Friends are the family we choose.

Adeep was the first to arrive, as always. He wiped his forehead, carefully replacing his pocket handkerchief, and walked into the India International Center. A handsome man with thick wavy black hair and light skin, he smiled and nodded at all the staff. Unusually tired after teaching his graduate history class at Delhi University, he made his way to the upstairs dining room, chose a table in the back with a view of the garden, then all but collapsed into the chair.

Looking down as the workers prepared for Diwali, Adeep was comforted. No matter how much new money moved into Lodhi Gardens, the IIC never seemed to change. Founded in the 1960s as a venue for vigorous intellectual and cultural debate, the debate remained fresh, the food excellent and reasonably priced. Some called IIC a “geriatric club,” and indeed there was a cadre of formerly prominent men who came to have tea, nod to each other, and to hold court.

Adeep’s cell rang, and he looked down to see if it needed answering. After a moment, Adeep got up and went to the verandah to answer. It is late October, the day before the Festival of Lights. Lamps already placed down the long driveway leading up to the sprawling building. It is hot, nearly 80 degrees. In a month it will be much cooler.

“Yes, Bhavani, I am already here, waiting. Don’t wait for dinner. I may be late. Remember that today is the anniversary. Good bye, my dear.”

As Adeep returned to the table, Amaan walked up. Amaan’s hair was shorter, and thinning, but otherwise he looked the same as he had last week, last year, last decade. Amaan’s jacket needed ironing, but he never noticed such trifling details. The first time Adeep saw Amaan, at St. Stephen’s college in Delhi thirty years earlier, Amaan had that same sense of purpose and rumpled jacket. Adeep felt tired remembering how young and bold they once were, how they believed then that anything was possible.

Amaan looked at Adeep with genuine affection, as a reminder that there was still hope for the world, hope for India. As Amaan slumped into his chair, he noticed that though Adeep looked tired, he was nattily dressed, with perfect hair and perfect posture, just like that first day in the canteen at St. Stephen’s. “Come, sit,” Adeep had unexpectedly said that day, noticing that Amaan had a tray of food but literally could not find a place to fit in. It took a moment that day, long ago, for Amaan to believe that this ideal Brahmin in his perfect suit would so easily break bread with a poor, brash Muslim who could barely put on a tie properly. Without Adeep’s naive kindness, Amaan wondered if he ever would have had the courage to even stand for Parliament. There were countless times at St. Stephen’s, later in politics, and even in his neighborhood, where Amaan keenly felt that he was ‘the other’. But never, not once, at Adeep’s table.

Amaan smiled and said “You, man. You’re always the first here.” Adeep chuckled with amusement, and with no hint of judgment. As Amaan knew, Adeep preferred to arrive early and wait. It gave him time to collect his thoughts.

“And, of course, Nathan will be last,” said Adeep.

“He may be in surgery.”

“No doubt. No doubt.” Amaan looks out at the workers in the garden.

Adeep says, “They’re preparing the garden for Diwali tomorrow.”

“So that Lakshmi may smile and bring us good fortune.”

“Well, yes, that, too. But remember that on Diwali, Rama rescues his wife, after slaying Ravana. He is enthroned as a king, but also as a god, pure and good for all beings.”

Amaan usually loved to hear Adeep’s naïve recitation of Hindu myth, the same stories over and over. But today Amaan was irked for some reason. Amaan put down his menu, and challenged Adeep. “I cannot but wonder, Professor, if that was ever so. A leader who is pure and good for all. Today, if you are not a Hindu, it’s bad luck all around.”

Adeep nods, “No better for us, Amaan. I’d say it is bad luck for all of India today.”

Amaan shakes his head, “What is happening to our modern, secular democracy, Adeep? The British are long gone, Nehru’s vision already forgotten, and the lines of caste and religion run even deeper. Just look where we are today.”

Adeep smiles, “You should still be in Parliament, Amaan – where you could make a difference.”

Amaan scoffed. “How could a Muslim make a difference today in this Hindu nation? Corruption knows no bounds. The Justice system - and not only the lower courts but even the Supreme Court toes the populist line.”

“I know. I know. The government claims to move forwards by walking backwards. India seems to want the light of dawn yet embraces a never-ending night.”

