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India was a developing nation in 1986 when I first met Rohit Bal (Gudda). My beard had come out at 13, and by 14 I was shaving. It was easy to fool people into thinking I was in my late teens. One night, after dialing 9 or 10 Bals in the telephone book, I spoke for the first time with Gudda. He and I met later that night at my home while my parents were out of town and my grandma was asleep. Gudda and my sister Seema ransacked my mum's incredible collection of sarees and whatever jewelry she had and put together a mini-fashion show in our drawing room. This first meeting remained our collective fond memory of one another, and was the glue that bound us together, even as the three of us went on to live lives in different cities across two continents.
Gudda loved to dance, and music was the maker of his grace and pace. He was always nattily attired, never without a gorgeous woman and a few men at his side, driving with confidence and sipping with careless abandon. The energy around Gudda was thrilling, and the night, when you lived it at his side, only got younger with each passing minute. After our first meeting, Gudda never left me behind; he trained me at a young age to be present in a club and not feel out of place. When Gudda and his party had exhausted their energy, closed the clubs, and gotten back to his top-floor hangout, it was then that my time with him would begin. He would make me sing, and after a few songs and stories and much laughter, he would fall asleep, others would do the same, and I would leave for home to shower and get ready to study, sing, create art, and then go back to Gudda after dinner for another night on the town. A few months into our friendship, Gudda caught on that I always left the party just as the sun was about to rise. I confessed that I would leave early every morning because I had to get home to get ready for school. This was a shocker for Gudda, as he had assumed I was a college student, partying instead of studying. After this he became uber protective of me and made it his mission to shield me from any predatory advances. By the time I arrived in Mumbai in 1993, I was a veteran of the party scene, despite being a teetotaler and a non-smoker. I had learned to party hard and work hard from the most prolific partier and most focused professional that we had in India in those times. And so my coming to study at Sir J. J. School of Art for a BA in Applied Arts wasn't as daunting a task as it could have been for another teenager starting his journey as an adult. Having spent several years with Gudda, I had gotten a PhD in Street Smarts and was well equipped to take on any challenge. He had honed my skills, shown me a world that some might not see in a lifetime, and taught me to grow into a richer, fuller and smarter version of myself. A few years later, when I hosted Gudda in New York City, he shuffled between my home in Greenwich Village and Mansingh Wazir's home in Westchester. That Mann and I could bring alive a little bit of the Indian tamasha for him in Manhattan, made him the proudest friend. His trunk show was a success, Mann took him around for all the retail therapy he needed, and I would cook his favorite foods without him having to lift a finger. It wasn't long after that Gudda and I opened Veda in Delhi, a sister restaurant to my Devi in Manhattan. Gudda and Charlie, my then life-partner, worked tirelessly to give the space in Connaught Place an ambience that was world class and all Indian. As everything that Gudda ever did, this too was pioneering. We were way ahead of our time in offering India a degustation menu, which many years later is copied by competing restaurants and still getting accolades. When in 2016-17 I was getting sick and having to change my life, I realized how solid and restorative old friendships can be. Gudda heard that I was in a terrible place, and that led him to call me several times daily, send me funny videos and cheeky photos. He incessantly pleaded with me to move back to India, stay at his home if needed, and luxuriate in the Indian sun and air. "This is your home, your birthplace, and you have your amazing mom and me, your sister, to take care of you", he would say. My brother would say the same, albeit much differently and with less charm, and in the end they prevailed, and I came home to India. He was the first friend to welcome me; he treated me as the star of his fashion show at the Imperial Hotel, made much fuss about me, and wouldn't allow me to stay at home despite being sick. My bouncing back to good health, my having come back home to live and work in India, was nothing that Gudda took lightly. He ensured that the doors of his home and heart were forever open to me, at any time night or day, and never complained when I took him up on it. We both knew that our families had our backs - and so Gudda could play Santa with careless abandon, often to the detriment of his own health and sanity, knowing that if things went south, they would bail him out. His weak heart and his pacemaker were put to tough test-drives by a man who lived life king-size. With a doting family and his good friends never too far, Gudda was the cat that was blessed with countless lives, and we were all luckier for it. I lost Gudda to heart failure on November 1. That he messaged me a couple of hours before passing away to say he loved me the most and had loved me since I was 14, that he suffered what might have been a heart attack while I held him, that he was pronounced dead no more than 30 minutes after I left him - are a gift and blessing he bequeathed me with, his unique way of being generous even in death. When I was 14 Gudda emancipated me with confidence and comfort, making me one with the world. Gudda has left me at 52 counting my blessings and appreciating this here and now with a clarity of thought and deed and realizing how lucky I am to have had a friend as charming, loyal, caring and kind as Rohit Bal, and feeling luckier to have been at his side as he began his celestial journey, where I hope to join him someday. I know I can look forward to a party that will be blessed with brilliantly groomed people and the best dance and music imaginable. It is this that has me hopeful and grateful, all at once. (ANI/Suvir Saran) Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is an author, columnist and Chef. The views expressed in this column are his own.
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