My best buddy

The first time I spoke with her, I didn’t really take a shine to her.
In fact, it would be more correct to say that I hated her on sight.
And decided that she would never be in my clique.
Whenever I would pass her in the corridors of our college hostel, I would glower at her, while she would smile me her sunniest beam, much to my vexation.
Too bad – out I would come with my most disgusted scowl, roll my eyes, and go clip-clopping on my patented stilettos.
And then, as luck would have it – by some inexplicable hand of fate, we were thrown as room-mates.
Gosh! Why-did-she-have-to-be-my-roomie! Was my first reaction when the news was delivered to me by my as-cool-as-a-cucumber warden. But all my cringing was in vain, as did all my pleas to get a new roomie fall on my warden’s deaf ears.
Resigned to my fate, I made my way to the room assigned to me. And to her.
Within five minutes, I had sized her up. She loved dance. Her younger sis. Clothes. Talking. Was in love. In the truest sense.
I also knew that I was going to hate her. A lot!
There were lots of heated quarrels, taunts, tears, baseless accusations, misunderstandings, misquotes, bruised egos, and more swollen eyes.
But then, somewhere along the way, a friendship blossomed between us.
Reluctantly from my side, I admit.
But which grew from strength to strength.
So much so that now, a life without her, my best pal, Chinky, is inconceivable for me.
She’s been with me through thick and thin, literally and metaphorically.
We laugh at the most inane of jokes. We don’t just laugh – we positively roll on the ground in mirth.
She can look through my most carefully-disguised of emotions. Try as I might, she knows what’s cooking.
We’ve raided each others wardrobes.
Talked endlessly over the phone.
Watched endless re-runs of F*R*I*E*N*D*S.
She’s eaten the drenched-in-ghee parathas I once made, on one of my once-in-the-rarest-of-blue-moon days, without wincing.
As I did the half-cooked potatoes she decided to cook for me the next day. (Before she rips me apart, let me hastily assure you that now she is a superlative cook, and all her culinary experiments are nothing short of a gastronome’s delight). Hear! Hear!
Last year, post a ‘spirited’ evening, I puked all over all her prized brand-new phone.
We’ve been through more than our share of zany stuff.
She’s been my closest confidante; I’ve rested my head on her petite shoulders for as long as I remember.
She’s been brutally honest and given me more than an ample piece of her mind (and acerbic tongue) when I have acted mulishly (and I’ve done that more times than I would like to remember).
Professional and personal advice has come from her in ample measure, and she has this uncanny ability to be bang-on.
Quite a talisman for me, I insist on dragging her for any interview I may have.
She’s never let me down.
We've hunted for that perfect Cinderella pair of shoes.
Helped smear the paint on each other for a party.
Almost as well as smearing gooey-chocolate cake on each other at birthdays.
Tried our hands at smoking perfect-eights.
Gobbled dimsums and pani-puri, with equally abandoned glee.
And then counted calories, with equally dejected expressions.
I’ve marveled at her ability to make a meal out of ice cream. I remember her hauling me to fetch ice-cream, on a particularly scorching Sunday afternoon, much to my visible annoyance.
Almost like the countless number of times to my fave coffee lounge, much to her exasperation. No surprise then that I was saddest, and she the diametrical opposite, when the MCD decided to close the place for good.
She’s nagged me no end about my spilling-over collection of footwear.
We’ve pored over the same magazines simultaneously – without me, the grumpy one, getting crabby.
I’ve understood that when we are on the dance floor, all eyes are on her. So I’ve learnt to step aside gracefully, and watch her, in her twinkle-toed-mouth-open avatar, without a single chip on my shoulder.
She’s freaked me out many a time with her uncanny predictions, and ability to remember the exact place where things are, much to my bewilderment, and gradually, grudging admiration.
Too bad she still freaks me out by going, “ooooooh aaaaah” over those furry, soft-toys. (Monsters!)
Almost as much as when she decides to do the possessed / spooky act with me, leaving me screaming for cover.
Next year we celebrate a decade of friendship.
That reminds me, I should probably tell her keep the flute glasses handy and dust-free.
But I guess, with her OCD for cleanliness, that should be the last of my concerns.
Cheers to you babe.
You rock! Big time.