The Big 30

25th March 2014

It feels like I am standing in front of a monstrous, rather intimidating metal door, which, in exactly 12 hours, is going to creak open and usher me into my dirty thirties. Now, if you know me well, you will know that usually each year around my birthday, I am like an Energizer bunny on a sugar rush. I begin harping about it weeks in advance. Long hours are spent cooking up elaborate plans for the day. And, finally on D-day I find myself hopping around on one foot, too steamed up to do anything constructive except talk to family and friends who call to wish, knowing well how much I love talking to them especially today. The aftermath is just as dramatic. For days I go through withdrawal pangs because I am aware that I will have to wait an entire year to feel this insane exuberance again.

This year though, my high spirits are streaked with wisps of trepidation. What are my thirties going to be like? Are they going to treat me just as kindly as my twenties? Have I done everything that I wanted to do with the first 30 years of my life? Questions like these seem to crawl out of the cracks in the aforementioned metal door, making it look all the more daunting. The past decade suddenly seems so enchanting right now. Throughout my twenties, I eagerly accepted a life which evidently had a predilection towards embarking on adventure filled circuitous routes instead of taking the placid, comfortable, straight-line ones. From uprooting and moving at the drop of a hat to being in a pseudo arranged long distance relationship with the man I married to backpacking through India and Europe on a shoestring budget...I lapped up life’s quirks with the gusto of an experienced swashbuckler.  I wonder if I will be able to say the same about my thirties! Peeking out of the bedroom window, I realize that the weather is mirroring my internal conflict. One moment a golden orange sun appears shining like a beacon of joy and the very next moment it is snuffed out by a swathe of thick grey clouds. One minute I am enveloped in a blanket of rich yellow sunshine endemic to a perfect Michigan summer and the very next minute I am drowning in the dreariness of winters here.

As the arms of the clock slowly tick tock their way to the 12 o’clock mark, my fears are set aside for the time being. The phone suddenly comes to life and starts emanating all sorts of beeps and whirs. It is already my birthday in India and I am now officially crowned the queen of the day. There is the familiar ring of Ma and Papa’s call on Skype. Surprisingly, Pranay, my brother, calls just then. He is in between classes in college. I put him on speaker phone so that Ma and Papa can hear him too. Just as the abundance of love and blessings start to form a lump in my throat, the clipped beep of Facetime yanks me out and I find myself chatting with a friend who is about to call it a day in London. We share gossip and a few laughs before I notice that another friend who is on her way to work in Mumbai wants to talk. I take her call and we speak into the wee hours of the night, catching up on the highlights of the past year, giggling like teenagers while reminiscing about stupid things we did together in college and sharing lurid details of our present-day lives. At some point we hang up as she needs to get to work and I need to get to bed.

26th March 2014

It is difficult for me to respond to the high pitched blare of my 6 am alarm thanks to last night’s shenanigans. Because Ma is Ma, she remembers to call me at the exact time when I was born 30 years ago (4:30 pm IST). Everything she says is drenched in love and I feel blissful warmth spread within. With her words safely tucked in, I make my way to work. It has been all of 7 months since I started working here and I do not expect a hullabaloo. But I am proven wrong. I walk in to see a big colourful streamer stretched across my cubicle. It reads ‘Happy 30^th Birthday’ and there is a bucket of chocolate sitting on my desk (a result of my constant whining about the urge to jump into a tub of chocolate). The day passes by in a haze and I remember the best bits of it – my team in Germany singing the birthday song for me on a conference call, binging on Chinese food for lunch with my friends at work, my best friend being super excited for I have finally joined her on the ‘thirties’ bandwagon, the flight to Austin, tucking into a scrumptious lemon cake upon arriving there, long conversations with friends and family scattered all over the world and spending the last hours of my special day with my most special person – Arjun.

I may not have achieved everything that I thought I would by the time I turned thirty, but that does not bother me any more. Because, I have learnt that in the end it does not matter if you have the pretty house with the quintessential white picket fence, the fancy job and the picture-perfect family. What matters is the people whom you love and who love you back – the people who are flawed just like you, the people whom you can bare your soul to, the people with whom self-deprecating humour does not bring out a flurry of holier-than-thou advice but instead leads to peals of uncontrollable laughter. In short, REAL people, your OWN people. I am lucky to have a truckload of them and this makes me a very happy thirty-year old today.

Queen - When Life gives you Lemons, make Lemonade!

