<p class="bodytext">For a man of relatively short, diminutive stature, he possessed an aura that demanded immediate attention. His parental background was intriguing; his father, a conservative Tamilian, had married a Sikkimese when posted on official duty, which was a tad unusual for an India of the 1970s. Only he attributed his “know-all” aura and his sharp memory to this fortuitous circumstance. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Within our college campus, he was profoundly irreverent, refused to respect authority and conventions, and was not bound by the traditional methods of thinking that the rest of us adhered to. He was instinctive and driven by curiosity, thriving on uncertainty, hell bent on repeatedly stirring the pot and enlivening the drudgery of our student life by constantly questioning the status quo.</p>.<p class="bodytext">He had a love for the bottle, and after a glass or two, he found himself fuelled by the powers of innovation and creativity. His enthusiasm and zest for life were evident in the manner in which he dominated conversations, cigarette in hand. So adult-like, he was an enigma, thoroughly impressing us all, a group of youngsters fresh from school on the cusp of adulthood.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The years took their toll, and soon enough, memories of our college began to fade from our collective memories, overshadowed by our busy work lives. Meanwhile, he had moved and settled down in Bengaluru, where I too lived. But we rarely talked to each other, and all these years, I hardly took the time out to even ring him. “Aren’t we in the same city? We can always meet tomorrow,” was my constant refrain. Importantly, what was there to converse about? The pizazz of our college days hardly seemed meaningful decades later. (The one time I visited him, I discovered he was an excellent cook and could stir up some tasty mutton curry even as he puffed away at his cigarette, a glass filled with his favourite drink within hands reach!)</p>.<p class="bodytext">One wintry Bengaluru morning, his number flashed on my phone screen. Wondering where to begin the conversation after such a long gap, I answered hesitantly, starting to rattle off excuses for not contacting him in months. Only his wife was using his phone to inform his friends that he had passed away after a severe asthma attack. </p>.<p class="bodytext">My heart sank upon hearing this. What an insensitive and self-centred buddy was I? My ears would not take in what they were hearing. I felt guilty, for now it had become a far more serious question of concern for a friend. Did my absence hurt him? What else should I have done before it became too late?</p>.<p class="bodytext">Friends are priceless; one can never be too busy or late for them. An occasional tinkle would have made sure I wouldn’t have cause for regret now. There was only one consolation: he always said life was not worth living beyond 35; fortuitously, he lived to be almost double.</p>
<p class="bodytext">For a man of relatively short, diminutive stature, he possessed an aura that demanded immediate attention. His parental background was intriguing; his father, a conservative Tamilian, had married a Sikkimese when posted on official duty, which was a tad unusual for an India of the 1970s. Only he attributed his “know-all” aura and his sharp memory to this fortuitous circumstance. </p>.<p class="bodytext">Within our college campus, he was profoundly irreverent, refused to respect authority and conventions, and was not bound by the traditional methods of thinking that the rest of us adhered to. He was instinctive and driven by curiosity, thriving on uncertainty, hell bent on repeatedly stirring the pot and enlivening the drudgery of our student life by constantly questioning the status quo.</p>.<p class="bodytext">He had a love for the bottle, and after a glass or two, he found himself fuelled by the powers of innovation and creativity. His enthusiasm and zest for life were evident in the manner in which he dominated conversations, cigarette in hand. So adult-like, he was an enigma, thoroughly impressing us all, a group of youngsters fresh from school on the cusp of adulthood.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The years took their toll, and soon enough, memories of our college began to fade from our collective memories, overshadowed by our busy work lives. Meanwhile, he had moved and settled down in Bengaluru, where I too lived. But we rarely talked to each other, and all these years, I hardly took the time out to even ring him. “Aren’t we in the same city? We can always meet tomorrow,” was my constant refrain. Importantly, what was there to converse about? The pizazz of our college days hardly seemed meaningful decades later. (The one time I visited him, I discovered he was an excellent cook and could stir up some tasty mutton curry even as he puffed away at his cigarette, a glass filled with his favourite drink within hands reach!)</p>.<p class="bodytext">One wintry Bengaluru morning, his number flashed on my phone screen. Wondering where to begin the conversation after such a long gap, I answered hesitantly, starting to rattle off excuses for not contacting him in months. Only his wife was using his phone to inform his friends that he had passed away after a severe asthma attack. </p>.<p class="bodytext">My heart sank upon hearing this. What an insensitive and self-centred buddy was I? My ears would not take in what they were hearing. I felt guilty, for now it had become a far more serious question of concern for a friend. Did my absence hurt him? What else should I have done before it became too late?</p>.<p class="bodytext">Friends are priceless; one can never be too busy or late for them. An occasional tinkle would have made sure I wouldn’t have cause for regret now. There was only one consolation: he always said life was not worth living beyond 35; fortuitously, he lived to be almost double.</p>
