I almost didn’t go to India.
If you know me well, that sentence probably won’t surprise you. If you don’t, it might sound strange. Who doesn’t want to go home? Who doesn’t want to meet and celebrate with friends? Who doesn’t look forward to seeing family they haven’t met in years?
Me.
Or at least, that’s what it feels like a few hours before I have to leave.
Every trip, every gathering, every event follows almost the same script. I find reasons to stay home. I convince myself that nobody will notice if I’m not there. I tell myself I’ll catch up with everyone another time. Maybe I’ll just send my wishes instead. More often than not, I succeed in convincing myself, and stay home. But sometimes, I fail. Sometimes, I make the move, and drag myself there.
And then something strange happens.
I have a wonderful time.
I spend hours talking to people. I laugh. I listen. I meet people I have never met before. I hear stories about children who have grown up, parents who have grown older, careers that have taken unexpected turns. Before I know it, the hall is half empty.
Then another problem appears.
Should I leave now?
Have I stayed too long?
Everyone seems to be putting on their jackets. Or are they? Maybe only a few are leaving. If I leave now, will it look like I wanted to escape? If I stay, am I overstaying my welcome? I don’t know. So, I am among the last persons to leave.
And by the time I finally walk out, I usually ask myself the same question.
Why on earth did I almost not come?
That question has followed me for years.
Not just to office events.
To birthday parties.
To weddings.
Family gatherings.
Coffee with old friends.
Phone calls.
Even messages.
It has taken me an embarrassingly long time to realise something.
I am not bad at talking to people.
I am bad at arriving.
And I am even worse at returning.
If you’ve ever been my friend, I owe you an apology. I AM SORRY.
Not because I didn’t care.
Because I probably cared more than you realised.
The problem is that caring is invisible.
Calling isn’t.
Replying isn’t.
Checking in isn’t.
Birthdays aren’t.
Life doesn’t measure affection by thoughts. It measures it by actions. And my actions have always been spectacularly unreliable.
This week, I met a friend after eleven years. Eleven. Years. That sounds ridiculous even as I write it. The embarrassing part is that I had planned to meet her almost every time I went back to India.
Every trip.
Every single one.
“This time.”
“I’ll definitely meet her.”
And then… Nothing.
Not because I changed my mind.
Not because I forgot she existed.
Not because the friendship stopped mattering.
I simply never made it happen.
When we finally arranged to meet, I almost cancelled.
Again.
I even told her honestly that I wasn’t sure I wanted to come anymore.
She looked at me with complete confusion.
“You overthink.”
“Why would you cancel?”
“Weren’t you excited to see me?”
“Didn’t you want to meet?”
I remember sitting there trying to answer.
I genuinely didn’t know.
Or at least I thought I didn’t.
After we met, everything became obvious.
We talked for hours.
Nothing felt forced.
Eleven years disappeared somewhere between the hug and the first sip.
On my way back home, I kept asking myself,
“What was I afraid of?”
The answer wasn’t that I didn’t want to see her.
The answer was that I couldn’t get myself to begin.
People often assume friendship is about affection.
I don’t think that’s true anymore.
Friendship is partly logistics.
Remembering.
Initiating.
Scheduling.
Maintaining.
Showing up.
If that’s true, then I have been failing friendships for years. I am the worst friend one can have!
Not because my heart wasn’t there.
Because my executive function often wasn’t.
Here’s the strange part.
I think about people all the time.
A song reminds me of someone.
A place reminds me of someone else.
I wonder how an old classmate is doing.
I remember conversations from ten years ago.
I remember what flavour of ice-cream they preferred.
Sometimes I even rehearse messages in my head.
Then…
Nothing.
Days become weeks.
Weeks become months.
Months become years.
If you’re reading this as one of my old friends, you’ve probably assumed that silence meant indifference.
I understand why.
If our positions were reversed, I might have thought exactly the same. Even in my current position, I believe you no longer want to to talk to me because I don’t care.
The uncomfortable truth is that silence and indifference are not always the same thing.
Sometimes silence is simply where intention goes to die.
There is another reason friendships exhaust me. People often introduce me in ways that make me uncomfortable.
At a wedding a few weeks ago, for example.
“This is Gaurav.”
