was that the whistles, the claps, the standing ovation, the wet handkerchieves - was all spontaneous. What mattered was that nobody in the theatre was afraid to cry. Yes, the movie was Taare Zameen Par. And I went home happy-sad after a really good cry.


***
 This Saturday afternoon, I turned into a consummate voyeur— sipping my Rose, listening to English music on radio (yes it’s back on one station at least) and staring at the thriving ecosystem outside my window. There is Ismail the squirrel, Abdullah the crow, Ganpat the pigeon, Swamy, the parrot. It should be mentioned that the names are collective, ie all squirrels are called Ismail..and so on… There are also various ornithological marvels who I don’t know the names or taxonomies of. And before I get assaulted by communities for hurting their sentiments, let me say that the names were spontaneous and had no hidden agenda.

As I was in my voyeuristic mode, I saw one indeterminate bird, with orange breasts, green plumage and sleek black mouth doing unmentionables to attract the attention of the female of the species. (BNHS, please help..).I suddenly felt a spot of pity—because, despite their drop dead good looks, the male of the species still had to play a hard wooing game. Suddenly I viewed the women birds with new eyes — they seemed to be going for the real stuff — like finding out how resilient is their man, how long can he hold out, how deep is his affection, how superficial are his looks…Go bird, go!

Closer to humanity, I haven’t seen the wooing game in a long time. The two and a half times that I have played cupid were disasters. On the other hand, the men are complaining there are no women and the women complaining there are no men. May be they should all go bird watching. No pun intended.

Femme fatale

Every girl has three kinds of friends — the ones who like her when she is happy, the ones who like her when she is sad and the ones who like her no matter what. Depending on what stage of life or mind you are in, the population of each of the above categories varies. The last kind is what makes a friend for life, so if you have two or more in that one, consider yourself blessed. The first one is not too bad per se — except that its longevity is questionable and one tends to have too many miscellanous files open at some point, and too much access to too many people.

It is the second category that can really get into murky waters — most of us, at some point or another have had friends who thrive on our pain, and use it as an opportunity to remind us how sorted they are.
I have had them too… and didn’t even know for quite a long while. But wisdom has finally caught on, and now I can sniff pain junkies from a mile. They are the ones who look for scabs that they can poke and prod — till they get you to a point when you feel miserable about yourself, and then they offer you their shoulder.

It’s like they need your pain to validate their presence. Think about it, you know it’s a no-win — if you are happy, you wont be by the end of the conversation. And if you are sad, you will be worse.
Either way, the power equation is firmly established by them asking all the questions and wanting to be the ones with all the answers — while you, completely unaware of the powertics, strip yourself of all emotions. Remember, the rule of the game is to start asking the questions. It’s always easier than answering, so why can’t you be the one who has the better job?

With men, it is different. They never really allow that degree of access to anyone, and besides, they hate answering questions. If you do friendships like a man, you are less likely to get hurt. Most men have ‘best friends’ who don’t know their secrets — but it doesn’t matter — there is not much emotion invested, and hence no major disappointments. The flip side is, they usually extend themselves to utterly random ‘friends of friends,’ who might think it is legitimate to call upon them in times of need.

Coming back to where we began, there is hope. All we need is to do some serious flushing, like I have. The last time a pain parasite called me to ask me how I was doing and what’s new and if I was happy and all that random collection of data, my antennae were on alert. I told her it was all good — work, life and love couldn’t be better, and began my barrage of questions. She hasn’t called back. Am guessing the power equation has shifted.

Gift me not

There was a time when birthdays made me nervous. Not that I ever gave a damn about getting a year older, but it was the sheer trepidation at opening my gifts and being horrified by some of what I found inside. I have gone through years of being saddled with hideous earrings, books I would never read, music I would never listen to, clothes I would never wear, photo-frames, lamps, vases, purses, pen holders, makeup, knick-knacks, T-shirts, accessories and jewelry that was SO NOT ME.

Not that they all got it wrong. I do have a few friends who always asked me what I’d like or by instinct, got me exactly what I wanted. Thank god for them.

Wouldn’t life be so much easier if people just asked you? Or took you shopping? Or just gave you gift vouchers? May be the reason they don’t is because they feel a certain nakedness in revealing their budget. It’s like saying, “Okay, this year, you are worth Rs X to me…”

 Which is why they try and enforce their choice on you. But I don’t get it. Surely they know you enough to know that you are not going to ask them for a plasma TV or something equally ridiculous. Why don’t they give you the benefit of doubt? And what are multiple options for?