It is like a tall glass of freshly squeezed lemonade on a warm summer afternoon. At the same time, it is like a power packed pill of courage on a day chock-full of trials and tribulations. It is Delhi’s 'gol-gappas', colour and love, Amsterdam’s hostels, beer-bikes and pole dancers and the parties, glitz and allure of Paris - all blended into a heady medley. And amidst all this is Vikas Bahl’s Rani, a.k.a Queen, who takes us along on a journey from the bowels of helplessness and heartbreak to the pinnacles of strength and confidence.

As the film begins you find yourself standing in the courtyard of a classic middle-class household in Rajouri, New Delhi where wedding preparations, reminiscent of films like ‘Tanu weds Manu’ and ‘Band, Baaja, Baaraat’ are at their peak. Bearers balance steel tumblers brimming with frothy lassi on trays and decorators streak bare walls with strings of marigold. An endearing Dadi and her retinue of spirited friends sway to the tunes of Hindi dance numbers. With restrained euphoria, Rani – the much protected daughter of the family – gets her soon-to-be husband’s name painted on her palm with henna. Despite a couple of customary hiccups like power cuts and missing photographers, the smiles, ‘thumkas’ and blessings flow unbridled, blissfully unaware of the tragedy that is about to strike them down.

Days before the wedding Rani’s shy smile is wiped off her face in an instant when her London returned fiancé suddenly deems her unsuitable to be his bride. In one callous sweep he dusts not only the dried grains of her henna off the table but also the shattered remains of her dignity off his conscience. That moment sticks with you and your heart goes out to this lost girl clad in a simple hand knitted cardigan, tears threatening to tumble down her cheeks any moment. It appears as if her whole fragile world of dreams and hopes has come crashing down right in front of her eyes. The story could have ended here, leaving us with a pitiful image of a jilted girl withering away till yet another knight in a shining armour appears on a white steed to rescue her from a life of stodginess.

Instead, with growing respect we observe Rani surface from under a film of shock and self loathing to nurse her own wounds and experience by herself the hidden joys that the world has to offer. Drawing strength from the kindness and encouragement showered on her by the family, she quells her fears and heads to Paris – a city she had earmarked, what seems like an eon ago, for her honeymoon. At first, her insecurities plague her and she misses the presence of a man by her side, guiding and instructing her through life. Nevertheless, one cathartic monologue and a shimmy to the tunes of ‘Hungama ho gaya’ later you see her breaking the chains of propriety and releasing all her pent up emotions. The weight lifts off her chest and she spreads her wings and takes off.

Rani’s adventures have only just begun. With wide-eyed amazement she watches, learns and discovers her own potential – to make friends, to charm strangers, to drive a car, to earn a living and to take care of herself. Slowly, buried under layers of pain, she unearths her smile as well and with that fixed firmly on her face she lights up the movie infinitely. Soon she finds herself enjoying all those harmless things that are otherwise labelled abominable for 'girls belonging to good families' back home. From befriending boys to savouring a night of drunken revelry and from turning down her ex-fiancé’s offer to take her back to experiencing what she calls  her first 'lip-to-lip' kiss with a firang whom she has a crush on – Rani does it all and with the merry abandon of a soul who has snatched peace and happiness from the clutches of despair.

What makes it even more believable is the fact that she does not undergo a total transformation. She is still the girl who thinks that a vibrator is a joint-massager and that losing her ‘virzinity’ is a total no-go for an unmarried girl. It is refreshing beyond words to see Rani retain her identity and her innocence without a care for people who might find it hilarious. And, it is exhilarating to know that when she was at a fork in her life from where she could have chosen to either go down a path inundated with pity, hurtful gossip and self destruction or opt to forget her misery and start afresh, she selected the latter. Even though the film has a women-centric overtone, I believe that there is something that all of us, irrespective of gender, can learn from it. We can all learn to take life as it comes and to never forget who we really are. As for me, in addition to all of the above, Queen was exactly what I needed to mop clean the gloom that a sky full of clouds had cast on my day off.

                                

Syria - Where is the Humanity?

 

Ornate marble domes and minarets, almond-eyed dancing girls twirling in chiffon harem pants, narrow cobbled streets lined with mounds of fragrant spices, vials of perfume, plump, juicy dates and bolts of rich fabric ready to be sold in exchange for pieces of gold, olive-skinned men going about their daily business and turbaned bards with snow white beards reciting fantastical tales of magic and mystery. Fed on fables from the 'Arabian Nights', my imagination once invoked this portrait each time I thought of cities like - Damascus, Baghdad, Kabul, Cairo and Ankara. They sounded exotic, wealthy and clairvoyant beyond words.

