Some Fun and Gyan - A Stressful Party Later!

“Shaadi ke do saal ho gaye, abhi tak koi
issue nehi? Kyun?” Mrs. A asks me very casually. That is when, five minutes
into our introductory conversation, I see the red light first. Shocked that one
could ask such personal questions at the very first meeting, I smile politely
and try to change the topic. But Mrs. A clings on, stubbornly – with an
expression that seems to say, “You don’t know, what a strenuous dirt digger I
am.” Desperate to shake her off, I say something about our non-readiness for
parenthood as yet and walk on hastily.




            A
little further down the hall, I spot a younger group of women giggling heartily.
Feeling optimistic I move closer.  Yes, I
am in a party - a party of Indians living in and around the city.




In the younger group, Mrs B is saying, “So
the paediatrician said not to overdose my daughter (a four year old) on
television. Daily one hour of cartoons should be sufficient *giggles*. But what
to do? You know what a big fan of serials I am, so I just let her sit beside me
and watch. Now she has become so smart that she is giving me expressions like
the sad heroine all the time *giggles*.”




            Mrs.
C chimes in, “Aww, that’s so cute!”




            Mrs.
D is seemingly the queen of the group; she sits in the middle, like a
glittering jewel in the crown formed by the gorgeously dressed beautifully
made-up ladies. She is distributing wisdom on how to keep your husband under
your pallu. On learning that I live in a different location than my husband she
advises me good-naturedly against it. When I tell her that I had been living in
India for the past one year while my husband was here in the USA, she gives me
pitiful looks, convinced that my relationship with my husband is a goner. 




            Mrs.
E, on the other hand, is a blogger. She posts photos of herself in different
outfits, hairdos and makeups on her blog and boasts a followership of over
3000. She also looks at me pitifully when I tell her that I also have a blog
but haven’t even crossed the mark of 100 followers. She also very politely
tells me that my attire is not at all in accordance with rest of the guests and
next time onwards I must dress appropriately. Feeling incredibly small, I drift
away yet again.




            I
eye through the entire room looking desperately for a group or a person, a
single person, I could have a chat with. An elderly group catches my eye. They
too are laughing, with an attractive openness. I approach them gingerly, too
weak after double onslaughts to take on another. I catch one or two phrases-
they are talking about visiting places. Not bad. I inch closer. They tell each
other about their voyages, long drives and camping. I am drawn in. But the
moment I decide to tell them about my recent NYC trip, Aunty A starts talking
about an antique and expensive mask she got from Bahamas. Aunty B, at this
point feels obligated to let us know that she possesses some original Bruce
Gray. And after that it really goes out of hand. Everyone starts speaking about
the beach houses they own and celebrities who are regular to their restaurants.
I quietly take a sip from my glass and move away. I notice children playing at
the furthest corner attended by their nannies – some whites, mostly blacks.




            I
feel too claustrophobic. I hurry off to the secluded place and grit my teeth.
Being the odd one out makes me doubt my sanity. I try to think of topics I
commonly discuss with my friends. And the things that come to the top of my
head seem really laughable and lame - even to me. One time in one such get
together (with my friends) we had had a really long conversation about a money
plant and a goldfish!




I feel so stupid. I am a married woman (?)
who still flinches at being called a woman! I would rather prefer being called
a girl. I am still afraid to wear a saree as I fear that my pleats may come off
and I may trip over it. I am clumsy and feel uncomfortable in talking about
topics other women so easily discuss about. I won’t be able to put on such
gorgeous makeup in a thousand years to come. I sit there reflecting silently on
the ways I should groom myself to fit in.




            But
then suddenly like waking up from a bad dream, I hear few of them discussing
which business deals their respective husbands closed last week or which
organisational award they were nominated for. They talk with the proud faces of
the children competing for, “my daddy strongest”.




I realize, no matter how hard I try I can
never find any common interest with them. These women, all of them, are basking
in the reflected glory of their husbands. All the achievements are their
husbands’ while they wear expensive clothes and makeups, vacation in exotic
places and buy famous artists’ works to decorate their houses. Then they sit on
the couches with a glass of wine and admire their “collections” while the
nannies watch over the kids. They are just content to be their husbands’ arm
candy.




Will I ever be able to satisfy myself with
those things? No. I don’t relate to their world. The prism of judgement is
reversed this time. This time I pity them. They know the joy of riding luxurious
BMWs, yet they are deprived of the exhilaration of riding a Scooty bought with your
own hard earned money. They enjoy the air-conditioning in their posh
apartments, yet they so pitifully miss the heat of the first sense of true
independence in the small attic rented apartment.






Yet in reality they are happy. And I am happy
too. Maybe nobody’s wrong or nobody’s right. It’s just that we belong to
different worlds. It’s ridiculous to be influenced or try to influence each
other. So what to do next? Just behave like the Romans when in Rome. Then come
out, wipe your forehead and say, “Uff, those Romans!”  




Love

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