Where Regals Dare

Friendship is a wildly underrated medication

Anna Deavere Smith

Back in October 2022, thanks to the prodding of a good surgeon friend of mine, I had an epiphany like Munnabhai in ‘Lage Raho Munnabhai’. Luckily, I did not see visions of Bapu (a sure shot one way ticket to the mental health facility for which Thane is famous). Instead, I saw visions of myself sailing away into the sunset for three whole days, luckily unaccompanied by my prince or the little princess. Before you get any ideas, I was NOT going to look for new ones. It was to catch up with several someones even better: my friends from that happy time more than twenty years ago, when I actually had a waist, naturally black hair, and eyes which could see without any prosthetic aids. Always the one to leap before I looked, I allowed myself to be swept away on a rising tide of happiness and booked myself onto a ship which would reunite the class of 1994 and while apparently sailing us to Goa and back over a span of a few memorable days and nights would actually be a journey down a lane of memories which can only be wrought when you are undergraduates together. To tell the truth, I was a tad ashamed when friends pointed out that I was failing to participate when said cruise was a stone’s throw away where as others were flying in literally from all over the globe.

Now that I was signed up, I started trying to net “fresher catch” (read other friends). Finally, at a total of just over fifty, we were ready to cast off during the first weekend of the glad, mad New Year. Discovering that my slightly sadistic vein was still alive and well, I announced to the spouse and the offspring that they could slog while “I would be on a cruise having a good time” with much unwarranted glee. The first sign of signing on for much more than I had bargained for came in the form of a ‘dress code’ which would require much more than sixty shades of shopping. When the opinion poll on clothes which I was seeking started dragging for more than two weeks, I finally put a sock on it, and set out to shop, the recent Diwali debacle firmly banished to the dark depths of memory. By the time the clothes, the looks, the cosmetics, accessories, alterations, footwear, salon visits and the million other things which go into stepping on a boat with your buddies were sorted, I felt as drained as if I had personally built the ship from keel to mast. The spouse and the offspring who had watched ruefully from the side lines bid me a relieved good bye before collapsing thankfully on the sofa with a sigh of relief. It had been a difficult two weeks.

With a slight feeling of trepidation, I finally set out after obsessive planning on where to become ‘a lady who lunched’, worrying about whether the café I chose would be good enough, whether my friends would lose their way in the lanes of mercenary Mumbai, and most important of all whether they would recognize the matronly, middle- aged consultant as the svelte student of yore who had parted ways more than two decades ago. A hearty lunch later, I was laughing all the way to the dock for letting such dim-witted doubts to trickle in. It was an important lesson: some friends were for keeps and you could carry on as if you never left off in the first place.

Having thankfully seen that most of us were merrily ensconced in the ‘golden middle group’, the task of onerously hauling our humungous suitcases up a rather steep gangway seemed daunting to most, especially when some perilously teetered on heels three inches high, while taking a million selfies at the same time. I thought I saw a gleam in the eyes of our orthopedician friends, whether in anticipation of several pretty patients, or of tedious duty a la` residency remained to be seen, but I will go in favour of the former! During the short walk from shore to ship, one learnt the art of elegant selfie-taking on steep surfaces, but more on that later.

After being welcomed with larger- than- life enthusiasm by the staff, the smaller than anticipated cabins lent a whole new meaning to ‘close quarters’, but it was all part of the fun. It really did not faze any of the Mumbai residents, used as we were to everyday cheek- by-jowl living but denizens of more spacious habitats must have found it more in your face than bargained for. Luckily, my roomie and I shared a neat freak obsession and our cabin remained a model one at all times without any clothes bombs exploding anywhere. A larger- than -warranted hearted intensivist immediately took on ‘housekeeping’ the next day and greeted us at odd hours and even odder places clad in a snow-white lungi which was sure to turn funny colours like his shirt if he really did all the work expected of him. Despite us thanking him for his cooperation several times, he played his chosen role to the hilt, by smartly disappearing when called upon to clean up.