“And you, my old friend, are a poet, wasted in teaching those college kids.” Amaan poured a glass of water and drank it all in one long gulp before continuing, “Remember College? Remember Morning Assembly? Tagore’s prayer, envisioning India’s “tireless striving, stretching its arms towards perfection.”

Adeep, ever the professor, absent-mindedly added: “From Tagore’s Gitanjali, “Where the Mind is Without Fear.”

Amaan continues, unabated “Yes, well, now everything has changed. Joining the government was once a badge of honor, and I think a quarter of our college became civil servants. Today, the smart kids are avoiding government and running to multi-national corporations. I see it with my students. The corporate mentality has usurped ‘Ask what you can do for your country.’

“And you, Amaan, were the brightest of the smart kids. And you can still make a difference, to make this country what it should be.”

Amaan could not be cross with his old friend’s undue optimism. He pondered that if Rama himself came tomorrow and India made a throne for the god -king, Adeep would not even be surprised. It was almost as if sometimes he was so pure that he could not imagine impurity – not in his friends, not in his country.

Amaan changed the subject. “I’m starved. Where’s Nathan?”

“Saving lives as every good surgeon’s vow commands.”

“Well, at least one of us is making a difference.”

Adeep points across the room, “Speak of the devil.”

Nathan hurriedly makes his way to the table. “Sorry. Tricky procedure.”

“And the result?” enquires Adeep.

“Oh, he’ll live.”

Amaan retorts, “But I may not unless we eat soon.” The others chuckle as they pick up their menus. Deciding between English, Chinese, or Indian food, the three order the Indian Thalli: basmati rice, three hot curries, mango pickle, and raita – a yogurt dish designed to cool the palate. Adeep, the vegetarian Thalli, Amaan and Nathan, the non-veg.

Nathan notices the flutter of workers hurriedly preparing the garden for tomorrow’s festivities. “Diwali?” His friends nod while starting on their meal. Conversation waits until coffee and they face the decision to order dessert or not.

“Hmm, well, no contest for me. It’s the caramel custard pudding. Better than the ones I had in England, actually,” says Nathan, looking again like the young student he once was at the University of London. The others submit to his enthusiasm and order the same.

Nathan looks at his friends and says, “Can you believe that we graduated thirty years ago and here we are, still friends. Still meeting here at the IIC every Saturday.”

Adeep with kind mischief, chirps, “Sounds like we’re in a rut.”

Amaan looks across the room at an empty table against the wall, “Many years ago, I was taken to lunch here by my father, and you’ll never guess who was sitting across the room. Mrs. John F. Kennedy and her son, John.”

“No way,” said Nathan.

“True.” Later we learned that the boy studied Indian history at Delhi University for a year and stayed here at the IIC.

“There was such a love for America at that time. Many students did their graduate work here instead of Oxford or Cambridge. Years later we even created our own Silicon Valley in Bangalore,” Amaan commented.

Nathan added, “From my point of view, the sad thing was that Indians more and more incorporated the worst traits of America. Importance of money without consideration of ethics or morality.”

“You said it, brother, and here we are today,” added Adeep.

“Amaan, did you meet them?” asked Adeep.

“Who?”

“The Kennedys when they were having lunch here.”

Amaan shakes his head, modestly, “No, no, I did not wish to intrude. Besides, it was thrilling just to see them take an interest in India.”

At this time, the custard pudding arrived and was given due attention along with the steaming coffee. Whether they spoke or not, an effortless camaraderie was apparent as with any who have sustained a friendship for over thirty years. After a sizeable pause, Nathan said, “Once I attended a concert in the auditorium downstairs. I had time and did not even inquire as to what the program was. Imagine my surprise when a lovely Irish woman stepped out on the stage with a small harp and was introduced as the granddaughter of W. B. Yeats. She sang Celtic songs as she strummed the harp. Imagine, the spirit of W. B. Yeats in New Delhi!”

“Yes, one never knows what will turn up here. International in every sense,” said Adeep, continuing. “Thirty years ago, we graduated from St. Stephens College which everyone considered an ivory tower of knowledge. Well, ignorance is bliss and all that. Were they our happiest years, do you think?”

