When we first met:

She was the girl who lived opposite. A journalist, an intellectual, and in love with the cute guy who came on a blue scooter. I watched from the balcony opposite.

I was the mother of two in two plaits. She watched us, playing house. A handsome helmeted guy walked down everyday, the family smiled and waved as he left on his green scooter.

She was, in my opinion, and in the opinion of the world outside, a tall, gorgeous stately personality who made heads turn.

I was average looking with a great range. It ranged from looking 'nice' on freshly shampooed and 'remembered to add bindi and kajal' days to other days when I could bundle my fashionably blunt cut hair into a non-matching rubber band.

We met thus. We talked, walked, laughed, shared, and 'ate'. Later after she and the blue scooter man married, we continued our lives together, and apart. She moved to Dubai. We exchanged recipes, notes on food, and whenever we met it was long discussions interspersed with cups of tea and rice and kurma lunches. We marvelled at how well we were meeting the changes in our lives. We marvelled even more at the fact that whenever we were a little disgusted or piqued or angry with husbands and children; we felt a whole lot better, more loving towards the same husbands and children after we had talked and shared chilled lemon pie. We talked of the books we read, how we both had become emotionally more intelligent, and how much better we understood Gibran, now that we realised our children were just sons and daughters of life's longing for itself.

She and I both know the value of looking 'nice and slim'. She has in these years tried aerobics, gym, weights, diets, swimming, walking and yoga. I have stuck to walking and recently yoga.

But the more important aspect of the 'looking good' syndrome was the 'feeling good' angle. And so while it was important to walk, the tasty vadas, which beckoned from the ubiquitous south Indian fast food joints in Bangalore, became part of the walking regime. Later when our meetings became an annual event, we sealed our experiences, traumas and happenings of our lives with filter coffee and walnut and banana cake. We dreamt of growing to forty gracefully in chiffons and pearls.

And then came forty - all too soon. No sign of the chiffons and pearls but the same old khadi and kalamkari kurtas with only a subtle difference - not too subtle for a friend not to notice though - the size was XL now.

And then this year:

I detected a change as soon as she entered. "I know Shatabdi express feeds you well, but you have to taste the apple pie I made to welcome you." A moment's hesitation and then she said, "I'd rather not," and then in more real tones "And you'd better not too!"

There was too much joy in seeing her kids and mine all grown up. I woke up earlier than usual, and quickly went down with two steaming cups of tea, in my new Pondicherry mugs, which I knew, she'd appreciate. She was already exercising on the carpet. I held up the cup of tea and she stopped in the midst of an exhalation to exclaim - "nice mug but no tea for me." And then, the glowering corollary - "you'd better not too".

The rest of the week that followed was a continuation of these polite but pointed refusals which I had begun to see as rebuttals, and if that was not enough, she had come armed with a herbal, nutritious, healthy but 'light on the stomach' powder that she insisted on making into a porridge every night, and that was dinner!

For all those reading this and identifying with her and pronouncing her sensible, I wish to humbly submit that we had over the years grown and progressed. We are vegetarians now, we prefer buttermilk to cold coffee, and substitute salads for pooris. We had graduated from fried foods to dry roasting, steaming and baking.

This I thought was reasonable, sensible and moving with the times. But we still ate -'Food'.

But now we were adults eating more soya, more barley - CERELAC!

We are such good friends, we ate the goo together. Together we went to Vedanta classes and together we walked…

Together we didn't try out the new Mediterranean restaurant in town and together we decided that popcorn in the theatre was passé.

It was a little difficult for me. I had cooked all her favourite food for the whole week - rajmah, dahivadas and kulfi. Sometimes she gave in too. "Have tea", I said. "No sugar," she said "but I realise its the ceremony which is important to you - so ok."

Well the friendship has also matured into sisterhood. The subtle tact and sensitivity, which manifests in friendship have grown into, "let me be frank and tell you - you're fat". You have to shed some kilos. I wince and wonder why pounds sound politer than kilos. In the eight days I saw her shifting from mildly indulgent to absolutely patronising.

Well, she who came as a friend, left as a sister. And I was almost looking forward to getting back to my life in my style -

But the day after she left:

I woke up to an empty guestroom. "Tea?" my husband asked tentatively.

I walked down to the kitchen and came back with two glasses of limejuice in warm water. No salt.

"This evening", he said, "We are invited…", "No", I found myself saying - "I cannot miss my walk".

As for the porridge, it is the most delicious bowl of light friendship filled food that you'll ever taste.

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