In hindsight (and I sure that our entire team of opthalmologists would agree), the cabin size was a great idea for it drove us all on deck so that we would watch Mumbai harbour crawl with vessels of all kinds in the backdrop of a hazy sunset. It was where I learnt that there was an art called ‘seventy shades of selfies’, of individuals, groups, groups of groups, selfies of other people taking selfies, selfies of groups taking selfies and various permutations and combinations which would make S. Ramanujan rethink the entire theory of probability. The ship finally sailed, not into the sunset, but into the darkness, Mumbai, a cluster of lights on the horizon. Some glad-rags and fancy footwear later, we were again on deck, to begin the fancy footwork (read dance) of which I was happy to be a bit of a fringe element in the beginning. But the tunes were too catchy, and the enthusiasm too much for the most recalcitrant and soon most of us shaking a leg with abandon. So far, so great. The selfie lesson learnt I did not think that I could be schooled in much more. Little did I realize that the real classes would begin early the next day, for when you relived your college days, could early lectures be far behind?

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PART TWO

The sun woke up the next day and wondered whether it should check itself into a hospital for a sharp attack of jaundice. The deck was a mass of various shades of yellow. Daffodil, ochre, chrome, lemon, mango and neon all fought for their rightful place under the gently reeling sun. Van Gogh and Wordsworth must have been peering down benevolently from above at a scene resembling ‘Starry Night’ and a host of golden daffodils, a classic case of ‘Ek pe Ek free’.  After mumbling ‘Shining in the rising sun like a pearl upon the ocean’ a few times under my breath, I immersed myself in the bright plans for the bright day. Today was indeed the big one, what with a photoshoot in the morning and a gala private party at night in which the good stuff including casks of mead and wine would flow freely.

Finally buttonholing myself into a blazer bought for precisely this occasion, I tip-tapped my way around the ship in heels which brought howls of protest from my feet, picking up pictures as I went. Both of our extremely able organizers were opthalmologists (all the better to keep a sharp eye on things, my dear) and hence able to spot little groups getting together at the distance of a hundred paces. By dint of cajoling, yelling and good old-fashioned threatening, the shriller of the two finally got us into a large group and another enterprising physician sweet-talked an amused co passenger into photographing us all from a higher level. The son of one of our class mates, did not need any cajoling and deciding that there had to be at least one adult in the group calmly took on the responsibility too.  In the meantime, the rest of us behaved like school children who have been abandoned to their own devices by tired teachers. We got into groups, bickered, pulled faces, pointed at each other in photographs and generally behaved in ways which would have had patients running for cover.

Deciding that our wilder shenanigans were better carried out in a place far from the gawking crowds, we retreated to the relative quiet of the aft deck where we were once again marshalled into place according to specialities by our beloved tyrannical ophthalmologist to walk the ramp. The anaesthetists fell asleep on the job, causing the surgeons to shudder and the orthopedics to obsess. The eye people grabbed eye-balls with an impromptu little dance at the sight of which the gynaecologists got carried away as usual to gyrate with abandon. The physicians all carried their hearts on their sleeves while the neuro guys tried their best to make sense of what was happening (and probably failed). The radiologists decided to send out an SOS on the ship’s radio, but no joy. The nuclear medicine guy went nuclear at all that went on. I looked about vainly for my brethren, those three headed experts of ears, noses and throats only to remember that they had all bailed out the day before, leaving me to hold the fort alone, feeling like Cerberus, the giant three headed dog who guarded the gates of Greek hell.

I also tried a few stupid things while stone-cold sober like climbing ladders in tippy-tappy heels (not advised), and trying to recall the past day’s lesson and filling my protesting phone with too many pictures than deemed healthy. An exhausting morning of cat-walking later, as we finally made our way to lunch, it was as if the years had fallen away to reveal the youth and abandon which lurked beneath the acquired trappings of sophistication which time had made us don over the years.

It was only at lunch and after that I realized exactly how much planning goes into the packing involved while setting out on a cruise. Everywhere I looked were pretty women whom I thought I recognized. Of course, I did. They were my friends. But where on earth did they find the time and patience to change into better and better costumes every two hours? Or was it every twenty minutes? I stared like a bumpkin at the display of skirts, pants, shirts, jeans, pantsuits, dresses in varying lengths and colours of the rainbow, and everything in between. Enough stuff to kit out Barney’s New York, Harrods, London and leave some over for good ol’ Desi Westside, Mumbai. Deciding that I had to learn to pick some brains regarding the finer nuances of packing, I made my way back to my cabin deciding to lie low from the one thousand and one photographs which seemed to be following me around like the ghost of the Arabian Nights.

Come evening and it was the time to party, with a capital P. The good staff of the cruise had earmarked a private space for our use (they had decided that we were better off hidden away before we gave our shipmates any ideas). A couple of crooners, bartenders and a competent DJ later, ‘Take the world and paint it red’ had taken on a whole new meaning. The dance floor heaved, the music throbbed and even the staid teetotalers had brought their favourite step to the floor. Waving arms, kicking heels, bobbing heads and clapping hands brought out the ‘josh’ like no other. Twirls, whirls and flying curls only spelt out what we had known all along: the best times are best spent with friends.

