Friendly notes

humour

The new definition of friendship is potluck, barbeque and karaoke nights. Unless we have fed people enough fried foods to block a few significant arteries, damaged their livers with alcohol and their ears with singing, we don’t pass the friendship test.

12:00 midnight: It’s a Saturday — the day we figure we have friends and a life beyond office. We are at Sujatha and Bhaskar’s house. It’s karaoke night. Raja da and Satish, our own Kishore and Rafi, are regaling us with beautiful songs.

12:30 am: An enthralled Sonali announces that Goddess Amba resides in their throats. Or is it Durga?

1:00 am: They have left. They have taken the goddess with them. Now loud, out-of-tune demons reign. I am on their board of directors.

1:30 am: It’s like gajar ka halwa — one huge mouth-watering, gloopy mashup of songs.
2:00 am: The host-friends are now dropping broad hints by singing songs like ‘Jare Jare, Ud Ja Re Panchi’. We ignore.

2:20 am: We are now tearing Hemant Kumar apart. ‘Tum Pukar Lo’, we beseech in shrieks that awaken the bats outside. Manna Dey has already been butchered an hour ago, along with his ‘chunari’ and its unfortunate ‘daag’.

2:40 am: We grudgingly agree to leave. Most of us. Mita is still singing ‘Sunayi Deti Hai Jiski Dhadkan’ and asking what ‘zihal-i-mashkin’ means. I think I hear a frying pan. The one she is being bludgeoned with.

2:50 am: I am brushing my teeth while trying to sing ‘Hoton Pe Aisi Baat’. The rendition is satisfactory, though my lips struggle to contain the froth. It rides out on my powerful octaves and spills all over my night-suit. It’s time to stop singing and go to sleep.

3:00 am: Somewhere between ‘Yaara Seeli Seeli’ and ‘Choodiyaan Neeli Peeli’ I drift into sleep.

4:10 am: I have woken up with a start. I realise that we have not sung ‘Dheere Dheere Chal Chand Gagan Mei’. Should I just go back and ask them to turn the karaoke back on? Sonali would back me up, I’m sure. What are friends for?

4:20 am: I ditch the idea. I don’t know the complete lyrics.
5:00 am: The men in my family, my husband and his miniature, have sneaked out of the house. The unmistakable, heavy thuds of golf kits betray them. It’s going to be another Meena Kumari Sunday, my lip quivers in sad realisation.

6:00 am: I drift back to sleep. Now I am dreaming of the golf course. And of me dancing around a blazing pyre of golf kits. The golfers are tied to stakes on the fire. I am singing, ‘Ho Jab Tak Hai Jan Jan-e-jahan Main Nachungee’. Bhaskar is waltzing on two left feet.

8:00 am: I am up with my morning cuppa. I’m a positive-despite-all-misfortunes Raj Kapoor mouthing Jeena Yahan, Marna Yahan. Another beautiful evening with my friends has filled me with joy. I am no longer annoyed with the absconding husband. I am smiling like Nutan. I could wear my pink silk saree and all my jewellery, and sing ‘Tumhi Mere Mandir, Tumhi Meri Pooja’, after placing my Suniye Jee on a swing and pushing him gently.

9:00 am: I’m missing my friends and the fun we had. But, I know that Wednesday will witness the formation of a new Whatsapp group announcing another weekend get-together. Maybe a theme party. I really want to wear my Egyptian mummy costume.