Dutch deejay Ferry Corsten played a noisy, lousy set, as the three of us took potshots, in turns, at international deejays who promise the world but deliver “underground” mediocrity. Close to midnight, my cell phone came alive (“My pants are talking to me,” I told Pramod, and goofed off for a bit.

“Ken, we’re heading to Thane because Nana (my grandmother) isn’t feeling too well. Watch over Kevin and Keegan,” said my mum. Ten minutes later, my pants were at it again. “Ken, say a prayer for Nana. She’s not doing too great,” said my mum’s sister.

Not wanting to upset the night’s celebratory spirit, I walked up to Pramod and quietly wished him. Disappointed by the set, he suggested that perhaps we should head on to Red Light in Kala Ghoda. “Why not?”

En route, my dad added to the call history, politely suggesting that perhaps I should head homeward right away. Choosing between family and friends is a bit like your body parts arguing against each other, suggesting one is more important than the rest. I reasoned that at 1 am, my 10-year-old sibling would be asleep in any case and there was little I could do (except hear him talk in his sleep). I went ahead to Kala Ghoda.

At Red Light, when my pants... “Ken, Nana’s passed away,” my dad said.

I began the long and painful journey home, picking up my siblings, loading them in the same cab and resuming the lengthier road to Thane.

My grandmother took a short walk to the washroom, it seems, and collapsed after a massive heart attack.

Two weeks before Republic Day this year, I checked out Blue Frog for the first time, with Pramod and Sudeep (another decade-old friend from Xavier’s). Impressed by the enormity of the space, the quality of the performers but disappointed by the quality of sound and lack of organisation (we attended a two-day long electronic music festival), Sudeep bumped into a friend who commented that the design was straight out of the Blue Note Jazz club in New York.

In the midst of all the catching up, the phone rang. “Keegan’s been ill since the evening. He’s been talking gibberish and looks really bad. Maybe you should head home early,” said my mum. I stayed but didn’t head to the next party stop and my brother recovered in a couple of days. But every time that darn cell phone rings with Home on the caller ID, my heart beat skips a beat, completely out of synch with the music.

Note: Since the incident, the writer has lost two cell phones in as many weeks, stubbornly refusing to invest in a third, much to the chagrin of his boss, family, friends and photo editor. Pramod celebrated his birthday at a new Chinese restaurant in Thane.