A wonderful live music program seemed a befitting way to end a day which had left us all saying “Yeh Dil Maange More”.

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PART THREE

When the ship finally docked in Goa, we still had miles to go before the thought of sleep even entered our rewired minds. By now, we considered ourselves experts on egging each other on into evil ways and several plans for the day were made and unmade, each more hilarious than the last. Just as I rubbed at my sore ankles finally glad that ‘well-heeled day’ was safely behind me, I realized that the ethnic photo shoot was still on the agenda. After all the literal and figurative pains that had gone into the hunting and gathering for this single outfit, it made little sense to give it short shrift by missing out on the heels.

So, after mentally promising the protesting sore muscles a rejuvenating week of flats only, the heels were again pulled on and the aft deck reached. After gossiping with Mr. Sun the day before, Mr Wind who was of the opinion “Why should Sun have all the fun” had joined us on deck and it was soon a tale of whipping pallus, hair, saris and dupattas. Any innocent bystander could have been forgiven for believing that he had meandered into the set of a Karan Johar magnum opus crossed with Spielberg’s Titanic if the poses, colours, drapes, shades, not to speak of the incessant clicks of camera phones were anything to go by. And thus, we would have continued merrily adding madness to method if it were not for a friendly visitor.

It was later revealed that the tales of our exploits and escapades had reached Arabia and caught the attention of a local Sheikh who owned four oil wells. He had immediately chartered some form of transport (whether it was a plane, yacht or good ol’ flying carpet is yet unknown) and had landed in our midst before you could say ‘Wallah Habibi!’. We were summarily herded into a vast meeting room where he not only performed magic tricks but also enlightened us about his tricks in trade which involved keeping his oil wells and large family which included four wives in some semblance of order. It was an extremely interesting hour since neither him nor us could understand each other, were it not for another even more multi-talented cardiologist who volunteered to translate and promptly got lost in translation himself. All that we were privy to was a lot of vigorous nodding and waving of the hands. The four wives were mentioned at least four times and peace prevailed. It was only when the Sheikh began to glow like a mini sun that we realized that the thawb and kaffiyeh hid the insouciant charm of our friendly anaesthetist at which point he decided to make himself scarce. A charming dance in good Indian ishtyle was sorely needed to soothe our hot sand parched selves and it was put on immediately by another friend who was as nimble and graceful with her feet as she was with her fingers.

After all the excitement of the morning, what we were looking for was a fitting finale and it happened our way in the form of a live musical in the evening to be followed by a late- night burlesque show. The little stampede for tickets which occurred would have caused many a wildebeest of the Masai Mara to doff their hats and point to us with pride. Luckily the tickets were sought, got and we were ready to settle down to the shows without a second thought. The shows were great no doubt, but what was even better was the nostalgia created by rushing to ‘catch’ the good seats so that the whole group could be seated together, the constant hubbub as people made themselves comfortable, the shifting and adjusting to make room for one more, some more selfies, the slightly ribald remarks and the whistling which now had to share space with the ‘OOOOOOOO’ yell from the movie ‘Kantara’. It was the stuff of legend, as if we had never left college after all. Long after the burlesque dancers had called it a night, some of us still stuck to our guns in refusing to call it a night, simply because we wanted to remain in this happy bubble, headier than the best champagne.

When Mumbai loomed large on the horizon the next morning, I am sure everyone longed for a time-turner, but alas, this was the one magic which was beyond the ken of even the most competent and cleverest amongst us. These short days stolen from busy lives deserved an unreserved salute. To all those who had attended from far and near and to those who could not, but were always with us in spirit. A salute to those who unflinchingly took up the responsibility of organization from the actual planning and coordination, to arranging the casks of good stuff, to all those who took photographs with uncharacteristic patience and of course all those who patiently posed for them. Perhaps our bags were a little heavier as we hauled them down the gangway, because now in addition to all that they had before, they were also filled with memories. Perhaps we had found our time turners after all, because we had discovered that we really had not changed that much at all.

When it was time to return to many different worlds, we knew that distances, designations, degrees and faces would change but one part of us would always remain the class of ’94……

Pictures: Courtsey Dr. Prasad Bhukebag and Dr. Rajeev Gothe