Salad Days

We dipped our noses into the tumblers of Macallan Sherry Oak 12 years and inhaled its peaty aroma.

“Aaah, heavenly!” declared Ashu. “Whatever did we drink in college?”

“Smelly Old Monk mixed with Thums Up or out of a bucket with fruit floating in a punch mix,” was the instant reply from Pr. “Used to smell delicious then, before the projectile vomiting happened.”

The three of us were spending the evening catching up on where adult life had got us but it was college memoirs that dominated the conversation.

As I smeared the pork chops hurriedly with sambal sauce, I could hear Ashu telling Pr, “Well Puffin has certainly lightened up since those days when she would return from a weekend in Ghaziabad or Meerut, all bright-eyed after a life-transforming chat with the colony rickshaw-wallah. She has taken to wearing peep-toe shoes and seems to have exchanged the brown jhola for a leather tote.”

“Leather?” squealed Pr. “Faux or real?”

“Real,” mourned Ashu.

“And you? When did you start enjoying a good steak? Weren’t you a chicken and paneer kind of guy?” I asked Ashu inquisitively as I chopped up large chunks of watermelon and tossed them into the bowl.

“Well those were my salad days. When I was green in judgement, cold in blood – to quote Shakespeare. The appeal of a rare-medium overtook my lean-meat days, man.”

“I have some tandoori legs in the freezer if you prefer,” I offered.

“Maybe for breakfast?” came the hopeful answer.

The evening was becoming one full of revelations. Ashu had turned to meat with a vengeance and Pr’s disarming optimism had been eroded by my cynicism. As we discussed more college mates and their current pet peeves, there were surprises galore.

• Leo the Soulful could crack ganda fatta’s now.
• Ms Holier-Than-Thou slum re-developer of yesteryears built corporate parks in Midwest USA.
• Firebrand Leader was a stay-at-home Dad making nutritious fruit kebabs for his kid’s birthday party.
• Quiz-Wizard was chasing stock indices and his geography knowledge had shrunk to cities with a stock exchange.
• Ms Quiet Dormouse was juggling contractor-bashing, a PhD on environmental studies and an Assistant Professorship

And it went on.

Did we ever get to truly know any of us in university or had we all transfigured in a most unpredictable manner due to some weird human physiology?

“How we have grown,” Pr sighed as he poured himself a Patiala shot of Macallan.

“That’s why your BP shot up last week. Please pour back half of that. Its single malt, not McDowell No. 1,” I snapped in disgust.

Ashu looked at me, “I remember you tossing back quite a few McDowell’s yourself at the Friday parties.”

“I’ve limited my alcohol intake now,” I declared sanctimoniously.

“Oh Christ, I think I’ll go have a mid-life crisis after dinner. Lets eat fast.” Pr moaned.

As I served up dinner, it was obvious that the days of hot-and-sour soup at Hot Dragon Restaurant were gone. Here’s what we ate and somehow they tasted better than the gulab-jamuns we once bought from Taimoor Nagar as a treat:

• Grilled pork chops marinated in Indonesian sambal sauce
• Stir fried Pokchoi in oyster sauce
• Watermelon and feta cheese salad
• Haagen Daazs ice-cream

Times and palates had really changed.