Saturday, November 05, 2005

Thinning Red Line

It wasn't unexpected. Tempus Fugit. When the ringer went off in the middle of a rather hectic day, I wondered if anything was wrong. Lost in the churn of a big city, any transplant would recognise the shudder that welcomes an unexpected call from hometown. Followed by the relief when a familiar voice sounds anything but urgent. My friend of two decades, all cheer as always, salutation censored, life ho-hum etc. And as we meandered, he lowered the boom. Marrying in a month. Convincing him of my inability to get to his wedding wasn't pleasant; even less would have been the state of the poor souls overhearing the colorful epithets he lavished me with in response.

Long after the day had wound down, I was still wondering what I was left with. It still seemed not too long ago, when heading into a weekend was more akin to a plundering horde. Too many of us, and too few of everything else, as in glasses, cigarettes, tickets, seats in a cab and of course fine women. You might call it a long bachelor party, until the least likely of the crowd decided to take the plunge into familydom. It remained a party through many of the regulars falling away, as if autumn was upon this single oak. Much like a picnic where one of the crowd decides to stay back at the hut. Until now, that is. For now it's down to the last man. In danger of sounding vain, but, it seems I am the man.

Surviving those dreaded weekends. Picture this. No one to fight with over the remote, all fine crystal and no griping, no gossip to swap (meaner n' fleshier than the sista variety), none to finish the punchlines. This time the joke's on me, it seems. And forget it, there's no chance in hell that anyone of the married crowd would join you. Statistically, population and sample converge. It used to be true for lovers, robbers and footballers that they should never go back (to their last beau, heist or club). Add the wedded gent to the list, for fear of being lynched. The gent walks the long and narrow whilst the new sheriff holds the short and curly. Finally, only a better half busy with a promised parenthood seem to draw the old firm back around a table. Whenever that happens, its like ol' times. Almost. With atleast one among us deciding to make up for the Vegetarianism, Prohibition, curfew, no-late-cable, no-cigarette, no-exposed-torso and other assorted shackles ordained by the dame back home, with a bingeing trip which would bring a tear to those who witnesseth. Ever more misery if the newly (and only fleetingly) emancipated forgets the barf-bag.

So it ends, seemingly sooner that it started. The lady does return cradling the pinkish coo-magnet. Work beckons. While I fend off queries as "So you're next, eh?" with as much civility that I could muster. At times it seems the married are in an ethical dilemma when faced with a singleton; to coopt the latter seems the only solution available. That's why you are faced with otherwise rational friends trying to play matchmaker for you: "You know there's this lady in my office, a mallu you see...". With the lady of the house chiming in with "It's about time for you..", with a finality that would eke a shudder out of the Grim Reaper. Duck, dive, scoot. Never easy changing the subject to "Ford has a new car.."

Meanwhile, winter gains on the oak. Let's see how this one goes. The neighborhood punk has recently switched from 'Yo, dude' to 'hi, uncle' as greeting. That cannot be good. I shall embrace vanity, just once, by mentioning 'Lion in Winter' in passing. Spring cannot be far away.

As it stands the drink is warm, the chips are cold, and the food is chineze. If it's not upto you to join me, then it's just cheers to me.

Good thing I get to keep the remote.