When Swami walked into the café last weekend, he looked as though he had pulled an all-nighter. His eyes were puffy, his shirt half-tucked, and he sank into the chair opposite me like a man returning from battle.
“What happened?” I asked. “You look like Raichand made you work the night shift.”
“No, yaar. It was my own doing,” Swami groaned. “Online reviews.”
“Reviews?”
“Yes,” he said gravely, as though announcing a medical condition. “I spent half the night scrolling through reviews. And not even for something important. Just earphones.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Earphones kept you awake all night?”
At that moment, Jigneshbhai arrived, smiling as though the morning had never been better. He ordered his coffee and settled in, listening quietly while Swami continued his lament.
“You don’t understand,” Swami said, shaking his head. “Every review said something else. One said ‘best sound ever.’ Another said ‘dead in a week.’ Even the one-star reviews disagreed with each other. Who am I supposed to believe?”
“I even made an Excel sheet,” he said quietly. “Pros, cons, ratings,” Swami said.
“But the more I analysed, the more confused I got. At one point, I thought of adding pivot tables.” He took a sip. “Finally, at two in the morning, I shut the laptop. No earphones. Just stress.”
“Did Vidya notice?” Jigneshbhai asked.
“Of course,” Swami said. “She mocked me. ‘Planning a PhD on online reviews of earphones?’ she asked.”
“And Meera?” I prompted, with half a smile.
Swami sighed. “She said, ‘Papa, even Netflix reviews confuse you. Why don’t you just buy what your colleague bought and be done with it?’ These children have no respect for analysis.”
“And what did you do finally?” Jigneshbhai asked.
“Nothing,” Swami said. “I went to sleep without deciding. Imagine! Hours wasted, energy wasted, and still no earphones.”
Jigneshbhai stirred his coffee slowly, his smile never leaving.
“You tell me, Jigneshbhai,” he pleaded. “How am I supposed to choose in this ocean of confusion?”
Jigneshbhai took a thoughtful sip. “You remember weather forecasts?” Jigneshbhai said.
“Storms, rain, sunshine…”
Swami nodded.
“You still stepped out, didn’t you?”
Swami frowned. “Yes, often with an umbrella. But what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Jigneshbhai said calmly, “you can read all the reviews and comments you like. They might be better than the weather report. They’re meant to help you decide. Not replace the decision.”
Swami blinked. “But what if I make the wrong one?”
Jigneshbhai wasn’t impressed. He gave it some thought.
“Well, you learn and move on, I guess,” he said. “In chasing the perfect choice last night, you lost the one thing you needed — sleep.”
Swami sipped his coffee, looking torn between fear of bad bass and fear of another sleepless night.
Somewhere in his laptop, the review tab was still open. “Still, what if the sound quality is bad?” he muttered, staring at his coffee cup.
“Well,” Jigneshbhai said, “it’s just earphones. If they’re bad, return them. And leave a very detailed review.”
Swami and I slumped back, breaking into a broad grin.
***
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