Sadly, pictures and news clips from war-torn Syria have brusquely obliterated every inch of this fairy tale image. It is more than evident that over the years things have taken an unsettling turn. Streets aren’t paved with prosperity any more and people are no longer engrossed in the healthy humdrum of every-day life. Instead, amid concrete ruins of once bustling alleys, bloody carcasses and armed men with a maniacal glint in their eyes, a sea of innocent men, women and children, most of whom are missing a limb or two, wearily make their way to the aid trucks handing out food packets. While some of these people might get lucky today and go back with a meal, others will yet again sleep miserably on empty bellies, urging themselves to feel grateful for at least being alive.

A potent concoction of political discord and religious dissonance has left Syria a shadow of its former glorious self. What started out as a peaceful protest by citizens advocating democracy as opposed to a one-party dictatorial government, has in a mere 3 years exploded into a civil war of cyclopean proportions. Several different warring factions have in the course of time jumped in with their own varied philosophies adding fuel to the already out of control fire. Not only do you now have pro-democracy blocs like the Free Syrian Army fighting the security forces controlled by President Bashar-Al-Assad but you also have a landslide of radical Islamist groups and Kurdish opposition wings embroiled in violent scuffles amongst themselves. The fact that these groups pledge allegiance to disparate foreign powers doesn’t help either.

In the chaos, the number of wounded and dead civilians skyrockets with each passing day. Those prudent enough to have sensed the looming danger in advance find themselves in a slightly better situation cooped up in refugee camps which have mushroomed all over neighbouring Jordan, Lebanon, Turkey and Iraq. Grief-stricken little Syrian boys and girls stare at you wistfully from the glossy pages of magazines like ‘Time’. It is either the physical pain of injuries or the mental trauma of losing loved ones or in some cases both, that is writ large on their agonized faces. And it makes you wonder - aren’t these kids entitled to a secure childhood brimming with good health, love and learning like our own children? What is it that they did wrong to get dealt such a rough hand?

‘The quality or condition of being humane’ – this is how Merriam-Webster dictionary defines Humanity. You might thus expect humanity to be a basic characteristic, ingrained deep within every specimen of the human race – a trait that sets us apart from savage animals. Alas, heinous reports such as the one about children as young as 6 being taken away from school to have their fingernails pulled out by barbarians suggest otherwise (Source - Syria through the eyes of children). Humanity seems to have died a rather brutal death along with the rest of the war causalities in Syria. All that remains now is an abysmal hollow shell of a country with a handful of antagonistic elements feeding on its battered remains.

Highway - A Road Less Taken

Hidden beneath layers of hard to digest opulence, tear-jerking melodrama and billionaire heroes who are straight as an arrow, Hindi cinema has lately rediscovered a breed of dark, brooding, Heathcliffe-type protagonists. From Lootera’s troubled con-man Varun to D-Day’s angst riddled RAW agent Rudra to Ishaqzaade’s wayward Parma – these days we get to meet far from perfect characters whom we might run into in real life as well. Perhaps this is why they tend to leave a more profound impression on us. With life’s pain etched deep on their faces, it is difficult for them to hide the scars of a gruesome past. Yet they try. And in the process they manage to garner our sympathy. Highway’s anti-establishment, expletive spewing abductor Mahabir evoked this very emotion in me last night as I sat deeply engrossed in Imtiaz Ali’s latest piece of work.

The film begins on a warm note with home video style clips of pre-wedding preparations in a swanky New Friends colony bungalow in Delhi and then suddenly plunges into a cold hearted account of a chance abduction on a deserted petrol pump somewhere off the Delhi-Haryana border. The transition from the suave sophistication of high society Delhi to the rough mannerisms of the hinterland is so rapid that it takes a few seconds for one‘s sensibilities to adjust and respond. And then, just like that, characters representing two very distinct segments of Indian society appear alongside making us uncomfortably aware of how the two are poles apart.

On one hand you have the abducted - Veera - an influential businessman’s daughter whose 'brocade and precious stones' swaddled life turns upside down when she is unceremoniously picked up by a bunch of pistol-toting thugs. The terror is evident in her eyes as she is gagged, handcuffed and thrown in the back of a run-down lorry to be taken to a place where unknown horrors await her. The girl who moments ago was ensconced in a plush Audi dreaming of getting away from the noisy confines of her uber-rich life in the city is about to have her wish fulfilled in a most unusual manner.

