1993: Golf, Friendship, and the Best Days of Our Lives — with Rahul Puri

Sometime in late summer of 1993, New Delhi

Attending interviews after graduating from Manipal was part of the routine. On one such occasion, while interviewing for Siemens, I bumped into Rahul Puri. We’d been friends since high school and had gone through engineering together at Manipal.

Rahul had always been my go-to guy when it came to cramming for exams. He was meticulous with his notes and genuinely committed to doing well. He even earned the nickname “Raghru”, a nod to someone who truly slogged it out.

Rahul made it to the final round of interviews. I, on the other hand, crashed out in round two or three. Disappointed, I headed back home — not knowing that this chance meeting would lead to one of the best years of our lives.

That encounter rekindled our friendship, and so began the legendary stretch from 1993 to the summer of 1994 — a year of absolute fun, freedom, and friendship. Rahul and I didn’t just pass the time — we lived it. Fully.

This is my attempt to relive some of those memories. And maybe, to remind anyone reading: don’t be afraid to enjoy life. Time has a funny way of moving on, and when you find yourself in a moment of joy — stay there a little longer. You may not realize it then, but you’re living something worth remembering.

One Sunday Morning in Lodi Estate (1993)

We didn’t realize it at the time, but looking back, we were incredibly privileged. Both of our fathers were Generals in the Indian Army, which meant living in one of the best neighborhoods in New Delhi — Lodi Estate — with access to golf courses, the Gymkhana Club, and all the perks that came with that world.

One Sunday morning, sometime around 9:00 AM, I decided it was time to meet my dear friend Rahul. With a bottle of vodka casually tucked into the loose folds of my sweatpants, I drove over to his place. I greeted his sister politely — the charm turned all the way up and asked the housekeeper to bring two fresh glasses of orange juice. Then I slipped quietly into Rahul’s room.

He was still half-asleep when I walked in. As he began to wake up, I was already pouring us a couple of screwdrivers — vodka with fresh OJ. And just like that, our Sunday began lit up in the most refreshing way possible.

As the buzz kicked in, we stepped out into the front yard — which, to be honest, was about the size of half a football field. I left my car door open with music blaring, and we just hung out in that big, beautiful space, soaking in the morning sun and the mood. Breakfast was brought out by Rahul’s ever-eager staff — piping hot and perfectly timed omelets.

Fueled by vodka, music, and a full breakfast, we headed out for a round of golf at the Army Golf Club, followed by lunch and an evening at Gymkhana.

A typical Sunday back then — and one of the many that now live in our memories like a warm, familiar song.

Songs we still text about

Rahul and I have a song — actually, we have two — but No Ordinary Love has always been our all-time favorite. To this day, whenever either of us hears it, we still text each other. That song takes us straight back to the summer of 1993–1994.

One evening, deep into the Delhi winter, we were heading home from Delhi Gymkhana with the track playing in the car. It was cold — around 6 degrees — and Rahul, in classic Rahul fashion, decided he’d enjoy it more outside the car.

So off we went: me behind the wheel, Rahul perched on the front of the car-outside in the cold Delhi winter, music blaring, both of us howling with laughter while singing at the top of our lungs. We weren’t going fast — maybe 10 miles per hour — but the moment felt like pure freedom. A little wild, a little foolish, and completely unforgettable.

Many of our weekends in Delhi were spent at the movies — watching films like Atish, Machis, and Mohra. And from Mohra came the second song that’s etched in our memories: “Tip Tip Barsa Pani.”

We sang it together so many times, it practically became our unofficial anthem, equal parts ridiculous and unforgettable.

The Night We Showed Up Late to Gymkhana

Once or twice a week, Rahul and I would find ourselves at Delhi Gymkhana — our go-to hangout after a long day at work or to kick off a Friday night. We usually got there by 8:30 or 9:00 PM, right on time for the usual crowd, the usual conversations, and the usual table.

But one night, we were running late. We walked in close to closing time, and the bar staff — who knew us by name — greeted us like old friends. They knew exactly who we were: two guys who loved their food, their drinks, and treated everyone with a smile. They always took the best care of us, and we appreciated that more than we probably said out loud.

This time, there were no questions asked. Our usual order was already on its way: Six tall bottles of beer, diced chilli chicken, and those legendary chicken sandwiches that Gymkhana does better than anyone else.

At the time, neither of us weighed more than 140 pounds — but I swear we could easily polish off a dozen sandwiches between us without blinking. And not one bite ever went to waste.

And just like that another evening we lived it up to our fullest

Early Summer 1994: The Impromptu Trip to Ranikhet

Just like any other evening that summer, Rahul and I were hanging out — content, happy, and fully soaking in every minute of life. Somewhere between laughs and silence in Rahul’s room, one of us blurted out: “Let’s escape the heat and head to a hill station.”