Nathan looks at Amaan who smiles, “Well, Adeep, I for one cannot say those were my happiest years.

“No?”

“Nor I” adds Amaan. You forget that Nathan and I, as a Christian and a Muslim, were then as today, minorities in both college and country. What say you, Dr?”

Nathan puts down his coffee to answer. “St. Stephens was a very snobbish place. Not only were the majority Hindu such as yourself, Adeep, but the aristocrats of the country were there. Sons of maharajas and so on. Cliques based on pedigree. Don’t get me wrong. I grew a lot there. Surrounded by wolves in a jungle, something rubs off on you, and to survive, you grow. I gained confidence along with a first-rate education, so I have to say I am grateful for that experience.”

A surprised Adeep responds, “But we were friends. We were all friends.”

Amaan smiles, “You, Adeep, were the exception to the rule.” Perhaps you don’t recall the ragging that went on. Being stripped naked and sent to your room. Sometimes kept up all night running errands for the upper classmen. ‘Fresher, come here. Do this. Do that.’ Some had breakdowns and left college. And if you complained about a senior, well your life would be a misery for the next three years. But the real danger was later on becoming like them, behaving just like them.”

Nathan adds, “Humiliation was simply part of the initiation. They ragged you then introduced themselves, then sometime you passed muster for a while and they could not rag you unless you forgot their names. Seniors would choose two or three freshers and it was down on all fours while they stood on you as if you were a donkey.”

Adeep protests, “But we were all ragged like that for a while.”

Amaan: “Perhaps, Adeep, but if you were a minority, like Nathan and I, it was harsher.

Adeep shakes his head, “So much for Nehru’s vision of secularism. Nonetheless, I remember college as a time of hope and expectation. The distinct feeling that we could achieve anything.”

Amaan says, “Yes, yes, of course, that, too. But have we?”

Adeep adds, “Well, Nathan has. He’s the best heart surgeon in India.”

Nathan modestly raises his hand in protest, “Fortunately Ruth and the children know no such thing.”

The friends smile and sit quietly for a time while Amaan stares out the window as if mesmerized by a gardener burning leaves. The fire soars upward toward the sky, retrieving an old memory. His friends notice a change and lean forward.

Nathan speaks first, “Amaan? Amaan? What is it?”

Amaan slowly turns back to his friends, “Hmm? Oh, strangest thing. Watching that bonfire below, I remembered something. Something I thought forgotten long ago.”

Adeep signals for more coffee and the waiter obliges. No one speaks until the cups are full.

Nathan pours milk into his cup, stirs then inquires, “So, what memory?”

Amaan almost blushes, “Oh, it’s a trifle, nothing, nothing at all.”

Adeep: “Not by the look on your face, it isn’t.”

After a pause, reluctantly, Amaan replies, “O.K., as you know, my mother died when I was eight. She was everything to me. She had given me a stuffed animal, a little horse, for my fifth birthday and I took the horse with me everywhere, slept with it every night. The night after Ma died, my father got drunk. He never drank at all until the night after she died. But that night, he did. At first, he just kept looking at my mother’s photograph and continued to drink the whiskey. Then he saw me clutching my horse and suddenly became angry. He shouted, “Why do you cling to that toy? You must be a man now.” I had never seen him so angry. I couldn’t speak. Then he abruptly stood up, grabbed my horse, walked outside and threw it into the trash can. “No, Papa, no.” I tried to get it, but my father held my shoulders from behind, and shouted, “No. You must be a man now.” Amaan turned his head around, ashamed to have his friends see him weeping like a child.

Nathan put his hand on Amaan’s shoulder and said, “It is good to cry, Amaan, a man must know compassion. You must weep for your mother. A man must first be a human being.” Amaan bowed his head while fidgeting for his handkerchief.

After a moment, Amaan took his handkerchief and wiped his face. Looking at his friends, he said, “You know, I’ve never told this to anyone. Not even Amira. In fact, I thought I had forgotten all about it.”

Nathan joined in, “How many things we hold, never told, forgotten secrets that live on – some even making us ill.” Nathan looks away and Amaan notices something is amiss. “Nathan? What is it?”

“What is this, talk show therapy?”