On the other hand you have the abductor – Mahabir – a hardened, remorseless criminal who swears that he will not flinch even for a second before selling his hostage off to a life of misery in a brothel. He is crude, dishevelled, ever-scowling and bitter to the core. To him the privileges bestowed upon the rich are unjust and believes it to be his prerogative to teach a harsh lesson to anyone who belongs to this section of society. The man who abhors the seemingly flawless lives of the affluent is about to realize that even money cannot buy a life untouched by grief and agony.

At the outset it is difficult to imagine that Veera and Mahabir might have anything in common. She is fragile while he is hard-edged, she is annoyingly puerile and light-hearted while he is mysteriously quiet, sulky and easily inflamed. But as the story unfolds, it becomes evident that under her delicate exterior hides an inured, embittered soul thanks to a childhood battered by sexual abuse. And, under his gruff, rustic demeanour resides a soft core that yearns for his long separated mother and a life of simple domesticity. The two are thus bound unwittingly by a common thread of suffering which slowly culminates into an undefinable yet beautiful relationship. At one point, she acknowledges the bond by declaring with coquettish defiance that 'darr toh na ek dum khatam ho gaya hai'. Somewhere along the way dread has transmuted into camaraderie and animosity has altered to affection.

Amid all this there are flashes of jauntiness which lighten the otherwise hard-hitting story. Be it an incredulous Veera rambling on about how she never knew such beauty existed in the interiors of the country or breaking into peals of laughter when asked why she is so taken by ramshackle buildings and dusty premises or a baffled Mahabir looking on as one of his cronies shakes a leg with Veera to the tunes of a rhythmic English number or again a befuddled Veera trying to figure out why she didn’t make a run for it when she had the chance – an element of humour brings down the pathos by a notch or two.

Even though you know that these kindred souls are eventually going to be wrenched apart, deep down you hope not. You wish for the state of utopia that they find themselves in for a few blessed moments to be the story of their life – a simple hassle free existence comprising a mountain-top shanty for a home, Maggi for dinner and a friend to share it with. Nevertheless, as their dreamland fades into reality at daybreak, the bubble goes kaput when a sniper‘s bullet pierces Mahabir’s body. A screaming and shouting Veera is taken back to the world that she never wanted to go back to ('jahaan se tum mujhe le ke aaye ho wahaan main waapas nahi jaana chahati'). But this time she has the courage to confront not only the skeletons in her closet but also her duplicitous family. Mahabir has given her the ultimate gift – the confidence to walk away from a life of extravagance and leisure, to live a dream with her head held high.

Vast expanses of fissured earth under a sky bursting with stars, an orange orb of a sun hanging low on verdant fields, endless serpentine stretches of charcoal grey roads, tall snow capped peaks and men and women exhibiting rural guilelessness form the canvas on which with bold strokes the storyteller paints a tale of myriad inexplicable human emotions. All of this is accompanied by an earthy soundtrack modulated by the flavours of cities that the film drives us through. For me Highway is yet another example of the Hindi film industry‘s slow but sure progress in the right direction – one which is not just visually and aurally pleasing but also appeals to the intellect.

                                      

My version of F.R.I.E.N.D.S ....

My blog is now 4 years and 45 posts old. So far, I have written about an assortment of people and experiences that have coloured my life like tiny sprinkles on a cupcake. It has been quite a journey trying to put on paper, as accurately as possible, things that matter to me the most. Despite this, each time I sit back and admire my growing list of posts, an irksome afterthought lingers in the shadows. ‘Why have I not acquainted my readers with those 5 crazy people who have played a pertinent role in the story of my life?’, I ask myself. I cannot come up with a good enough excuse. It is just one of those things that I have unwittingly taken for granted. But not any more. Especially since I have come to realize that it is taking me more than the usual amount of head scratching  to recollect things from the past. Turns out, my memory is just as volatile as  dry ice. Bits and pieces of it will inadvertently dissolve into foggy nothingness. It would be a terrible shame to allow glimpses of kaleidoscopic personalities to fade into oblivion just like that. And so, for the purpose of chronicling, here is an  attempt to cram all the awesomeness of a 12 year old friendship into one post.

