The Party

(supersam writes)

I usually don't go to parties.

The atmosphere gets to me. Moreover, the people get to me. They come in all
forms... all of them hiding behind masks of social acceptance while indulging in evenings devoted to drunken hedonism.

Discussing trivial subjects with one hand holding a drink while the other safely tucked in my trouser pocket, one ear participating in the discussion about a vacuous piece of art by an equally vacuous artist while the other eager to catch a sliver of gossip from a nearby group, one eye on the obviously intoxicated lady from the discussion group who insists on 'unknowingly' displaying her wannabe cleavage while the other roving across the room hoping to detect a friendly face in the crowd of fleeting acquaintances, is not my idea of spending an evening. It also doesn't help
when everybody gets tired of talking and descends onto the dance floor, I, the twin-left-footed slob that I am, have to make paper-thin excuses and stay back at the bar, lest I stomp on a few feet while shaking my legs and spoil my cleverly cultivated image of sophistication and suavity.

Sometimes, however, I get suckered into attending one.

It was at one such pointless party that I saw her. The woman of my dreams...

It was a party to celebrate the 60th birthday of a feisty old fashion photographer who was still going strong on the fashion scene. One of his favourite models, a slip of a girl, had thrown the party at her swanky beachfront house. Like moths to a flame, the usual suspects of the city party circuit had turned up in their finest least. Being an author with a borderline bestseller to my credit, I was invited too. With a heavy-duty writer's block to contend with, I did not look forward to an evening alone at home. So, I turned up at the party.

The moment I stepped into the living room, I felt overwhelmed by the atmosphere. It was as if I had stepped out of the real world into a make-believe Matrix. The first person to greet me was a fellow author, a smut-peddler, whose latest book was gracing the top spot on the bestsellers' list. He greeted me with a "Hey! Heard the latest news?!" and a wink, expecting me to congratulate him on his success.

"Yeah! United Nations is discussing the proposal for extra aid to Sudan. I totally support that motion. And you?"

I walked ahead, leaving a deflated balloon in my wake.

Hardly a few paces from the dazed author, I ran into an old acquaintance, a pretty environmentalist. She smiled at me and suddenly twirled around a full circle showing off her brand new Shahtoosh shawl that wrapped her petite body.

"Ironic, isn't it?!", I asked with a shake of my head and a smile on my lips.

"Isn't it?! I buy such an expensive shawl and can hardly wear it in this Bombay heat!!"

"Umm... yes. That too!", was all I could manage while I wondered how thick that delicate little head of hers could be!

Before I could wonder any more, I felt a peck on my cheek and she was gone...hoping to catch someone else to show off her latest acquisition that had killed several Tibetan antelope.

The hypocrisy of it all was there for everyone to see. I felt suffocated there. I fished my hand in my pocket for my cellphone. I wanted to call up a friend and go out for a long drive to clear up my mind. But it wasn't there. I frantically searched the other pockets for the cellphone before realizing that I had left it at home. Furious at myself for being such a dumb idiot, I went to the bar and downed a couple of Jack Daniels on the rocks before I felt the warm liquid calm my nerves.

I got up and looked around the room. There were only a couple of die-hards at the bar while the rest of the crowd had flowed out to the lawn that opened out onto the beach. Not wanting to return into the crowd, I looked around. There was a room adjacent to the living room. It had massive French windows, on the far side, which opened out directly onto a rocky patch of the beach. The French windows were open and a breeze was flowing into the room from the frisky sea outside. The breeze carried with them a salty tang of the sea and the soft, dulcet tones of a Jagjit Singh ghazal that was playing in the lawn.

I felt my feet taking me towards the room.

Standing at the entrance to the room, I saw her. She was sitting on a lounge chair. It was the first time I had seen her. But my heart still skipped a couple of beats. The glass nearly slipped out of my fingers and my heart resumed its beating as though a sledgehammer was pounding furiously on the inside of my chest!

I suddenly knew what Mario Puzo meant by 'the thunderbolt' !!

As I stood there in the doorway, recovering from the 'thunderbolt', I realized that I was staring at her. And she was looking back at me, smiling. Smiling!

She was smiling!! ... at me!!

Someone has said, 'Beauty is power, a smile is its sword'. And I was being wounded by that sword. Mortally wounded!

