PRIVATE-I
Anything for a friend

kaaboom, splat, bang, splatter. he calls me the foulest names imaginable, then thumps me on the back with a hand that's more heavy metal than led zeppelin, and declares, "you're not much younger than me, but you're like a kid brother, you @**&* brat." the brat was subjected to a taste of the bade bhaiya medicine last evening, once again with fierce feeling. just re-confirmed my decades-old belief that different people have different modes of expressing their love-hate, affection-anger, khushi-gham. so what was my soul brother, anil kapoor (certainly not to be confused with the movie actor), frazzled about? a l'il bit of this, a l'il bit of that, actually. couldn't make it for a home-barbecued dinner he had promised, avec family. wanted desperately to complete watching a dvd of marathon man, the vintage laurence olivier-dustin hoffman thriller, which had to be returned pronto to the shemaroo library. or cough up some cash wastefully. "so now a dvd is more important than us, your family," ak thundered over the phone, showering me with a downpour of expletives. "hey, hold on, let me explain..." cllllllick. phone banged dead. happens to all of us, doesn't it? phones disconnected, communications cut off, whipping up that mood of remorse, "hell, i should have been more sensitive." wanna kick yourself rightaway, for preferring a trivial pursuit to an offer of familial bonhomie. still, perhaps, such minor tremors are an intrinsic part of any friendship. if there are no quakes-`n'-squabbles, then something is seriously amiss. so, yeah, anil has had his bouts of verbal slug-outs with me, which have strangely enough, only strengthened the fraternal bond. a bond which started off, expectedly, with a violent argument about the performance in mumbai of a bertolt brecht play by a touring european theatre company. i loved it, he loathed it. that was enough to set off a barrage of anilesque invectives, but, yes, he had an opinion. come to think of it, he always does, even 20 years after that war over brecht. be it a masala movie, an avant-garde play, a jazz concert or a classical music jugalbandi, at the end of the performance, anil is ready with his instant bouquets and brickbats. on occasion, i'm convinced that anil k has missed out on his true calling in life -- that of a critic with an unshakeable view. and if you sigh, moan and just shut your ears, he delivers more hard blows. pow biff pow. whenever he argues, which is always, his wife rita reminds you gently, "don't take what he says to heart, you know how he is." apart from his anchor rita, his kids ram and aruna, and dare i say, yours sincerely, are also accustomed to anil's zest for verbal duels. plus, we're accustomed to his promises which he never keeps -- of losing weight rightaway, of cutting down on fried bhajias, puris and pastas. he returns from a health farm, every kilo intact. he swims at the bombay gym, trots off for brisk walks to pdp park. still, it's no go. nope, you can't change anil. neither should you try. because you always want him to win a debate, ply you with pastries-`n'-pancakes, and rush right over to your house, when you're in need of an emotional doctor. or simply a shoulder to cry on. he's rich with sane advice, and he's richer with care-`n'-concern when you're in a crisis. he's always lived in sprawling sea-facing apartments. now he's shifted to a bungalow that nestles among mango trees. he gets dreamy-eyed when he sees wild parrots perched on the branches, or hears a koel singing a simon & garfunkel-like melody. yeah, anil's back on the line. communication restored. no dvd excuses, it's back to a lavish barbecue meal this evening under the mango trees. and, of course, an argument or two which he'll win. kaaboom. khalid.mohamed@timesgroup.com