“He’s a scientist in the UK.”
Every single time, I instinctively want to interrupt.
“No, no.”
“Don’t tell people that.”
“But you are,” someone replies.
“Yeah… but don’t tell people.”
People think I’m being modest. Humble.
I’m not.
I’m trying to rescue the conversation before it becomes about me.
Because once someone hears those words, the interaction changes.
Now I’m the scientist.
The one who lives abroad.
The one who runs across countries.
The one who has stories.
I don’t want any of those roles.
I want to be someone’s cousin.
Someone’s friend.
Someone asking questions over coffee.
Nothing more.
Maybe that’s why children like talking to me.
I don’t speak to twelve-year-olds as though they’re twelve.
I don’t simplify every sentence.
I don’t pretend they can’t have original thoughts.
If they tell me something interesting, I’ll ask another question.
And another.
Adults often mistake children for unfinished people.
I’ve never understood that.
They’re just people with fewer birthdays.
The funny consequence is that children often decide they like me very quickly.
Adults, especially older ones, take a little longer.
Not because I disrespect them.
Because I ask them questions too. Real questions.
Sometimes, uncomfortable questions.
Questions that imply I think they have something worth teaching me.
Sometimes they love that.
Sometimes they wonder why this younger fellow is digging so much.
So I learnt to calibrate.
Within the first minute or two of meeting someone, I quietly estimate how far I can push.
How formal are they?
Do they enjoy humour?
Can I disagree?
Can I ask about failure?
Can I challenge an idea?
Can we skip small talk?
It isn’t manipulation.
It’s navigation.
The irony is that people usually enjoy talking to me.
Over the years, many have described me as thoughtful, respectful, caring or intelligent.
I don’t say that to flatter myself.
I say it because it makes the contradiction even stranger.
If conversations go well…
Why don’t friendships?
I think I’ve finally found the answer.
Conversation and friendship are different skills.
Conversation is presence.
Friendship is continuity. I can give someone my complete attention for three hours.
Then disappear for six months.
To me, those two facts don’t contradict each other.
To everyone else, they do.
One of the saddest misunderstandings in my life is this.
People think I don’t think about them.
If only they knew.
I remember tiny details.
A conversation from years ago.
Someone’s dream of changing careers and moving to hills.
A child who wanted to become a storyteller after I told him what I do.
A friend who loved Hindi songs and introduced me to my current favourite genre.
A cousin who was terrified of taking the big step of moving to a different city.
They’re all still there.
Quietly occupying space in my mind.
The tragedy is that memories don’t send notifications.
People cannot see affection unless it escapes your head.
Mine often doesn’t.
Perhaps this is why I love long-distance running.
There are no social transitions.
No wondering whether I’ve stayed too long.
No uncertainty about whether I should call first.
A mountain doesn’t need checking in.
The rain doesn’t wonder why you haven’t texted.
The ocean doesn’t feel ignored.
Nature accepts long silences.
Humans usually don’t.
I sometimes wonder how many friendships quietly faded while both people believed different stories.
They thought,
“Gaurav isn’t interested anymore.”
I thought,
“I should call them.”
Neither of us was lying.
Neither of us knew the other’s version.
So yes.
I am probably the worst friend you can have.
I will forget to call.
I will disappear for months.
I’ll almost cancel coffee.
I’ll think about you far more often than you realise.
I’ll remember details you’ve forgotten telling me.
I’ll wonder how your children are doing.
I’ll hope life has been kind to you.
And I’ll still fail to send the message.
Maybe that doesn’t make me the worst friend? Or maybe it does?
Friendships deserve maintenance. People deserve to know they’re loved rather than being expected to infer it.
I’m trying to learn that.
A text isn’t just a text.
A phone call isn’t just a phone call.
It’s evidence.
It’s the only evidence another person has that they still matter to you.
For years I assumed people knew.
I don’t think they did.
Perhaps this is what growing a year older last week taught me.
Love isn’t only something you feel.
It’s something you repeatedly demonstrate.
Not once every eleven years over coffee.
Not only at weddings you almost skipped.
But in ordinary Tuesdays.
In a message that says,
“I was thinking about you today.”
Because maybe that’s what friendship has always been.