A cotton t-shirt pulled over khaki shorts, earphones stuffed defiantly in each ear, cell phone (a very rare and sought after commodity in those days) dangling lazily from a belt loop, Raybans perched on a tiny nose and the constant rhythmic sound of a piece of chewing gum being mercilessly chomped into a shrivelled, juice less mass – this is what I remember of Pali’s first appearance at the gates of our hostel almost 12 years ago. From the moment her freakishly small feet hit the premise, all semblance of sanity was wiped clean. It was as if a mischievous elf with a rich repertoire of pranks had sneaked in and was gleefully wreaking havoc. From emptying the contents of the salt and sugar shakers in the dining room and filling them up with mud to getting back at an annoying room-mate by pasting a rather obnoxious skeleton sticker right in the center of her dressing table mirror and from setting someone’s hair on fire to spilling an entire bottle of oil on another one’s bed – Pali soon became known for all the weird stuff that went around in the hallways and dormitories of our once peaceful abode. There was never a dull moment with Pali around. After 9pm one could find her displaying her prowess at Ludo or egging the rest of us into helping her put up a hammock across her bed or hatching a plan to scale the seemingly indomitable walls of the  hostel simply to go buy dozens of chuskis for the night or tricking us into doing her assignment for her (I still do not know how she talked us into doing that)....and on and on go the fables of Pali’s antics. Even today, her overtly elfin characteristics befool people into thinking that she is all about tomfoolery and horseplay when actually she is much more than just that. Ask her for advice on a serious matter and she will dole out just the right amount of sensible suggestions. There is always one person in a group who has the ability to defuse situations and crack even the most foul tempered person up. For us, that would be Pali.

My most favourite Pali moment - Time spent with her on clear summer nights when not a worry in the world bothered us as we lay on our backs , gazing at the millions of shiny stars glittering in an inky blue sky while occasionally sipping Badam milk from glass bottles.

Tashi ma’am -  What do I write about someone who is known far and wide for her ability to strangle people till their eyeballs pop like ripe lychees. Just when her victims are about to  give up on believing that they would ever breathe again, she releases them and breaks into peals of laughter so intense that tears stream down her cheeks. However, at the risk of losing my own voice box, I have decided to record, for the first time, the life and times of Tashi ma’am. In her heyday, Tashi ma’am was one of the most dreaded seniors around. Minions like us could be seen scampering helter-skelter for fear of being chanced upon by her. Those poor souls who weren’t agile enough to find a hiding place in time would then be systematically subjected to severe ragging, chores galore and the choicest of ridicule. Despite all this though, there was something extremely endearing about Tashi ma’am which charmed even those whom she tortured. Her inability to read and comprehend even the most basic Hindi, her pledge to make the hostel warden’s life as miserable as possible, her absolute black and white theory about people (she either likes someone or completely detests someone) , an undying enthusiasm for chasing and burning mosquitoes one by one with a piece of inflamed kachua chhaap, a penchant for long aimless scooty rides (Tashi ma’am, if you are reading this, you know what I am referring to - wink wink), a sadistic streak which becomes apparent each time she yanks unsuspecting friends out of their warm cozy beds on Sunday mornings and forces them to accompany her (empty stomach) on uphill hikes - and many such peculiar traits make her one of a kind. Over a period of years she has brought defiance, alcohol, night-outs, trekking expeditions, dirt biking on our scooties and other random yet important things into our lives for which we are all truly thankful.

My most favourite Tashi ma’am moment – Wednesday mornings at the hostel. The paramount importance of securing a plateful of egg bhurji and bread  for a fast asleep Tashi ma’am before breakfast hours were up & the kitchen was closed. A task even more significant than eating our own breakfast or getting to college in time or perhaps even breathing.

Joti, the youngest of the lot, became part of the group quite by accident. You see, she was hoodwinked by our cunning warden into moving to our dormitory by convincing her that Pali was an artistic genius, Mini and I were conscientious scholars and Arry led the life of a monk. I like to believe that this little lie on our warden’s part changed Joti’s life forever (hopefully in a positive way). Now, Joti is one of those people who unwittingly do things that are hilarious. For instance when she sleeps she reminds me of Count Dracula lying straight as a ramrod in a coffin with his arms neatly crossed on his chest. She also nurtures a bizarre expertise – that of being able to kill rats with just one well aimed blow of her slipper. Most of these rats seem to die of a heart attack (made evident by the look of utter shock on their dead faces) rather than the impact of the said slipper. For a while Joti and Pali shared a room in the hostel. Those were the days when they bickered like a middle aged married couple. Everything ranging from the mess in Pali’s half of the room to the fact that Pali apparently turned a deaf ear to most of Joti’s college stories sparked innumerable comical arguments (each argument had a lifespan of anything between 2 days to 3 months). All of this was massively entertaining for the rest of us as we sat on the sidelines and enjoyed the daily drama. All in all Joti is a bundle of fun because she has a commendable ability to casually brush off all the puns directed towards her and continue being involved in all the legendary escapades . Gate crashing an unknown wedding in an equally unknown city during my bachelorette party or sneaking into the common room late at night to catch forbidden episodes of ‘Sex and the City’ – these stories wouldn’t have been half as juicy if Joti wasn’t a part of them.

