Would you wear this shirt? This nice, pink, madras checked, breathy fabric, summer shirt?
If I had the shoulders for it, I would.
Unless it made me look fat.
But this is not about the shirt. It's about Sunday night dinner with K-Man, K-girl, Pink Shirt, boyfriend (black shirt), and me of the loudest cackle, and only 2 degrees separated from everyone at the table.
I'm laying out the scene for you.
Dinner. Sunday night. Khan Market. Walking in a gully to destination Ginger Moon. Most amicable banter. Four of us. Fifth to join.
One of us, K-man, to me: "Hey, so how's your blog going?"
Me: Surprised, fumbling, "Ohhh, it's going ok, I guess..."
K-man: "Man, you got me into trouble last time..."
Me: "Trouble? Because of a blog? Ha ha, what rubbish."
Rewind: On the last sunday of May in 2009, I had dinner with K-man and wrote about it. Coincidentally, we were eating out again exactly a year after, this Sunday. The french open finals had something to do with how it was remembered.
Turns out I wrote about how he was a player and our common friend, Y (of the pink shirt) thought it was a most complimentary post and told K-man to go read. K-man is not a reader. Has no time. Was leaving for University shortly. Whatever the reason, he told his (then) present love interest to read it. Present love interest didn't like what she read, gave him flak. That ended not happily every after. K-man not too affected, laughed it off, but that's what he meant by got me into trouble last time.
This time, at dinner, K-man was with a girl who is a dentist, and someone I went to school with in class 7. I remembered her birthday. She was impressed and not too freaked. Overall, pleasant soul. Last week she ran after Ranbir Kapoor at a traffic light to get a picture taken with him. I like that. What fun. At a traffic light!
K-man on his part, tells me, when we're standing downstairs, being smokers, that this is the longest relationship in a while that he's been in -- three weeks.
I'm so proud.
He also remembered that last time, I took away the take away -- some left over chicken stew -- and that I had referred to him as more gora than good looking in that post.
Sheesh. Men and their selective memories.
Anyway, so she -- three weeker -- and I, had a 'Mind Eraser' each -- a cocktail with vodka, Bacardi and blue curacao (pronounced /ˈkjʊərəsaʊ/ in English). We giggled a little, she more, because she's thinner and lighter and a smaller built than I of punjabi bone structure and height of a mare.
I love these random, coincidental dinners with friendly people who accuse you of wrecking their love lives on your blog and then laugh about it, say nevermind ya, and change topic to, Who Wants Dessert? And so we all troop across to Coco Berry, take pictures with our digital flashes and proceed to demolish overpriced cups of FRO-YO.
I don't even watch tennis, but we've made half baked plans to do this every year on the Sunday between the 2 weeks of the French Open. And one of us has to blog about it.
If I had the shoulders for it, I would.
Unless it made me look fat.
But this is not about the shirt. It's about Sunday night dinner with K-Man, K-girl, Pink Shirt, boyfriend (black shirt), and me of the loudest cackle, and only 2 degrees separated from everyone at the table.
I'm laying out the scene for you.
Dinner. Sunday night. Khan Market. Walking in a gully to destination Ginger Moon. Most amicable banter. Four of us. Fifth to join.
One of us, K-man, to me: "Hey, so how's your blog going?"
Me: Surprised, fumbling, "Ohhh, it's going ok, I guess..."
K-man: "Man, you got me into trouble last time..."
Me: "Trouble? Because of a blog? Ha ha, what rubbish."
Rewind: On the last sunday of May in 2009, I had dinner with K-man and wrote about it. Coincidentally, we were eating out again exactly a year after, this Sunday. The french open finals had something to do with how it was remembered.
Oh yeaaa... of course, last year, Swagath, how time flies, what a coincidence..
Turns out I wrote about how he was a player and our common friend, Y (of the pink shirt) thought it was a most complimentary post and told K-man to go read. K-man is not a reader. Has no time. Was leaving for University shortly. Whatever the reason, he told his (then) present love interest to read it. Present love interest didn't like what she read, gave him flak. That ended not happily every after. K-man not too affected, laughed it off, but that's what he meant by got me into trouble last time.
This time, at dinner, K-man was with a girl who is a dentist, and someone I went to school with in class 7. I remembered her birthday. She was impressed and not too freaked. Overall, pleasant soul. Last week she ran after Ranbir Kapoor at a traffic light to get a picture taken with him. I like that. What fun. At a traffic light!
K-man on his part, tells me, when we're standing downstairs, being smokers, that this is the longest relationship in a while that he's been in -- three weeks.
I'm so proud.
He also remembered that last time, I took away the take away -- some left over chicken stew -- and that I had referred to him as more gora than good looking in that post.
Sheesh. Men and their selective memories.
Anyway, so she -- three weeker -- and I, had a 'Mind Eraser' each -- a cocktail with vodka, Bacardi and blue curacao (pronounced /ˈkjʊərəsaʊ/ in English). We giggled a little, she more, because she's thinner and lighter and a smaller built than I of punjabi bone structure and height of a mare.
I love these random, coincidental dinners with friendly people who accuse you of wrecking their love lives on your blog and then laugh about it, say nevermind ya, and change topic to, Who Wants Dessert? And so we all troop across to Coco Berry, take pictures with our digital flashes and proceed to demolish overpriced cups of FRO-YO.
I don't even watch tennis, but we've made half baked plans to do this every year on the Sunday between the 2 weeks of the French Open. And one of us has to blog about it.
2 comments:
The shirt would be cooler if it were a short shirt worn with a nice pair of khakhis rather than a tuck in kinda shirt.
I've never actually lived in the same city as a reader of my blog. The blog was a result of being apart from the close friends.
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