Ghulam Ali Can't Dance

It was just yesterday that my mother told me that I am very fortunate to have friends like the ones I do. I had no reason to differ; she had none not to realize this. Not every mother can see her son off and - before she can even come to terms with the geography separating them - in no time hear him beaming on the phone, "I am perfectly fine. Staying with a friend, eating at another friend's place." The momentary pause at this point is just to gather the names of everything the friend cooked for dinner, the warmth shown by her and her husband and the good times with other very good friends. Now, when the night is contemplating handing over the keys to the sun, I look at the four people sleeping about in the house. It reminds me of similar settings in Hyderabad and Calcutta - and the times I have felt a happiness growing inside. I re-assert the observation that I started the post with.

All good things are actually better, but you have to look beyond the surface. Many people have friends and there are instances of friendship that has moved on to folklore. What makes my case even more curious is the fact that all this love and care is for someone who is just a little better than the furniture in the room as far as interactions are concerned. Put an occasional smile to the chair at the corner - that's me. This amount of cordiality for someone who is a permanent fixture in the Liabilities column of any journal is indeed rare.

Each time we are together, more so when everyone is having a great time, my friends realize the ineffectiveness of my participation. After all, what can you get from someone who listens to music that from the stone age, whose speech is as limited to that of the neolithic man as well? Someone who cannot sing a line or dance a step? And on each such time I, on my side, realize the futility of any suppressed wish that says - "When will this guy change?" If my incorrigibility was made of gold, it would have been 24 carats.