"Sometimes", they said, "you are one good ice breaker".

And then they resumed their conversation while I back seated for a while. It was fun though. To just listen to these people talk. Sometimes they just pour their hearts out. Other times, I had to probe deep. Often I did just that. Quietly, listened. To the foursome- Pratik, Rahul, Deep & Arvind who would meet regularly at the tea shop by the montieth place, I had been the common link.

Pratik was a serious lad. I had first met him about 8 years back. He had just joined this company where Rahul, my good friend worked. He had been in disagreement with his wife. They had been arguing for over a week now. All Pratik had been insisting was that his wife work for a while. It would be a needy redemption for their depleted state of financial affairs.

“And who do you suppose will take care of the kids?” She had started. “Do you even know what it means to take care of them?”

“Look Sushma. It won’t be for long. It is just a question of time before I am promoted. My pay would be substantially higher then and you wouldn’t need to work any further”. Pratik reasoned in vain. “We could call either of our parents for helping with Rohan. They would willingly take care of him.” Rohan was their two year old kid.

The argument had been in persistence for over a week. From the waking hour till the waning lights when he rested his eyelids. He was disturbed. He would talk to me though, everyday. I didn’t know how I could help him or if I did. But I must’ve. He did rely on me strongly.

To the world, Rahul had been a happy go lucky lad. But that was not so. While often he would wear the cape of an “chalo yaar .. kya fikaar (don’t let it trouble you my friend) ”, deep down, he would weep almost every single day. I had known him since he was 14 years of age. He must’ve been in the tenth grade then. During the recess or sports hour, he would alienate himself from others and come under a shady banyan tree. And it was here that I first met him. Rahul’s dad had passed away when he was only 3 years of age. His mother had re-married. His parents where in Singapore now. Every month, he would receive a cheque for a thousand dollors. He had been away from home for around 8 years. He would spend most of his vacations at his close friends’ home, that were handful in number anyways. As far as he was concerned, he had more or less seceded from his family. He would time and again confide in me. Pouring his heart out and a lot of times crying in desperation from closeness to his family. I guess I did the best I could to help. To support. To be there whenever he wanted me.

Deep was a complete kolkatan. Deepanata Bhattacharjee was his name in full. He had moved in with his family a few years back and was Pratik’s Colleague. His stead fast pragmatism and staunch opinionated character had easily influenced Pratik. Whenever in troubled thoughts, Pratik would seek comfort in the company of Deep and I. Deep could converse endlessly on sports and politics. And so fascinating was his philosophies that I would spend time endlessly with him. We would meet almost every hour or so to catch up. It would just thrill me to be able to be a cause of his intellectual stimulation.

Arvind had been the marketing head of a company. He had been academically proficient right from his school days. A few years back he had completed his management course that he topped with due honours. It was in this college that I met him first. We used to be constant companions in our college days. But once he passed out, we didn’t seem all that close. Sometimes, I think he would just use me whenever, he had none other to talk to. Sometimes it surprised that he would be a part of the same coterie as amidst Pratik, Rahul and Deep. I knew well that the three didn’t like Arvind one bit. I guess I might have actually been the cause for holding them together even if it just meant sharing pleasantries at a chai shop.

And so, those are good friends of mine. And as their conversation draws to an end and as they drink the final gulp of the masala chai and mouth a minty candy or a scented supari, they would always save the last bit of me for that final drag before they drop me down and mercilessly stamp their platform soles - now just remnant stubs and all smoked out. And the last twist of feet to ensure that I remain stubbed and not a tinge of flame remains, is what makes me contemplate what the world is afterall. Maybe I'm the devil, maybe I'm an angel. I guess I might be a little bit of both.