Caring Apprehensive

How okay is caring a lot about someone? When does it become not okay?
It's something we rarely think about. If someone is not okay with you caring too much, the person is probably not worth it. Or that's what we generally assume.

As a normal person we often care a lot more than we make obvious. It's okay to do that as long as it's not harming someone. As long as it's not hurting yourself.

Case in point here is the cigarette incident. Now, I have a lot of smoker friends. I might be a passive smoker too. I am against smoking as a principle and I don't judge people because they smoke. But having said that, I have immense hatred for smoking. Not smokers, mind you, but smoking itself. And so I was obviously pissed when I saw a couple of my friends take a puff for the first time and then go about it like it's nothing new or out of the box. I tried not to be visibly upset about it and I almost succeeded too. I didn't want to impose my opinion on anyone. Heck, I didn't even want to express it! And hence I attempted to slip away unnoticed when the just-puffed friend caught up with me. She started with "it's our life" and "boundaries" until she realized that as a matter of fact, I hadn't said anything at all.

But yes I was upset. I was upset when she did it. I was upset when my other friend, who had said that he would never touch a cigarette in his life and said it minutes ago did it. I was madly angry at the friend who held out a cigarette to them like he had done to me a few months ago. I was angry when another friend who I had tried to force to stop smoking waved two boxes of cigarettes in front of me.

The point here is not cigarettes. The point is whether it's okay to care so much and then if it's okay to display that care or no.

I'm writing this post so that in the future I can look back nd see that I'm not smoking too. I'm writing this post so that I can look back when I get hurt after I care a lot for someone. To tell myself that it is Infact okay. You don't choose to love your friends so much. You just do it. And you do it without being apprehensive about it.

Spinning Yarns

It was the summer of 2014 and I had just finished my HSC exams.  I was in a happy stage in life, socially and otherwise. I had accumulated a great set of friends, apart from my Roha people in the year gone by. There was the hope that we would stay friends throughout our lives, and there was an intention to keep that promise. But like I said kids, it was the Summer of 2014. There was still a long way to go.

***

I am at the wedding of a same-aged cousin. I have no idea who the cousin is going to marry. I walk around aimlessly hoping to get out of there as soon as I can. Lunch is set and that’s my chance to slip away. I go to pick up my backpack from the chair where it is resting. But a tall, burly man dressed in an Orange Kurta is standing leaning against that chair. I excuse myself to interrupt his conversation to pick up my bag. He turns around and a time span passes by. I can’t believe my eyes.

“Shaunak? Hi! What are you doing here!”

“Hey! I’m related to this spouse-to-be.”

“Oh! I’m related to the other spouse to be. Long time, man! How are you? Moumita? Are you guys still..”

Shaunak smiles.

***

“Dude. We really need some celeb or someone to be a part of this project.” A person at my work place says. “All those we can rope in are brainless fashion icons! We can’t have those. We need something like a talented director or a socially aware actor maybe.”

“What about that guy?” Another colleague says. “You went to college with him didn’t you?”

“Yeah. He’s one of the finest Writer-Directors we have in the country! And everyone loves him too!”

“I don’t know man” I say. “College was years ago. It’s awkward to call and ask like that. Nope, I can’t do it!”

“Pchh. Fine, you think of somebody then!”

I’m blankly staring at the phone. Should I call? The Contact Name “Amatya Goradia” is staring back at me from the screen.

***

The house is exactly how I expected it to be. There’re shelves and shelves of books around the walls. There’s a writing table and a wooden chair and the pen on the writing table is neatly placed in a shiny pen stand. She looks exactly like I had imagined her to be too. There was no space for imagination actually. Her photos kept popping up in newspaper reports, Sunday columns and book covers. Not a wrinkle more on the forehead beneath just slightly grizzled locks. The Smiles and the Spectacles intact and hair tied neatly in a bun. And her sense of humour is still in the same place.

“Got married, did ya?” I ask.

“Honestly, you meet me after years and that’s the first question that comes to your mind?” says Reva.

“Alright Revati Deshpande, shoot. How’s life treating you?”

***

I am just browsing through the newspaper, old and wrinkled that gets delivered in the hospital room.

“See this doctor, who just received this award for his service?” I show the kind nurse. “I used to be friends with him in college. Apna Bachhi he was.”

“Why don’t you get treated from him then?” The nurse smiles. “He didn’t specialize in the area you need, I know. Dr. Amit Paroha. You tell me that story everytime, Mr. Oldman.”

“Let an old man spin his yarns in peace then, young lady.” I smile back at her as I turn the page. The obituary turns up. There’s written in Bold Letters – HONOURING THE MEMORY OF LATE MRS. SHRADDHA PATIL. I whimper out loud. The nurse looks over my shoulders.

“Wasn’t she your college friend too? I remember you telling me about her.” She says.

“No. She got married and changed her surname. This is some othe Mrs. Shraddha Patil. I wish I had kept in touch with her. She was a great friend to have.”

“But didn’t you end up fighting with her during college itself?” the nurse asks.

“Yeah. But we became friends later that year too.”

“But then you  hated each other again after some time?”

“No, no! We became friends every time we fought. All 7 times.”

The nurse laughs. “Why did you fight seven times?”

“Because 7 is a nice number. Pataa nahi aaj sabki itni yaad kyun aa rahi hai.”

“Aaj? I have to hear about them every single day!”

“Then there was Omkar.” I am oblivious to her comment “Omkar Kulkarni. Bitch had promised me he would play the lead in a play I wrote one day.”

“Then?” the nurse asks. This story is new to her as well. “He didn’t act in it?”

“I never wrote that play.” I smile to myself. The nurse picks up her tray and leaves me to my thoughts and yarns.

***

We all intended to keep that promise, kids. But like I said- It was still 2014. I had spun this yarn in 2014. There was still a long way to go.