Men. Amen.

What could I possibly say that hasn't been said already? Turns out, surprise, surprise, I have quite a lot to say. A blog lot.

If I were talented, if I had the money, or if I had really rich producer friends I could maybe, make a movie out of it, chronicling the lives of three women, separated by a few years, and their journeys into and out of the hearts of their men. So, since I do not have any of the mentioned things, I would settle for a post. And look at the sky above, and say a silent prayer – directors of movies like Turning 30, Delhi Heights, Dus kahaniaaa, chance upon my blog, get totally gobsmacked, and offer me hell lot of money for the movie rights. I act tough. They don't want to let go of this brilliant little post. They absolutely want it. So they double the offer. And give me distribution rights of the film as well. And ask me to begin work on its sequel. You with me?

Okay, so, this post is about men. Men I haven't met or intend to meet or don't know much about. But these men are a very important part of the lives of a few women, who I call friends. And that makes them worthy of my blog.

The last few weeks have largely been about solving men related problems. Oh no I am no authority. Neither I have proof of being good at it. But then that's not how we operate. Situations like these call for any advice. Just about any. Preferably from a woman. This is a dangerous and delicate territory with certain rules. The most important one being to never hold the one in distress responsible for the misery. NEVER. Because it's not the done thing. And during the course of the conversation, the advisor becoming the advisee, or the nagger turning the naggee [Thesaurus make note] is per usual. So while one moment is about how her man fails to call her at the promised time, next could be about mine not believing in surprising me, or making an effort to find the right gift. See? When we get talking, the lines blur. Topics merge. It's no longer someone else's problem. It's mine as much as it's hers. I listen. So does she. She weeps. So do I.

Problems discussed in the past few weeks – not enough calls, more than enough silences; caring too little, working too much; too little we-time, too much boys-time; too few vacations, too many business trips; gifts versus oh-shit-gifts, oh-shift-gifts versus no gifts; no sweet nothings, words that mean nothing; and then they get a little murkier.

So what do we do after we've discussed the troubles of the heart? well, nothing much. See we aren't doers. No we are not. Neither do we press each other for acting on anything. We just listen. And when we are done listening. We talk. And they listen. It's simple. And it works. Every. Single. Time. And we often end our conversations with - “no we did not sign up for this.”

nb. Such sessions go well with a pefect cup of tea and chocolate biscuits to dunk.