I recently read someone declare Pune’s citizens “traffic illiterate” and was struck by how apt that definition is. I don’t even have to go across the city to confirm the verisimilitude of that observation. In my own hyper-suburban neighborhood, making short trips—by foot, bike, or car—feels like a visceral version of Road Rash, minus the handy chain, bat, protective gear, and other accoutrements that, in all likelihood, I am wont to use liberally. Perhaps not having them is a good thing. Perhaps. I certainly spend some time while riding or driving dreamily considering the benefits of tyre irons, knuckledusters, and the like.
Speaking of going halfway across the city, I did just that yesterday. I’d confined? huddled?… well, something-ed myself to the safe cocoon of home for the past couple of weekends, trying to locate paperwork and complete long-pending projects. I wasn’t complaining, mind, but it was brought to my attention that there was a world (the merits of which are debatable at best) beyond my immediate neighborhood. Friends who persistently stayed in touch and invited me to hang out did exist. And apparently, “Don’t turn into Donatello for fuck’s sake,” yada, yada, yada.
While it would have been easy to mutely indicate the thermometer clocking 30 degrees at 11 AM for the past fortnight as sufficient reason to stay put, I desisted. There was some truth to what I was being advised. Seeing as I had three close friends, each about a five-minute drive apart on the fancy side of town, I went. Or rather, abii, vidi, oculis non credebam.
It started well, to be fair. Catching up with Friend 1 over lunch was lovely on all counts—nice ambience, good food (excellent pesto), a postprandial lungo that hit the spot, and great conversation. Following this pleasant repast, I dropped in on Friend 2, a buddy from the bad old days of advertising.
He’s a bachelor in rented digs, so the place was decorated in the “things could be better and neater, but why bother” style. It had the usual trappings of that life—the pea-soup air of stale smoke, empty tea cups gathering dust (and who knows what else) on the balcony, piles of cigarettes in the ashtray, and a general suggestion of melancholy. Don’t get me wrong—he’s a lovely bloke, and I was glad to have visited. Our conversations rarely drag, but I definitely left quite concerned for him. In any case, his parents are visiting this week, and their company may do him some good.
Friend 3 is an old school chum, and his place is the diametric opposite of the one I’d just driven away from. Not a pin out of place, almost everything aesthetically pleasing, and an air of stable domesticity. At least I wouldn’t run the risk of contracting some foul disease simply by grabbing a coaster.
By now, I’d clocked more than five hours away from home, and the creeping tinge of exhaustion was setting in. He suggested we grab a few beers at home before heading to a much-talked-about local spot to meet other friends.
Now, I’m notoriously not keen on flagellating myself via these experiences. Most of these places serve uninspired grub, play music at decibel levels that discourage conversation, and attract a younger crowd. I’m well past that life. I know the kind of joints I like to socialize in, and places that boast acoustics akin to the hold of a trawler in rough seas are not on the list.
Does that make me a wet blanket or a fogy? Maybe. But I’m past the point of caring.
Okay, rant fin. It is a charming spot—huge space, nicely decorated, decent brews. A pity then that we were all mentally shot within an hour. I can’t quite explain why. Maybe it was the music cranked up to stupid, or because the friends we were meant to meet found another table, leaving ours floundering. Maybe we weren’t enthused enough to make the best of it, or perhaps everyone was just tired after a long work week. Friend 3 looked let down—whether at us or himself is a mystery. His spirit was willing, but the flesh was not.
While I felt sorry for him throughout the saga, it was never more so than when we got into the car and he let out an audible sigh of relief at the hushed quiet.
We returned to his place, hung out some more, and were so comfortable and happy that the contrast with the previous hour was stark. It felt pointless and exhausting—there was no chance of reveling (if that were even possible) in vainglory.
I don’t miss my 20s and 30s per se, but I certainly mourn the loss of energy I had back then. Sometimes it feels like a switch was flipped off at 40—but that’s just crazy talk. The friends I met yesterday still enjoy a night on the tiles, and some of them even have the wherewithal to keep chalking up weekends like these.
Maybe for me, it’s always been as simple as knowing what kind of socializing brings joy and not having the patience to pretend.
Does that mean I’ve missed out on experiences? Absolutely. Last night, Friend 3’s spouse asked why I didn’t make it for their wedding celebrations in Russia in 2019—and I had no acceptable answer. I didn’t even try to cook up some BS to mollify her. Even though I now wish I’d made the effort, it’s only because they’re dear friends, not because I wanted to visit Russia.
Despite accepting that Admiral Ackbar may have been correct, home is where this heart is.
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