Column

They don’t call it Ex-Mas season for no reason. A city of 21 million people and yet the only clutch of people I seem to be bumping into off late are exes.

And I am not just talking about the simple variant aka ex-boyfriends. There are friends’ ex-boyfriends, boyfriends’ ex-girlfriends, ex-boyfriends’ ex-girlfriends.

For those who’re thinking this to be trivial worries in the face of global warming and nuclear warfare, let me assure you, the complexity is mind-numbing and the skill required in manoeuvring each equation requires a (mind)game theory expert of John Nash’s calibre.

The ex-boyfriend is relatively easy. If it’s been a mutual break-up you remain cordial, polite and in some rare cases, even friends. Except that there is no such thing really, as a mutual break-up.

Someone is always being broken up with, evolved past and basically passed over (Well, Ex-Mas does come after Passover, doesn’t it? A bit of a Divine Comedy!).

So you pray that this cruel overpopulated metropolis swallows up the ex and you never see each other ever again. However Murphy always decrees otherwise. Sometimes, (but very rarely) it can be sweet and even nostalgic. Then there are the grown-up toxic loves.

He broke up over the phone; you erased his number and now, two years later you’ve wound up standing two feet away from him, champagne in hand among a group of common friends where both of you are at your witty, social best... completely ignoring each other.

That’s the point where civilised society needs a civilised exit strategy. Like speed-dialling your best friend to hotfoot it to where you are and as soon as she turns up, chucking the champagne in his face in one deft move (since this needs to be accomplished in one neat snap, prior tennis lessons are recommended) and walking out friend in tow before the mass gapes subside. Trust me; it’s a cheaper, safer and a better high than Ecstasy!

But then there are some Ex-Men who even the smartest of us can’t be prepared for. Very recently I was tele-ambushed by my BFF’s ex-boyfriend into having an impromptu lunch. Now, presence of mind has never been my strength (I’d be at Siachen otherwise, saving our country for chrissakes!) so I said yes before I could think.

But that cold salad lunch cost me a lot of icy-cold vibes from my friend for a very long time. It was almost like being in Siachen.

Her logic was redoubtable; call back and cancel. But for some strange reason I found that rude. Not because I’m the most well-mannered person around but because, a break-up is a private thing.

And I couldn’t wash her dirty linen on SMS, could I? So I braved it through mouthfuls of tuna indicating that this lunch was awkward, inappropriate and unrepeatable. I expected some guilt, some awkwardness in return at the very least. Nope, he just smiled nonchalantly, suggested we finish and went back to his jerked chicken breast. What a jerk!

But then there is the odd occasion when bumping into the ex isn’t all No Gain Only Pain. I have this ex-boyfriend who surfaced from the AWOL archives a year after a very lame break-up to regularly pop up on MSN Messenger and proffer stock tips and folio management mantras.

Admittedly, it was a bit hilarious but if this was his version of “I’m sorry”, I ain’t complaining. This is what I call Money For Nothing, Tips For Free!