“Not at all, Nathan. Tell us”

Adeep nods as Nathan takes a sip of his coffee then stirs only to delay talking.

“All right, but you must not tell anyone. I haven’t even told Ruth or the children yet.”

“Nothing leaves this circle of friends,” says Amaan as Adeep nods in unison.

“Well, not to beat about the bush, it appears that the doctor is unable to heal himself.”

“What? You’re ill?”

Nathan clears his throat and adopts an objective professional attitude, “Prostate cancer. Stage 4. Stupidly, I let it go too long.”

“But you’re well enough to work as a surgeon.”

“Yes, for now.”

“Surely, there’s some treatment? If not western, then Ayurvedic?” offers Adeep.

“Too late, I’m afraid.” Then Nathan adds, in a lighter tone, “And, unfortunately, unlike you, Adeep, I do not believe in reincarnation. So, there is only this life to live.”

Amaan, moved, “Oh, Nathan, I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say, but I confess that I’m glad that someone knows. You know what Woody Allen says? ‘I’m not afraid of death. I just don’t want to be there when it happens’.”

Adeep tries to laugh but only manages a weak smile. Amaan sits as though struck dumb.

Adeep finally speaks, “I wish you could believe as I do, Nathan, for to me, death is simply walking from one room into another.”

“Sadly, not for me, as I do not believe in either heaven or hell except the man-made variety.”

Amaan adds, “The price of a good education. We can no longer believe in fairy tales. Nathan, is there anything we can do? Anything at all?”

“Well, stay my friends until the end?”

Both speak at once, “Yes, yes, of course.”

Adeep adds, “I think you must tell Ruth, don’t you?”

Nathan nods, fighting tears at the prospect of telling his wife that he may soon die.

Adeep, noticing that lunch is over and the waiters eager to clear the tables, says, ‘What do you say we go downstairs for a cup of tea?”

Nathan adds, “Perhaps a walk in the gardens first?”

The three men walk out more slowly than they had entered. No one speaks. They enter the expansive Lodhi Gardens adjacent to the India International Center. The weather is clear though overly warm. Middle-class men are walking their dogs, some smoking. The friends pass by a circle of nine men, standing and laughing, all together, non-stop laughter.

Amaan stops and asks, “What on earth is this?”

Adeep laughs, “It’s a new form of yoga. Laughter yoga. The group meets daily, forms a circle, and laughs for no reason at all. Supposed to be good for the health.”

Amaan chimes in, “Well, now, I’ve seen it all.”

Nathan adds, “It certainly does no harm to them or anyone else.”

The walk approaches the Muslim tombs.

“There, aren’t they splendid. Built in the 15^th century for the Lodhi’s dynasty.

Adeep, the historian, adds, “That’s right, Amaan, they came from Afghanistan and ruled for seventy-five years, until the Mughals came. No matter how great, how powerful, nothing lasts.

Amaan smiles, “Thank you, Professor. Still these tombs look like palaces. They are something.”

“Palaces for the dead.” Nathan looks up solemnly at the great tomb, then continues, “Adeep is right. Nothing lasts forever.” The friends walk on as a multitude of large black ravens fly over the ancient tomb.

Returning to the Centre, the friends sit outside on the veranda, and order tea and biscuits carried out efficiently by a waiter dressed in white. The gardeners scurry here and there so that when Diwali comes tomorrow, the gardens will be perfect.

Adeep, as any habitual professor is apt to do, expounds, “Four major religions were born here in India. Twenty-three major languages and probably twenty-two thousand dialects for one billion inhabitants. The largest and most diverse democracy in the world, yet still we are more separate than unified.”

Amaan watches two sprightly young men jog past, “Now the young are the majority and we are but another minority. The hope is that they will take up the challenge that is India today, but will they?”

Nathan speaks, “I simply do not understand this fervor and pressure to conform, and to think one group is more special than another. Are we not all human beings?”

Adeep responds, “Still, it is the individual that changes the world. Look at Gandhi.”

Amaan rises, “Don’t be an innocent, Adeep. The caste system is alive and well. Partition is only more subtle today than in 1947.”

Nathan adds, “I read in the paper last week that there are now a hundred billionaires in India and over three hundred million still live in poverty.

