Last night we had cocktails and dinner at the Goethe Zentrum next door where we had all met up to bid farewell to Monika Hirmer who we’ve all interacted with extensively over the last few years. When we walked back home, the idea was to make sure that the kids had eaten, and then to naturally go to bed, hit the sack or whatever the phrase in fashion dictates. The kids had already had dinner but were still open to some soup that the wife rustled up and I was about to convert to pajamas when the kids got a call and they announced that a few friends were dropping in.

And lo and behold a small group of their friends were at the gate in a few seconds and greeted me with a ‘hello Uncle, we come bearing gifts’ hail. And in they walked, carrying bottles of beer…they were there for an hour or so and they were great fun…I excused myself a little later since I was a bit tired (and yes, a bit buzzed) but the wife stayed back with them and told me in the morning that the whole gang also left shortly after I had retired.

Now I have no issues with friends dropping by late at night, not mine, nor my children’s…we maintain an open house and I have been used to this kind of social interaction from my school days. But this morning, as I am waiting for the cook to arrive and make me an omelet I find that the mind is travelling on two planes. One is the oh so familiar one called Nostalgia. And the other is a friendly quirk of the eyebrow called Culture Shock.

I remember while we were in school and in college thereafter, after dinner excursions were the norm. We’d all land up at someone’s place, throw stones at their windows, or wake them up by revving our motorcycles outside their houses…whatever…and then spend a long time, sitting around, chatting, some of us would smoke…and then almost every time we’d decide that it was time for tea. And then a quick trip to the nearest Irani cafe for chai.

Perhaps at a slightly later stage, as we become more wallet friendly we graduated to coffee and I remember with great fondness long evenings spent at coffee shops at the Taj Coromandel in Chennai, the Taj Banjara in Hyderabad…just coffeing and smoking perhaps…

Going home would be another two stage operation…we’d all go back to where we had all congregated…there would be another chat session and only then (or perhaps after hearing an angry parent) would we disperse and head back home. So yeah, I have no problem with the kids following the same tradition.

But I can’t help but notice the subtle changes that have made their presence felt. For one thing, the mode of transport has become four wheeled. While I thank God that neither my kids nor most of their friends turned out to be the maniacal bike riders that we were (the roads are no longer what they used to be) I must confess that it always takes me a moment or two to digest the fact that friends dropping in actually results in several cars parked outside the house.

And there is no discussion about tea or coffee. The currency of conversation has obviously shifted to beer, a brandy or a liqueur. It’s wonderfully different and I have come to terms with this phenomenon but I can’t say I miss the innocence of tea.

Those one rupee cups or perhaps even lesser priced concoctions had a biscuity charm and irani samosas had their own unique not so fresh taste and the conversations were perhaps more naive, more directionless and more haphazard in those days. If nothing else there was no need for our parents to worry about any of us driving home drunk. But apart from that nothing much has changed.

I still have neighbors who wonder what kind of a nut case I am…and how I let my children lead the kind of crazy life that they do…I still have relatives who on hearing about our lifestyle want to go quickly to their graves, simply so they can turn in them every time they hear about a new escapade of ours…but my take remains the same…it’s acceptable as long as it is fun…and within the confines of decency:-)

And after this crazy deluge of thoughts and reminiscences I land back in the present with a well padded thud and I can hear the voices of my children screaming at me to stop living in a past they want me to forget. But hey, that past was a great time and doesn’t deserve to be forgotten. It is what shaped us and for that I shall remain ever grateful. Of course I realize that the kids too will form their bonds with their pasts when the time is right and they will then understand our hanging on to inane memories…

the nights we used to drive around town wearing then newly imported horror masks and scaring the bejesus out of poor unsuspecting rickshawallas…nights spent punning around in a hysterical battle to have the last word…nights spent pouring our hearts out or crying about the many heartbreaks…the nights spent sitting on a lakeshore, singing songs and hoping the girls across the lake could hear us…the nights spent in quiet repose in the rocks of far away Jubilee Hills waiting to see the sun rise, and imagining that it was a sight more magical than a sunrise from a beach or from a hill station…

Oh dayum!!! as the kids like to say…the past was a good place to hang out…then…and now…

Cheers…can I have one more drink please:-)