After an era of un-me gifts, I finally mustered the courage to ask people whether it was okay to exchange. So, a not-so-becoming-red-and-yellow sweatshirt was traded for a crisp white linen blouse that was more me. Or the bland Alchemist or Six thinking hats for a Tom Robbins or Bill Bryson that was missing from my collection. They didn’t seem to mind —they were glad it was off their back…

If I have so much trouble with birthdays, I shudder to think of the innumerable monstrosities people receive on their weddings. I know for sure that everyone gets stuck with at least 20-30 gifts they don’t know what to do with. It is quite likely they donate it to charity, or worse, gift it to someone else — someone insignificant enough not to be invited to the wedding. But no one ever talks about it. I wonder why. May be because as a culture, we are taught to be grateful for anything we receive.

But I find it amazing that people who are closest to you can also goof up. Like my mother who gave me the shivers with her surprises. I really love her, but don’t necessarily love what she chooses for me, from grooms to gifts. After much deliberation, I had a heart to heart and asked her to leave both departments to me. To my surprise, she was relieved. Now, she either hands me a cash envelope, or buys me exactly what I want (color, design, style, model non-negotiable). It’s been a few years into this arrangement and both of us are extremely happy.

Or when the beau who once called me from Goa claiming he had sighted a ‘nice purple skirt’— I gave him the green signal, thinking purple, obviously. I later realised that there was much more than purple happening on that skirt. There was pink and elastic and flowers and sequins and layers. But his enthusiasm was endearing, and I bravely smiled my happy smile. (Okay, now you know..)
But I am finally in a happy place. Each year, I have a wish list (of items in varying budgets) which I sound off (upon being asked) to my inner circle… This year, I got exactly the wine glasses, perfume, dresses, books, pendant, i-shuffle and the DVD collection I wanted for my birthday. I have perfected the art of made-to-order gifts!

And if anyone out there plans to start a gift registry, I will be the first to sign up.

Facebooked out!

It will perhaps go down in my book as the most short-lived, yet the most intense relationship I ever had. Facebook and I are almost over, and all it took was less than two weeks.

Let me begin at the beginning. To be fair, I had my doubts, when the beau sold it to me as 'a fun way to stay in touch with so many friends at the same time' when I was leaving for the States. He said, "Even if you are not thinking about them, you know that they are thinking about you..." Wait a minute...I asked myself... Is there anyone you want to be in touch with that you are not already in touch with? The answer was no. Do you really care about those you are not in touch with? The answer was no. Are you seriously 'looking' for new friends? The answer was still no.

I guess I am at that point in my life when I have reached just the optimum level of friends that I could handle. I Secondly, I was the type who never really succumbed to the collective seductions of ICQ, IM, Orkut and other such networking delights. So I wondered how different this could be.

Yet, I yielded. It's funny what just two days out of a daily 32-page newspaper rut and endless stretches of time and good weather can do to you. And before I knew it, I was Facebooked out of my mind.

I registered and filled in my details. I sent out invitations to friends, some randoms and some not-so-randoms, I added photos, I filled up activities, interests, books, music and other trivia that 'define me'. To add a dash of social consciousness, I also added causes that define me.
Then suddenly, my cousin threw an omelette at me. And then a dear friend threw a sheep. The beau's words came back to me.."They are thinking about you even when you are not thinking about them...." Hmmmm..this is how...
I decided that since I am not a lurker, I had to go all the way. I did, and made it my full-time occupation. I wrote on people's walls, sent them beers, cocktails, joined food fights, stroked and fed their pets, got bitten and turned into a zombie, got bitten and turned into a vampire, threw tomatoes, pancakes and ketchup at others, and had shrimp, and pickles thrown at me, And before I knew it, my cup had runneth over, and my friend list was burgeoning.

I have sent people pigs and teapots, Porsches and even Johhny Depp as presents.
I have shared my thoughts, moods, pictures.... I have peeped into other's thoughts, moods, pictures.
After ten days of poking, hugging, tickling, spanking, kickboxing, karatechopping, biting people, tagging them in photos, asking them to join my causes, and sending them free beers and cocktails, writing on their walls and even getting into food fights with them, I am utterly and completely bored,
I have been poked by strangers and bitten by people I barely know. I have unearthed cousins and bamboozled dear friends to get on it. I even managed to convince the brother, who has suddenly turned into a 'private person' after being one of the crusaders of icq at a certain point.
What was I thinking?

The good thing is that unlike a real relationship, it is so undemanding and open ended that you don't even have to break up..you can stay ambivalent all your life and no one will know any better because they are busy throwing sheep and sucker punching each other.
To those who have managed to resist the urge--may the force be with you. To those who are still addicted, well, may be there will soon be Facebookaholics Anonymous, and I will be there to help you zone out...