Munching on a carefully picked boondi laddu, overflowing with gratitude, I decided I’d bring out my A-game and write the socialite a scintillatingly witty, appreciative-without-being-brown-nosy note thanking her for her most thoughtful gesture
Not too long ago, as festive season was afoot, I got this lovely, if totally unexpected, gift box from a person who was at best an acquaintance. I had met her once at a party, and we had had a brief conversation. She belonged to one of Chennai’s most powerful families, and I was genuinely chuffed to be on her gift list. Perhaps I had finally made it.
The first thing I do whenever greatness is thrust on me is inform my wife of it.
“So, what do you say now?” I said, with what I figured was a sardonic smile playing on my surprisingly feminine lips. “Will you finally admit I have arrived?”
My wife looked up from the book she was reading, read the note, and smiled.
“Yes, dear,” she said, looking at the note. “Proud of you.”
Promptly, she went back to her reading. Ha, I could see she was seething with jealousy.
“Did you read the note?” my wife said absently.
“Of course, I did,” I said.
“Read it again,” she said.
Munching on a carefully picked boondi laddu, overflowing with gratitude, I decided I’d bring out my A-game and write the socialite a scintillatingly witty, appreciative-without-being-brown-nosy note thanking her for her most thoughtful gesture. And thereby assuremyself a permanent berth at all her elegant soirees.
After hitting send, as I ate another sweet from the thoughtfully curated assortment which I had no intention of sharing with my wife, I affectionately perused the handwritten card of the sender again.
To my horror, I figured the gift hadn’t come from the Madras socialite-cum-billionairess as I had presumed, but from quite someone else: a good friend, actually, whose name was similar to the one whom I’d presumed was the sender.
I called my old friend, a nobody like me, and thanked her.
“Don’t get too excited,” she said. “Had an extra box. And the note is the printed one I sent everyone.”
The following day, as I was wondering how to undo my gaffe of sending what must have been a perplexing thank you note to a person who didn’t know me from my istriwalla Marimuthu, the bell rang.
It was the delivery guy. Holding a box of sweets from, would you believe it, the socialite.
I think the pre-emptive thank you is quite underrated. Use it wisely, my friends.
***
One of my dearest, oldest buddies has been such an askhayapatra of stories that he has found his way into three of my books in slightly different avatars.
This one is another gem from him.
A little while ago, my wealthy friend, let’s call him RR, wasn’t having the best of times. So his aged parent decided that perhaps some remedial procedure, like a homam or a visit to the appropriate temple, would reset things. To figure out their fast-track route to salvation and an improved turnover, they called up their asthana godman.
Godman and assistant came skidding to a halt in a Merc the next day. My friend and his family were given tatkaal service because they were valued customer-devotees and had helped him build the new AC wing in the ashram.
Godman surveyed the house thoroughly, thought for a bit, pulled out his MacBook Pro, made a few calculations, whispered in his assistant’s ear, waited for the assistant to whisper back, and came up with the solution.
“Lead,” he said. “Exactly 10 kg of lead needs to be put in a box and buried in the south-west corner of the house.”
“Thank you, Guruji,” said the entire family, falling at godman’s feet. “Will this solve our issues?”
Godman smiled.
“Ask me a month from now,” he said, stroking his beard mystically. He was off in a minute in his Merc. But not before graciously accepting a gold chain in exchange for his lead solution.
RR got to work immediately. He phoned his assistant.
“Murthy,” he said to his trusted Man Shukravar. “We need 10 kg of lead, okay? On a war footing.”
“Sorry, saar,” responded Murthy. “Can’t hear you properly. Could you repeat that?”
“Lead, lead-u, pa, Murthy,” said my friend a bit louder, this time resorting to Tamil. “Paththu kg lead-u vaangu. Immediately. Got it?”
“Got it, sir,” said Murthy.
“And hand it over to my mother. She will know what to do.”
Back at home that evening, RR loosened his metaphorical tie and smiled at his mother, as his wife gave him a cup of coffee. (My friend and his family are a ’70s cliché, okay?)
“Did Murthy come by and hand over the parcel?” asked my friend.
“Yes,” said his mother.
“Oh, good,” said RR.
“What do you want me to do with the 10 kg of Grand Sweets Laddu?”
Well, all’s well that ends well, because I received one kg.
