Dinga-linga-ding. People pour into the room so quick but I don’t notice.
An auntie, wearing all the gold she owns, waddles like a penguin toward me. By now, I’ve heard one too many exasperations about how tall I’ve grown but I endure just another. She asks me ‘what I want to do’, to which I itched to reply ‘leave but I can’t. This is my house and my Ma has painted me like a perfect picture to display to all of you so I can’t leave but for what it’s worth, I’d sure like to’. She slaps my wrist and tells me to stop day dreaming. I tell her ‘writing’ is ‘what I want to do’. Her eyebrows. Enough said.
I’m hungry but my Ma keeps shooting me glances to go strike up conversations with strangers from a generation too old. The table looks so darn banga-bly sexy. Food is probably the only thing keeping me going at this point. But alas! Condescending socialising awaits.
I try to make as many friends with the waiters so that they don’t tell my Ma just how much I ate, when she asks them at the end of the party. That Sanju is a real keeper, he promised to give me the kebabs fresh out of the kitchen. I was told in advance to be the party scavenger i.e eating all the cold crap that goes soggy after being left out on the table too long. Sanju my friend, thanks.
Ma nudges me and asks why I look so bloated to which I jokingly say it must be all the sharab. I hide a great pink welt from her pinch for the rest of the night. This is far from an occasion and boy is this far from fun. If only I had my phone. My ability to fake a smile for hours is the least of Ma’s concerns barring any wrinkling that it may cause over time. Oh god I ate way too much. That wasn’t even stress eating was it? No it was boredom.
Okay all these sleepy sharks seem to be drifting to the doors. Hai ram, finally.
Who suggested poker? WHO? WHO?
Why am I carrying samosas at 3 am when they’re not even for me? All this chumki-chumki crap is itching me. My feet are so sore. I crack the knuckles on my fingers and like a panther, Javed uncle slaps my shoulder. Apparently, that makes your fingers fat but moreover it sounds like fart sounds, something very very very un-lady like.
Sushila auntie has passed out on the couch like a goddamn potato and I have to go get three blankets because two aren’t enough. I swear, if I have to press another lady’s feet, I’m going to put salt in their tea.
I yawn for the umpteenth time and Ma is loosening up a bit. I ask her if I can go stretch my legs upstairs but she stops me halfway and tells me to go get her some flats. I drag myself upstairs and find Rahul, Pappu mama’s three year old son, putting Ma’s jewellery into his chaddis. Bloody rascal. I raise my hand and he immediately sobs. I put the jewellery back onto the dresser and tell him to go eat a laddoo.
Ma and Pa bid goodbye to the last couple telling them that their oldest son must come next time. Pa pinches my cheek. Match making is another level of indiscreet. I collapse on my bed. A few seconds later, I hear Ma screech. Must be the jewellery that smells of piss.
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