We got talking about the friendliest people in our country. We analysed Panjus (Punjabis), Bhaiyas (Uttar Pradeshis and Biharis), Bongs (Bengalis), Dakhanis (Telengas, Kannadas), Mallees (Malayalis), Madrasis (Tamilians), Mian Bhas (Muslims), Makapaons (Christians) and Bawajis (Parsis). We went down the list demolishing each group for one defect or the other. Panjus: very forthcoming, but uncouth and loudmouthed - who wants to make friends with them? Bhaiyas: nondescript, neither as extrovert as the Panjus nor as introspective as the Bongs. Bongs: think they are number one Indians and very arty-farty - when Bengal sneezes, the rest of India catches cold and so on. And clannish. No cuisine culture, only mishti doi and roshogolla. Maharashtrians, Dakhanis, Madrasis and Mallees, all lumped together as Madrasis, are full of caste prejudices and rarely invite people to their homes. Makapaons and Bawajis are half-baked firangis: you don't feel relaxed in their company. General conclusion: people who prefer their own kind, either languagewise or castewise, don't qualify to compete for the friendship championship. Nor do people who keep their women behind the purdah or in the kitchen. So who are we left with? I recall my encounters with my countrymen and women. I have been just about everywhere in this country. I had not yet made up my mind when I got a letter from Bobbeeta. I had all but forgotten her but for her odd name, Bobbeeta. I had met her briefly in Guwahati and Delhi. I went over names of other Assamese I know: Baruas, Bezbaruas, Hazarikas, Gogois, Bardolois, Saikias, Phukans, Bor-Thakurs, Raj Khowas, Goswamis, Chaudhrys, Sharmas, Acharyas. Surprising, since I have not been to Assam more than four or five times and each time for short periods of three or four days. Yet, I keep in touch with more Assamese than with any other people. Why? For one thing, to me, the average Assamese woman is better-looking than the average anywhere else. For another, they are more forthcoming and more hospitable and have no hangups about caste or class. My vote for the friendliest of Indians goes to the Assamese. Back to Bobbeeta. She was nurtured on films and electronic media. She started playing child roles in many films till she came to Doordarshan in Guwahati as a news reader and also started acting in serials. While she teaches history in Pandu College, Guwahati, she is a research fellow at the department of film studies in Calcutta's Jadavpur University. Her crowning achievement is being anchor and co-producer of Geetimalika, a song-based programme, which will telecast its 100th episode on Boxing Day, December 26, a record for any programme telecast in Assamese. For the centenary of Geetimalika, a big bash is planned to honour Bobbeeta, her husband and co-producer, Chinmoy, director-editor, Manas Adhikari, and script writer, Jimoni Chaudhury. Bobbeeta has written to me about what they plan to do for the big bash but has not invited me to join them. This is a very unfriendly act by people I vote as the friendliest of Indians. A special kind of affection My neighbour, Reeta Devi Verma, is passionately fond of dogs and cats, not the pedigreed variety, but strays born in gutters or abandoned by their masters. Her husband, Bheem, a prince of Cooch Behar, is even more dedicated to them. Every evening he sets out in his ancient car with packets of food to do the rounds of the locality where dogs wait to be fed. He occasionally takes a vet with him to inject the dogs with anti-rabies vaccines, treat them for mange and sterilize them. Caring for abandoned animals is more important to him than social norms. No matter who has invited him, and at what time, he will not turn up before 8.30 pm, till he has fed hundreds of dogs who depend on him. He never goes away from Delhi. Reeta has taken on more. She is building a hospital for tuberculosis and AIDS victims in her home town Guwahati. She has a fully-equipped ambulance which goes round villages treating people no longer able to travel to the city. She has also set up a laboratory. She has to spend several days in Assam every month. Reeta once found a mongrel abandoned in Greater Kailash market. It was scared of humans and as Reeta approached it, it ran away and hid under a car. When she tried to get it out, it bit her. Nevertheless, she managed to get hold of it and bring it home. It had been traumatized. It took some time for Reeta to win its affection. She fed it, nourished it to health and virtually became its human mother. It was a hairy, cuddly Apso kind of dog. It developed a terrible mother fixation. It slept on Reeta's bed, growled at anyone who came near its mother and followed her wherever she went like her shadow. I named her Pooch - tail, Reeta's tail. Reeta and Pooch became inseparable, Whenever she came to see me, Pooch followed. She felt unhappy till Reeta took her on her lap. It took me a long time to win Pooch's confidence. Reeta would put her on my lap and let me cuddle her. She returned my affection, but as soon as Reeta got up to leave, she jumped off my lap to run after her mom, happily wagging her tail. When Reeta left for Guwahati, Pooch was desolate. Every morning and evening, Bheem brought her to let her sit on my lap for a few minutes. Pooch acquired a feeling of possession over me. If anyone came near me she growled at them. She was not as eager to go back with Bheem as she was with Reeta. A bond of affection grew between us. One morning last week, Bheem and Pooch did not show up. I wondered what had happened. A couple of hours later Reeta rang me up from Guwahati. 'Pooch is dead', she said in a choked voice. She could not speak any more. A heavy gloom of depression came over me. I kept thinking of Pooch all day and the time she spent in my lap, how she fell asleep as I stroked her fat bottom and whispered into her ears, 'You sensuous little bitch!' So passed the day. After dinner I was sitting by my fireside. Lost in my thoughts. Bheem walked in carrying Pooch's body (wrapped in a shawl) in his arms, with tears streaming down his eyes. I extended my arms. He placed her body on my lap. I stroked her body. It was as cold as a slab of ice. Her eyes and mouth slightly open - just as they were when she was alive and enjoying my making love to her. In consultation with the stars 'Raghupati did nothing important without consulting his astrologer. Had it been feasible, he would have checked with the stars even before buttoning up his shirt or scratching his elbow or breaking wind. A family tradition. Over the years, astrologers and palmists, yogis and fortune-tellers had advised him on whom to marry, what new first name to give his wife, when to copulate so as to beget only sons, when to officially drop his caste-revealing surname, what allonym to adopt, when to angle for a transfer, which posts were both lucrative and safe, whom to beware of, whom to trample on, whom to suck up to, when to separate from his wife, which functions to attend, what colours to wear on which occasions, what food to eat and when, when to divorce - briefly, how, when and where to place every step of life.' (Upamanyu Chatterjee, The Mammaries of the Welfare State).