At
the party
“Tomorrow
at 8:00 pm sharp at Sarovar Portico. My whole family will be there, we will eat
and enjoy.”
“I
know my dear, it’s your day tomorrow. I have already this morning had a
reminder of it on my iPhone. I will be there but I’ll be a little late as you
know it is Saturday…”
“Sure,
but be there. I’ll wait for my most loving guest”
“I
most certainly will”, I said.
I
hung up the phone and anticipated a big party coming up just like the last
year’s.
I
needed to revise my following day’s schedule and be a social butterfly for the
later part of the evening. I started necessary preparations to dress up
although I did not have much to choose from my closet. I browsed my last year’s
photo of the same day and studied what shirt I had put upon so as not to repeat
it this time. Over the years I had put a lot of restrain on buying things.
Restrain prepares oneself for the worst times.
Gifting
was my another concern. It is darn easy as I follow the three Bs package; the
philosophy I propounded myself viz : gifting a book, bouquet or blessings. The last one comes from
my heart, the 1st one comes from someone’s heart and the second one
comes from God’s greenery.
The
next afternoon I wrote a letter to my host wishing on that special day, more
special in the sense that the teenage span was done. Like a gentleman, as I now
have begun to feel about myself, I polished my leather boots (7 years old have
they become now) got off the stubble, also the white spots on my nose and
greased my newly wrinkled semi fleshy cheeks for the evening. I was dressed up
for none. Still dressing neatly was necessary component in my guide; being a gentleman.
As I
reached the venue on the given time but only a little later, the host came out
at the gate and gave me a profound hug. I found it warm and soothing. The host
marked my entry on the list of having arrived guests. I was led to the 1st
floor of the magnificent restaurant where there was a very lousy music being
played. There was much bass, very discordant to my musical taste in the likes
of Bob Dylan, Elvis Presley, Kris Kristofferson, Johny Cash and other music maestros.
I saw a few faces which appear on my Whatsapp broadcast list but who barely
meet me in person. I sat beside them. I offered my skinny hand. Their hands
were very icy. Their party hair were dark and straight unlike any other regular
day they put on. Their faces glimmered in the hue of the lounge. I felt
vulnerable at low temperature inside. The AC had made the discotheque chilly
and the dim lights added more cold, I felt. I was carrying my iPad, an
addressee letter to the host in a closed envelope and a book to be gifted in a
50 year old camouflage bag which I had started recently to carry such things. I
felt a little ashamed to have been carrying that piece of utility but mentioned
with pride that there was an iPad inside to save the embarrassment of carrying
that bag. I handed it to the person who seated beside me. I told myself that I
must not feel ashamed for the things I have purposely chosen to use and carry.
Perhaps time and understanding will compliment my direction to head further in
my pursuits.
The
host of the special day was very warm and kind. I already know the host’s
parents too well to have a casual talk. They took the lead and introduced me to
the other invited relatives. They unfolded the stories of my grandfather when
they learnt that I was the grandson of the great congressman of 50s and the
60s. To touch their brownie points, I showed my grandfather’s picture with the
great Jawaharlal Nehru and Taher Maula Saiffuddin who happened to be their
religious hero and the most venerable man that has ever lived in the history of
humankind.
Over
the years I have accepted that I do not have the understanding and the material
to reach to the demands of such turn outs. I am not a frequent party goer.
Besides, I feel a little out of my league to mix with those who are not
advanced in years as I, although my heart is young to live a quality life of
rich enjoyments. I had not spotted a soul to talk to and get past the time the
way I wanted and the way I want things are mostly not the others of my age want
to get past them. I was supposed to wait until the dinner was served. I kept up
a smile, mostly organic until a man entered who I had met may be a couple of
times at his workplace in a very crowded area of my city. I got off fairly well
with him. His mouth smelt of liquor, his laborers’ palms replete with lines of
latitudes and longitudes. His nails had a little dark something at the edges
but well-shaped in general. He said that he had read my name in local
newspapers for having arranged Minu’s Mehfil, students reciting poetry. I was
all back to life at his utterance. I managed to learn that he was interested in
such literary pleasures, the delight I like to get in frequently. He also
mentioned my old ancestral home and a building just across to it where such
readings were held. I was presented the Gujarat greats in literature which
tickled my surprise element. I found him a humble man who sought my permission
to share good poetry via Whatsapp to which I gladly acknowledged.
There
was one element which was common in both of us; we both were not party types. I
continued the lead to put forth my views on the pleasures and the pains of
reading, the shallowness of the modern youth, the labour employed in reading of
the masterpieces which gives pain-pleasure package, the art of letter writing
and lastly the dancers who performed Garba in front of our eyes wearing Islamic
outfits, the combination I was served for the very 1st time in my
life of nearly 3 decades. To my amazement, he agreed to all of my observations.
The host came to me with a humble invitation for cake cutting ritual with a
background score of happy birthday song. It was not the one which Patty Hill
and Mildred Hill wrote but the one of a local made. I was too annoyed to
remember the lyrics of the number. The host’s family and friends one by one
presented the gifts. I waited for the host to step aside so I could have the
turn to present a letter and a book. I don’t know why I noticeably did not gift.
Was my gift inferior, was it superior than others, did I think people would not
understand the sentiments on the papers or have I learnt that it would not make
a difference if I gift it in public or in private? With advancing sensibility,
did I think my gift would be geeky for the rest? What was it that held me? I
went near my host’s parents and insisted upon to read the letter to which they
showed apparent readiness. When the parents saw the envelope with my name
written on it, they must have fallen in love with my handwriting which I feel
is only an assumption.
The
dance was done, the exertion was manifested on each of the dancer’s face. It
was then the meal time. I headed towards the ground floor in the buffet area
where most have eaten and less were left to lift the plates. I took my plate
with selected items to consume. I saw few vacant seats on the table located on
a remote corner. There seated the similar faces who I met at the start of that
evening. She happened to be a dear friend to my host. In fact it was I who had
made them to know each other. I had noticed that she had gifted a matt finish
portraiture of my host in red royal Rajwadi top, a very typical apparel of the
people from my side of the world. The frame was indeed extraordinary and made
of simple wood and a canvas. She, I thought she may have started to know me
little by little when she in her ever soft voice, sparkling eyes and hand
gestures with long fingers asked: “ so what book did you gift this time to
your…?”
I
was left a stranger on her willingness to learn.
Minu
Jasdanwala
(22/8/15)