Amaan says, “That’s right, Nathan, and our government pays only 1% for public health. It only takes one life-threatening illness to destroy an entire family.”

Adeep muses, “Thirty years ago, we thought we could change the world.”

Amaan, “To change the world you must first change yourself.”

Adeep corrects him gently, “I think Gandhi said, “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.”

They sip their tea and watch a white egret land near them on the pristine lawn – its beauty an antithesis to their despondent thoughts. Time passes.

Nathan says, as if speaking to himself, “Sometimes the value of old friendships lives not in what we say or even what we do, but rather in the silences we share.”

The sun begins to set as the workers retire for their tea and supper.

Adeep stands and stretches. “Tomorrow is Diwali. The lighting of the lamps is a form of puja to the gods: the prayer and promise of health, knowledge, prosperity, financial security, and peace in life. I guess we are all innocents in the long run, aren’t we?”

Nathan says with affection, “Adeep, never change. True, you are still an innocent in many ways, but you are good. Truly good in every way. Something rare in today’s world.”

Amaan nods in agreement while Adeep avoids their gaze. “I am not as you think I am.”

Nathan responds, smiling, “I think we know you pretty damn well after more than thirty years.”

Adeep sits down again, takes a moment, then reveals what lies heavily on his conscience.

“There is one thing you do not know. One thing that not even Bhavani or my parents know.”

Amaan, with attempted humor, “What is this, true confessions?

Nathan silences him with a look, then turns to Adeep, waiting.

“As you may remember, my parents arranged a marriage for me before I left India to study in the United States.

“Indiana University.”

“That is correct. But the point is I was married before leaving India, then I was in Indiana the next three years for the Ph.D.”

“Nothing uncommon about that. The young Hindu wife waits for you to return as Bhavani did.”

“Yes, Amaan, she did and she has been a first-class partner and mother to our children.” Adeep paused as the others waited.

“But while … while at Indiana University, I met a girl, a wonderful girl, and we fell in love. I told her I was married but she did not care, and eventually neither did I. The passion was too great, you see. And Margaret – that is her name – Margaret fell pregnant. It was during the final weeks of completing the doctorate, and I was soon to return to India. I told her I had made a promise to my wife and to my family and had to return. I had no choice. She insisted on having the child – a daughter as it happened. By the time she was born, I was back home, back to a new job, and my marriage – a good Hindu girl from a good family.”

Nathan exclaims, “My God, I don’t believe it. Not you.”

Amaan, “Why not him? This only proves that he is a man, a human being, with desires.”

Adeep responds, “Yes, and also a fraud.”

Nathan struggles for words, “But … then…I mean, what of the American girl and your daughter?”

Adeep answers, “I send money and once a year Margaret sends me a photograph of our daughter. Jenny. She is called Jenny. I have never met her. Margaret eventually married a more responsible man, and had two more children with him. And that is that.”

Nathan, still in shock, “And you never told Bhavani?”

“Why would I? Why hurt another?”

“How to live with that?” asks Amaan.

“With difficulty.”

Amaan adds, “This makes me wonder if it is ever possible to completely know another human being.”

Nathan wisely adds, “No one is just one thing, Amaan. One might as well ask ‘is it ever possible to completely know one’s own self’?”

The sun sets slowly as the darkness of the evening envelops the friends. There is the piercing sound of strolling peacocks calling for rain while a few hurried bats begin to dart here and there as if to say, “The night has come. The darkness belongs to us.”

Nathan winces at the bats then says, “You know, the bar should be open by now.

Shall we?”

Adeep nods, “Yes, please. A Kingfisher beer would be most welcome. Amaan stands up, “A whiskey for me, if you please.”

For a minute, Adeep stands with his friends as they grasp the moment in stillness, watching the night arrive. Standing firm and together, committed without words to support each other’s weaknesses, a sense of sacredness prevails.

Adeep speaks softly, “Somewhere in the Puranas, a disciple asks, “When does the night end and the dawn begin? And the Sage answers, “When two travelers from opposite corners meet and embrace each other as brothers, knowing that they both sleep under the same sky, see the same stars, dream the same dreams. That is when the night ends and the dawn will begin.”