This brilliant, gorgeous guy, who is about a decade younger than I, just got one year older today & to bring in his birthday, last night he had a “Terrace Party“.
You know the kind? When you’re in college & you just invite everyone you know - and many you don’t - and they all just land up on your terrace? Where there are no chairs, so people gravitate towards the walls.
But where there is music. Loud, loud music. And a DJ. And very very fancy “disco” lights, the more the merrier.
Where instead of proper dinner, there are snacks just enough to fill you (last night was freshly made kebabs & paneer) and where there is booze. Beers, spiked punch. And perhaps the odd bottle of Pepsi / Coke for “spoiled sports” like me.
The perfect blend of alcohol content & loud music to get everyone crazily dancing in the middle of the floor from the start to the finish of the party.
I didn’t really want to go to this party. Terrace parties are so not my thing anymore. This lil princess has evolved into a fine club hopper. Members only lounges, of course. Where champagne flows, not beer. Not that I drink either, but it’s good to know.
But I had to be here, so I found myself sitting on a wall, alone, an intrigued voyeur with a curious combination of amusement and nostalgia, looking at the scenes as they played out. And from the 100-odd people who were there, few of them caught my eye:
~ The girl in the way too short red dress, who was way too pretty to be dancing in the “I need you to look at me” slutty fashion she was.
~ The (very cute, but oh! so young) boy with spiky gelled hair, who scanned the room for the prettiest girl (after me, of course) and upon finding her, worked so hard at monopolizing her attention. In between, he dances with red dressed slutty girl.
~ The 20 almost-nothing boy, who is (by far) the cutest guy there & who refuses to leave my side & comes to drag me to the dance floor for the 100th time in two minutes. But I must refuse. If only my life was as simple as Cameron Diaz’. But no, I must control myself.
~ The not so pretty girl, in not so nice clothes, desperately trying to keep a guy - any guys - attention for longer than a split second. She incidentally, I predict, will grow up to be a bomb.
~ The gang of about seven boys who sat in a corner, drinking their beers, leching at all the women, not one of them with any guts to go ask one of them to dance.
~ The energetic, pretty girl dancing her guts out on the dance floor, oblivious to the fact that she is so pretty that if she played her cards right she could have any guy she wanted. Instead she chooses to dance by herself or with her girl friends, enjoying herself thoroughly.
She reminded me of me. A “paaka bindas” babe. Totally at ease with who she was. Simply enjoying the night, “just because”.
And then of course, there was me. There I was. Dressed up to the hilt (poor 20 almost-nothing boy didn’t stand a chance) looking wonderful and knowing it. And something within me wanted to ditch the attitude, ditch the self-consciousness and just fly.
And so I did. Just for a bit. But I felt alive again. At a Terrace Party. Who would have thunk?
I went thinking, I’d show my face, wish, kiss & be done three minutes after the clock struck twelve. Three hours later, the party was still on full swing. And I was still there. But perhaps it wasn’t me. Perhaps it was a shadow of who I was. And I like that girl, she was nice.
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