At 5:30 PM, we were talking about it. By 9:00 PM, we were at New Delhi Railway Station — no tickets, no reservations, but a destination in mind: Ranikhet.

We both had called our dads for a quick discussion and guidance. Ever the enabler of adventure, they arranged for someone to receive us in Ranikhet — assuming we actually made it there the next morning.

Turns out, trains don’t go all the way to Ranikhet. The closest station was Kathgodam, about 75 miles away. We rode all night in a 2nd class unreserved coach, sitting by the bathroom entrance, packed in with half of northern India. Not a single complaint between us — because honestly, that was just how things rolled back then.

The bus journey from Kathgodam was an adventure in itself. We rode up the hills alongside goats, chickens, and a few other life forms that weren’t quite human. Still, the view was stunning, and our spirits were high.

By sheer momentum and a bit of magic, we reached Ranikhet. Sleep-deprived, but buzzing with excitement.

We were met by Army personnel who recognized us instantly — apparently, two out-of-place Delhi kids weren’t hard to spot. Before we knew it, we were changed, fed, and standing on the lush greens of Ranikhet’s beautiful 9-hole golf course.

And then came the real surprise: Two people from the golf course staff followed us around the course, one carrying a cooler full of chilled beer, and the other with a stack of chicken sandwiches.

It felt like the universe had taken note of our rough 12-hour journey — and decided to reward us perfectly.

We spent two days in Ranikhet and headed back to Delhi as the weekend came to an end — another perfect weekend together.

We had no real plans, no worries, and absolutely no care in the world, just two friends, living in the moment, enjoying life exactly as it came.

The Night in Defence Colony We Always Talk About (June 1994)

Over the course of those ten months, we had a blast — countless memorable evenings, too many movies to name, and often joined by our friend Varun Mehta, fondly known as “Tiger” thanks to his sculpted physique. He lived in Jor Bagh and would show up every now and then to add to the madness.

One such evening, the three of us went out drinking, followed by dinner at a dhaba. On our way back, we decided to keep the night going at Rahul’s place in Defence Colony. His dad had been posted to Calcutta, so Rahul was staying at his Massi’s house, in a small independent room tucked between the first and second floors. It had a private entrance — basically the perfect setup for a party pad.

We threw on No Ordinary Love, cracked open the Old Monk, and mixed it with a giant 1-liter Coca-Cola bottle that Rahul had set aside. It was shaping up to be the perfect rum-and-coke night. The conversation flowed just as freely — long, loud, and, as we’d be told the next day, far too enthusiastic for the hour.

At some point, Rahul mentioned a neighbor who had been giving the family a hard time. There had been some kind of altercation in the recent past. As we were talking, we noticed the neighbor pulling into his driveway — maybe 15–20 feet from the window on the right.

And that’s when my drunken superhero instincts kicked in.

Fueled by rum, loyalty, and a complete lack of judgment, I convinced myself that I could leap across the small balcony, jump over the fence, and land directly in front of the neighbor to — well, I don’t know what I thought I was going to do. But I felt like I had to act.

Before I could realize how ridiculous this plan was, I’d already jumped.

Unfortunately, I missed my mark. Completely.

I crash-landed on Varun’s car, which was parked in the driveway, and in the process managed to completely stretch out my back. God only knows how I survived that fall. In an attempt to signal to my friends that I was somehow still okay, I made the genius decision to punch the wall fracturing my hand in the process.

The night ended with Rahul and Varun driving me home. The hospital refused to treat me because of how intoxicated I was, so the job of nursing me back to life fell to my home staff, who took care of me relentlessly — hydrating me and helping me recover through the night.

The next morning is mostly a blur — except for the part where I ended up back at the hospital, sober this time, and got the X-rays done. Turns out, the wall had won. I’d fractured my hand.

Looking back, it was completely ridiculous. But also, somehow, perfectly us. One of those nights you never really plan, never forget and never quite repeat.

The Summer of 1994 and My Move to Bangalore

Like all good things, our time together eventually came to an end. I had received a solid offer from Siemens Communication Software in Bangalore as a Software Engineer — an opportunity too good to pass up. I accepted the role and was set to join in early July of 1994.

While there are dozens of memorable evenings from that year, a few stand out more than the rest — etched into memory like old film reels. But what mattered most was that somewhere along the way, a lifelong friendship was born.

Rahul and I both ended up in the United States in the mid-90s, and we’ve remained the best of friends ever since. We come from similar backgrounds, share a lot of the same values, and somehow we never run out of things to talk about. What I admire most is his zest for life. There’s no one quite like him. Wherever he goes, he brings his majestic energy — and more often than not, becomes the life of the party.

December 2011 in Napa Valley

Thank you, Rahul, for all the memories — and for a friendship that’s stood strong for over 30 years.

Here’s to the ones still ahead — maybe a little less chaotic, but just as full of laughter, stories, and the same unshakable bond