In Dil Chahta Hai, there is a scene where Sid stands at a Goa cliff, watching a ship disappear into the horizon, and tells something no friend wants to hear: that they are all like that ship. Headed in different directions. Pulled by different lives. Forget meeting every year, we might not meet for ten years, he says. His friends reject this. As friends do. They make a pact anyway. The film, being a film, lets them keep it. It ends with the ship returning to shore, the friends reuniting at the same spot, the universe cooperating with the emotional arc. But I have lived long enough to know that the universe is not, generally, a cooperative institution. Which is why what happened in May was unusual. Someone made a call. Then another call. Then a WhatsApp message that said, with the specific energy of a person who has decided not to overthink it: We plan to meet this weekend. One week later, nineteen people were in Chennai. Chennai. In May. Bala and I drove down from Bangalore. This dema...
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