Of Friends, Filters And Forgotten Warmth

Once upon a time, not so long ago, friends didn't need calendar invites to visit each other. They just showed up. Unannounced, unfiltered and usually just in time for tea.

None of us worried about whether the table runner matched the cushion covers or whether the house looked like a spread from a lifestyle magazine. Because most of us did not even know what a table-runner was or afford one.

The kitchen sink might have been full of dishes, the laundry might still have been drying in the balcony, and yesterday's washed clothes might have been kept on the sofa in the living room, but the joy of friendship didn't depend on scented candles or crockery. After all, for most of my generation, the candle was either one you offered at the church, or you had at home for power failures.

Those were the days when hospitality meant making do and making welcome. You offered what you had — a cup of tea, some leftover poha or freshly made upma, maybe a few Parle-G biscuits if the kids hadn't already finished them. Guests didn't expect anything more. In fact, they would often say: "Kuch mat banana, bas baith ke baat karte hain." And they meant it.

Today, those same friends, now older and some even upwardly mobile, hesitate to visit without a plan. Catch-ups are coordinated over WhatsApp threads that resemble war-room scheduling. Lunches are discussed like project briefs. Menus are pre-approved. The hosting is no longer simple — it has sadly become a production.

Tables are laid for Instagram stories, cutlery is curated, and someone's domestic staff is rehearsed to serve "in course". Even the humble nimbu-pani has been upgraded — now it sparkles, detoxes, and sometimes comes with a basil leaf doing backstroke. You cannot simply offer nimbu pani and survive.

And somewhere beneath all this polish, the comfort has gone missing. The comfort of friendship. The core emotion of a relationship is missed. People are more aware of how they are being perceived than how they are being heard.

We walk into each other's homes, but not always into each other's lives. We sit on pristine sofas but hesitate to sit with each other's truths. The food is artful but the conversation skims. The laughter is polite but not uninhibited.

And for many, the unspoken anxiety of wealth gaps among childhood friends has only grown sharper. One friend's home is a duplex with central air-conditioning; the other's a modest two-bedroom with a whirring pedestal fan. The simplicity of friendships is being replaced with the choreography of social parity.

Of course, it's not that we shouldn't host with love. But something has changed in what such love itself looks like. When did it become more important to have matching dinnerware than matching hearts? When did vulnerability get replaced by veneer? Earlier, we sat cross-legged on the floor, passing a plate of samosas including sharing a bite of it, and nobody cared about the oil stains. Today, we call each other to brunches in the name of "catching up, even when we barely catch each other's truths.

The club culture and luxury dining trend among urban India's friend circles is not just about convenience. It's also a kind of avoidance. Why deal with the logistics and possible awkwardness of home hospitality when it's easier to split a bill at the club or outsource warmth to the waitstaff? The intimacy of friendships is now often packaged in reservation codes and fixed-price buffets. But is it still real?

Even when friends do meet at home, the vibe has shifted. Cooked-from-scratch has quietly been replaced by "my cook makes this amazing XYZ". Personal effort is often replaced with professional efficiency. The soul of hosting — that little gesture, the personal touch, the clumsy affection of burnt toast or extra-sweet tea — is outsourced to those on the payroll. The friendship is intact on paper, but it's lost its fingerprints.

There's also a quiet hypocrisy at play. We say "come anytime" but secretly hope no one shows up without notice. We post about slowing down, about "real connections" but would rather meet in a curated cafe than face each other across the unwashed reality of daily life. We declare our homes open, but only when they're spotless. We reminisce about simpler times, but now scroll past each other's lives, quietly tallying home aesthetics, lifestyle upgrades and curated milestones. Somewhere in this performance of modern friendship, we've kept the language of intimacy but lost its meaning.

None of this is to say evolution is wrong. Life has changed, cities have shrunk our time and expectations have grown. But the essence of friendship lies not in what is served, but how. Not in the perfection of the presentation, but in the imperfection we're allowed to be ourselves in. A home is a home, not a showroom. And a friend is someone you can cry with on the couch, not just someone who admires your curated centrepiece.

Maybe the next time someone asks, "What can I get you?" The right answer is, "Just you, with some time and tea". And maybe, just maybe, that's all we ever needed in the first place.

Srinath Sridharan, corporate adviser and independent director on corporate boards. Author of 'Family and Dhanda'.

Disclaimer: The views expressed here are those of the author and do not necessarily represent the views of NDTV Profit or its editorial team.