A.R.Ts (126) - Lessons my Dad doesn't teach me, but i learn from him

Don't make dinner plans for tonight, says Dad. His eyes have a spark I haven't seen in a while. His college friend of 50 years is coming to stay with us. And we are all going out for the big fat Indian dinner.

They met 52 Years ago. In Presidency College, Chennai. Statistics Major. Class of 1964. I saw the pictures this time. A nearly torn vintage picture fashionably cropped and sepia toned, neatly fitting into a glitzy IPad Screen. Their playground. The place where it all started.

After graduation, Dad moved to Mumbai to join a large public sector organisation. His friend moved to the US. They are poles apart. He - tall, well built, tennis playing, beer and scotch drinking, almost half American gentleman - who enjoys tapas with his Spanish son in law. My dad, the lanky Tam Bram, who thinks jeans is too western a garment for him, and whose pallets have not experimented with anything beyond paneer mutter.

The house is set to welcome them. The bowl with the idli batter is unceremoniously dethroned from its place in the kitchen. Replacing it are Muesli, brown bread and orange marmalade. "They may not be able to have dosa idli every day," says Dad, at his understanding best. The bathrooms are checked for toilet paper adequacy. All the beds have fresh sheets. The schedules are chalked out. What foods to cook, which friends to meet, what shopping needs to be done, and what places need to be visited.

They don't hug when they meet. There is barely any touch actually. And yet the intimacy is palpable. The plans unfold one by one. The conversations don't stop. They laugh, they tease, they fight. "I think Modi is more hype than action," the friend dares to say. The hot blooded BJP in my Dad mouths a few unmentionables. They have a heated argument. The friend is excited about the tennis court in the complex. Dad takes him there as if he was taking a child, finds him a partner and a racket. While the friend plays, he takes his morning walks. They come back together and sit hungrily on the breakfast table. Every day a new delicacy is dished out. Dahi wada. Freshly made halwa. Kulfi. After three days of an ascetic life (read no non veg and alcohol) the friend craves beer. Is it such a must for you, chides Dad gently. Not really, but must you make such a fuss about one beer, he retorts with a twinkle on his eye. Dad is not so amused. I step in and order the beer. Two Kingfisher Ultras, I say. Dad wonders why I order two when the friend asked for one. One for the road Dad, I want to say. But obviously I don't. The beer arrives. Lest Dad rushes into the kitchen to fetch a steel tumbler, I pull out the beer mug and pour the beer. Saying Cheers, I hand it over to the friend, steadfastly ignoring all those glares Dad was casting on me.

It's Saturday now. The friend left on Friday. Crazy guy, says Dad, already missing his boisterous presence. Do you know he gorged on chicken and fish when we took him out in Muscat. And he drank up both the beers! I told you not to order two. It's ok Dad, I say, smiling. Reveling in his simplicity. Envious of the ease with which he has carried his friendships through the years. Wondering if any of my numerous Facebook and Whatssap besties will travel the shores to come and see me when I am 72 years old. I look away, lest he catches my forlorn look. But he is watching TV, rooting for Devendra Fadnavis. Scrolling through the photo gallery, I show him a picture of the two of them that we clicked. He looks at it briefly, smiles, and then goes back to the TV screen. Nostalgia is not his style. Be in the here and now. And give it all you have. I learnt something about relationships that moment. And for that moment, all the pictures in my phone faded away.