After almost an eternity of staring at her, I gathered my wits and walked towards her thinking, "Maybe parties aren't so bad after all!"

She looked resplendent in a 'wine red' saree. Or was it 'burgundy'? Wine red... burgundy? ... burgundy... wine red? ... I settled for 'Wine Red' simply because her presence was intoxicating and I felt a wee bit heady. And it wasn't the Jack Daniels that was causing it!

I was standing next to a chair opposite hers, hopeful.

"I am not much of a party person!", she offered her reason for being indoors when everyone was hobnobbing outside.

"That's makes the two of us!", still standing... still hoping!

"Is that so? Then why are you here?"

"Your smile. I saw you smiling at me."

"You were the one staring!", she retorted playfully with a look of mock annoyance.

"I can't be blamed for that!"

She blushed and lowered her gaze. Her smooth, fair complexion flushed a delightful shade of pink. I suddenly realized how perfect her skin was! Milky white and translucent, her complexion had an early-morning dewy tenderness to it that could not be achieved by any number of visits to skincare clinics.

The moment passed and she looked back at me once again. I could see that she once wore glasses but was now probably using contact lenses. Good move! The allure of her big black eyes would have been lost behind glasses. She had traces of an awkward smile on her lips. Then as if she suddenly realized something, she said, "That seat isn't taken, you know!"

"Now it is!", I said settling into the plush chair.

She ran a hand through her long, black hair and tucked it behind her ear. A simple gesture. But she made it look extraordinarily sensuous. The bangles in her hands jingled melodiously and I could now admire her lovely ear-rings and the golden choker that graced her delicate neck. Boy! Did she have me spellbound or what?!

"What is a beautiful lady like you doing all alone in a party?" I ventured.

"Ummmm... waiting for a knight in shining armour to come along and save me from boredom!" there was a twinkle in her eyes.

"Not all knights wear shining armours"

"I can see that!" she giggled like a school girl.

The ice, if there ever was any, had been completely broken.

At the back of my mind, a couple of lines from a song from the Hindi movie, 'Sagar' played on...

dil kehta hain...
tu hain yahan toh jaata lamha tham jaaye
waqt ka dariya behte behte is manzar mein jam jaaye

We spent the next I-do-not-know-how-many minutes locked in a conversation that I did not want to end. And as far as I could see it, she was enjoying every minute of it too. Remarkably we shared a lot of common interests and likes. Both of us loved classic rock music. She almost convinced me to belt but a song or two when I told her that I used to be the lead singer of my college band. She loved cooking. I convinced her to part with her very own recipe for making paani-puri. I was beginning to love parties!!

"You are quite an interesting person for a writer!" she passed her judgment.

"Uh well... I think it might be because I'm slightly tipsy!!" was my justification.

"Hahaha... you are funny too!" she laughed.

I could've been wrong, but I did not think I had made a funny remark. It could just be that she was actually interested in this writer! Improbable, but possible!

We chatted some more. This time the conversation flew from one topic to another, lightly settling on one before flitting to something completely unrelated. I was enjoying it. I love these freeform conversations. I have them all the time in my mind. They help me form thoughts when I'm writing. To find someone else who also evidently enjoyed them was almost a good omen. I felt I could permit myself to think in terms of a relationship. It was premature, no doubt. But it was at least a start!

I smiled.

"So there you are, my angel!!" a voice behind me pierced through my reverie.

"Where have you been all this time??", 'my angel' queried indignantly...looking past me.

I whirled around in the chair to see a man enter the room, his arms akimbo...one hand holding a glass.

"I've been outside... catching up with everyone, dear! What have you been up to?!" he answered and questioned in the same breath.

I turned to face her once again.

"You left me all alone here in this boring place. This sweet gentleman here kept me entertained while you were gone." Suddenly I was dragged into the conversation.

"The pleasure was all mine!" was all I could muster as my mind was in a whirl trying to cope up with this information overload.

The guy gave a polite nod in my direction and scooped up her arms in his...and without so much as a farewell, they walked out of the room... her head on his shoulders, his arm around her waist... very much in love.

I felt my ears go warm and my vision blurred. The ghazals had stopped playing and the only sound coming in through the French windows was the wind rustling through the tall palm trees outside.

I hate parties.