Of Fools and Follies
You’re mad. Bonkers. Off your head. But I’ll tell you a secret: Some of the best people are.
What makes friends, friends?
Countless times I've been stumped at how it's the glassiest of blokes who turn out to be the chummiest of fellows. It's probably something to do with their mug that affects one to cease and stop in the tracks. Something in their facial nerves being always anesthetised and make like a sergeant major. But do they know that the Motor Cortex and Broca's area don't operate under the same jurisdiction?
Take my friend Hemming, for instance. Let's call him Hemm. When I first met Hemm, he looked cold, brainy and as jolly as a grape flavoured jolly rancher. That we decided music and philosophy was where we draw the line on our strangership was bizarre to say the least (The guy can play the trumpet, let me tell you!).
Another pal of mine, Anthony, who looked as glum as a glass building at first glance, mentioned Alice in Chains and that was it. Would you believe me if I told you that we both lead a healthy life? And that we both love bands who are neck deep in pharmaceuticals? (The fellow's a linguist! If you ever need a consultation on that overdue English assignment, rally round and I'll make the introductions.)
So, what makes friends, friends?
I consulted ancient pundits, having much time to kill, and this is what they had to say.
The Greek snobs, probably having lost their shirts to pals on some naked bloke at the Olympics, opined that one needn't have friends unless the blighters were of any use. They ought to help you rise through societal ranks, protecting you from foes as you go, or else off with them.
The Asian bigwigs, taking a more hierarchal route and saying a loftier blighter ought to bring out the best out of a lesser blighter, make it a give and take matter. The same way a barnacle attaches to a turtle for survival, perhaps?
But the everyday bloke couldn't care less! Ask him but the name of the funny Frenchman who scaled the Alps and he'll drool like he just sucked a lemon. Not to mention the other idiots who inhabit this big idiot soup we call society! I mean I say!
The rummy thing about these character studies of mine is often not failing to find the answer. But rather discovering realms of existences that'd suffice but sea dwelling crustaceans. For instance, once when I was dissecting methods behind pure genius, I was a two-tailed dog. “Surely,” I said to myself, “discipline, good grades, etc are assumed.” They were. But 'walking around naked' and 'having a deep bond with a pigeon’ were so out of left field, I questioned my mutual genetic makeup with these Homo Sapiens.
And likewise, in our callousness, I suppose taking counsel from ancient voices wasn’t very bright. Not that I do Pilates in my undies, but if I thought getting advice on camaraderie from fellows who rub elbows with at most two humans a month (one of them is their servant) was smart, I suppose it's me who needs psychiatric evaluation.
Not giving up, I scoured every human interaction that hinted at answers and went the whole nine yards. Decidedly I ended up going in circles, at times having a glimmer of hope only for them to be duds again. But when I caught up with the ‘Daybreak Boys’, it dawned on me. Perhaps it was dense, solving everyday idiot problems, firing neurons like a genius would. Perhaps to answer the idiot, one must be the idiot.
My half-baked friends and I meet every half-year, come rain, come snow. And if the house isn't brought down by night, we weren't the 'Daybreak Boys'. On that humid October Mumbai night, we perhaps weren't as cordial as when we were at Mr Sharma's wedding (whose niece we fancied) but nothing too bad. We chatted about this and that, having linked after almost a year and it is at times like this that you realize how much Chronos loves sloshing you across the skull when you're having a good time.
Just as we were about to leave, there came an announcement, "For those wanting to lift the spirits of the populace, we hear you. Sing Bohemian Rhapsody and win ₹1000!" There are few things as hardy as the human will. Perhaps the Three Gorges Dam comes closest. Add a bit of spirit to the mix though, and not even the Romans stand a chance.
My friend volunteered. Not that he couldn't sing but a slight strain of his vocal cords and an asphyxiating pug would sound melodious. We advised him against it but the dutch courage had kicked in and if a fellow felt like being a thorn in his side, his head would be knocked clean off.
Well, the long and short of it is this: hardly had he sung a note before we were thrown to the lions. Not only did the chump murder a crowd favourite but he also stood at the crime scene, expecting applause. What's more, he kept gazing straight at us, as though we should be teary eyed at this buffoonery! Being regulars at the pub was the only reason we got off easy. I mean, with things being thrown about, but cleaning up, painting and rearranging the furniture was what one would call 'wiping the slate clean'.
But here's the thing.
Not once did I consider being a part of anything but the 'Daybreak Boys'. It was odd, yes.
Having gone so far as to touch on a sort of malady that racked the old boy every new moon, making him vulnerable to chicken wings and rendering him tone-deaf, I suppose the pub's owner bought it. However, I kid you not, we were thoroughly dressed down by the progenitors. Water under the bridge and whatnot but what cut us to the quick was their 'let not the shoemaker go beyond his shoe' line of suggesting anti-stupidity measures. For crying out loud, one was made tutor to an imbecile who needed not counsel but an MRI to check for brain deformities while another was made to sell insurance to recoup for the shame brought to the family!
As for me, I was hurled to Canberra. Not that I mind that it befell amidst my courtship with a lass (it stung), but for a silver lining, I found answers regarding this write-up.
In all the above dealings, kin or pal, you'll note my reluctance to abandon ship, regardless the circs. Perhaps the blood of two peas in a pod is thicker than water but when I met Grandma Shirley on that bus from Alinga St to Bruce, I questioned the notion. Never before was I so invested in the SPF and brand of sunscreen but if you'd believe me, it's the real deal. Another time when I was lunching with a girl, her fixation on the garnishing in my omelette led to such an epiphany that I said, “To hell with man and the greater good of mankind!” I'm sure when I met Anthony and Hemm, we were equally up to some rot.
What is the nub of the matter then? What makes friends, friends? I can say with no certainty but being one idiot in the big idiot soup we call society shows great promise. I mean, the idea is up for grabs, but I suppose divorce rates would significantly plummet if one party would ask, “Does a German Shepherd think an Aussie Shepherd has an accent?” just before signing the papers.
Perhaps the ancient fools were up to something. Perhaps those who build walls around themselves simply need a moron to back up into it. Perhaps those who give cold shoulders merely should give up looking for creative ways to get their knickers in a knot. Perhaps -
Oops! Looks like I must leave.
Anthony invited me for a run knowing perfectly well that I was lunching mere moments ago.