a young people’s party
After spending the day in our traditional Indian garb, listening to a Rajasthani band and watching women in bejeweled saris flick their hands and dance and shake their brightly colored glass bangles, we headed home to Hotel Namaskar to prepare for what would be the “young people’s party.” Our preparation mostly included a deep nap curled up on our futon while trying not to think about what the blankets we were using had seen. Awoken from slumber by Mama Cass, we put on our party clothes and braved the alley in front of our hotel which most notably a outdoor urinal and a pile of sleeping street mutts.
After the usual bidding war amongst ourselves and gaggle of rickshaw drivers and cabbies, we were on our way to South Delhi, in search of an unmarked street where the party would go down. Pulling up, it was clear which apartment it must be; the music was to be heard for at least a two block radius. After reading a magic marker sign, “Hookah, lounge, dancing –?” we found ourselves in a room with all the familiar faces of the event. Biryani was served in clay pots that had been sealed shut during and cooked with a slab of bread dough. The rice was incredibly fragrant and tasted of potpourri and chilli peppers. Totally radical.
A professor from John Hopkins and a friend of the groom came around with tequila shots on a tray, and while trying to regale us with stories of the syphilis epidemic in Los Angeles, spilled the contents of four shot glasses on Adam’s flannel shirt..
We made our way to the dance room and with intention got the party started. Besides the kissing noises I have repeatedly suffered in my ear and the incessant public urination, the Indian habit of stopping a song at its climax is the most irritating experience by far. The party soundtrack is usually comprised of ten songs maximum, and before any song can play to the end, one impatient party-goer or another runs up to the iPod and stops the song. The crowd cries, “Awwwwwww,” in unsion, but their efforts are to no avail.
Despite the lack in flow, the party raged and the dancing was quite a sight. There were Bollywood dance moves going down left and right, mostly involving sharp flicks of the hands. My favorite move by far was when the boy gets down on his knees and does a shimmee while gazing up at his female partner who feigns indifference and remains upright.
Once again, the last to leave the party, we hopped in a cab to take us back “home.” Another great party triumph for the “young people.”