My most favourite Joti moment – The time Joti badgered us into watching her favourite Hindi film – ‘Kal Ho Na Ho’ – in a rickety back alley theatre which offered only rock hard wooden benches for us to park our backsides on. Amidst extensive catcalls from a thoroughly tapori audience and a display of kitschy dancing LED lights garlanding the screen, we sat through the painfully over-dramatic ordeal. Later, of course, we had no one but Joti to blame it all on and she never heard the end of it.

Arry  is like a fluffy white cloud floating peacefully in a clear blue sky. Woes and worries afflicting lesser mortals do not seem to ruffle her feathers. There is only the thought of one eventuality that can perhaps bring a furrow to her brow -  the fear of waking up one day to find no hair framing her pretty face. Over years this delusion has made her experiment with several nasty smelling ayurvedic hair oils which have the ability to wake even the dead from their graves. By devoutly believing in the virtue of being the slow and steady turtle that she is, she has earned herself an apt nick name - Slowry. Try rushing her into things and she will probably give you a dazed half interested look. Nonetheless, every now and then she is up for a good adventure (or misadventure in some cases).  A friend who is brutally honest (ye tere haath itne mote kaise ho gaye, mooch oog rahi hai teri), a friend who stayed up an entire night to video chat with me when I was friendless and jobless in a new country, a friend who has lethal bony arms that can cause some serious physical damage, a friend who can never seem to remember where she bought stuff from (arey kahin toh, kabhi toh, kisine khareeda tha – Joti, you know what I am talking about), a friend who is now a model Army wife (dutifully attending AWWA meets, Ladies club sessions, baking classes et al), a friend who does not have a single malevolent bone in her body, a friend who always has the time for a good heart to heart and a friend who has proven to be a worthy accomplice when it comes to activities like sprinkling Bournvita on people’s beds   – that is Arry for you.

My most favourite Arry moment – A day before a terrifying exam. Buried deep under a cozy blanket you can see Arry struggling to keep her eyes open. The textbook is propped at an odd angle in front of her. Suddenly you realize that she has nodded off. Fearing that she would fail her exam because of lack of preparation, you give her a worried nudge. She looks at you with drugged eyes and blurts – “No, no I am not sleeping. I am just resting my eyes’.

There is just so much that I can write about Mini that some time back I decided to dedicate an entire post to her. 'This' is where you can find it. As you would have already guessed (if you have read the tagged post…READ IT if you haven’t!!), I have known Mini for donkey’s years. In the span of these very many years, she has never failed to amaze or amuse me with her anomalous ways. Things like sleeping with her eyes wide open, making the most outlandish ensembles look tasteful, being able to effortlessly spout strings of Hindi expletives, being violently loyal (to the point of blowing her top off at those who speak ill of her pals and then walking off in a royal huff)  – these are things that only Mini can pull off. She has always been my most favourite partner in crime and will remain my most favourite partner in crime even when we are wrinkled, white haired, bent and toothless.

My most favourite Mini moment – ‘So, you are hungry?’, she asks. I nod frantically like a famished street urchin. ‘Well, I have just the thing for you. Take a slice of bread, drape it with a slice of cheese. Now, smear a generous amount of tomato ketchup on the cheese and gently lay the chips (only the Sour Cream and Onion flavoured, mind you)on this bed of cheese and ketchup. Cover this with a second slice of bread and voila…you can now enjoy Mini’s world famous Chips and Cheese sandwich, my friend’.

The tiny blue starfish tattoo on my right wrist – kind courtesy an impromptu urge to mark a much enjoyed reunion -  reminds me every day that somewhere in the world there are a bunch of people who will always have my back. These are my people and by writing about them today I have relived some of my best times with them. It has surely brought a big smile to my face. And even though they are miles away, I know better than to feel dismal about it because good times are merely a video conference away..