The bright yellow saree with flowery pattern clings to her tall slender body, almost exposing her to the imaginative eyes. She wears it, the saree, with grace – her walk measured, her stance determined. Her lips are wide; her smile big – like a Bollywood movie actress, only less assuming. She speaks with politeness, yet determination of a teacher. Her animated hand gestures and a fair complexion can mislead you to think that she could be Italian. Her attire, the controlled manners, and the lowered eyes give away the secret however, that she is Indian. As she walks from guests to guests, she leaves behind a trace of French perfume; she leave behind many turned heads.. Saying just that she is pretty does not do a complete justice.
On her right shoulder she has a flower tattoo – not a real tattoo, no! Her mother would not allow that. It is a kind of tattoo that some kids and teenagers make out of sticky and shiny glitters. She is no teenager, not by any measures except some traces of childish youth left in her heart. She has her own kids aged 3 and 6, a boy and a girl, left for the evening at her mother’s house.
It is a January, a winter weekend. They are gathered for a social evening at her friend house, a mansion actually. The big house stands on the outskirts of Surrey, British Columbia. The sunlight from the west filters through the huge windows accenting the silky curtains that seem to never end, not even when they touch the marble tiles of matching color. Read the rest of this entry »
Posts Tagged party
The fading hue
Feb 1
Loud music, louder conversations, noisy kids running all over – it is a complete chaos. It seems like everybody is lost in the moment. Older ladies are sitting together next to the kitchen, sorting out the sweets and chit-chatting; the older men are sitting nearby – having their own small-talk and sipping on tea.
The younger generation is all mingled up. Some are bare feet, and some are testing their newly bought shoes on the dance floor in the basement, with Kesha’s ‘Tick Tock’ song blaring loud. Every now and then, a car pulls up to the front of the house with neatly trimmed landscape, dropping off new guests.
Tomorrow is a big day for the Gill family. Their only son Babbu is getting married. By the time the sun touched the western horizon, the house is all packed full. The guests from as far as India, London and Vancouver have flown in, all excited for the special day.
Their house in Brampton is a short drive from the Toronto airport. Raj – Babbu’s cousin, has been to the airport three times already, picking up the relatives as they arrive. He is most excited about the fourth trip, however. He is going to receive his three cousins from England, whom he has not seen for a long time.
Around 8PM, a black stretched limousine pulls to the front of the house. It is part of the last minute planned party for the groom and his passé. One last night, he is going to enjoy his single life before being shackled down into the married life. The limo driver steps outside the driver seat; polishes the already clean windshield with black cloth, like a ritual. Then he lights up a cigarette, while some of the elders watch him with a look of disapproval.
The groom and his passé of five friends and cousins finally start to get inside the limo. In the mean time, Raj also comes back from the airport, speeding all the way to the driveway; his three cousins jump out of of his car in no time. Everybody, including those inside the limo, rush over to greet them. There are hugs, there are hi-fives; there is loud laughter. After a quick exchange of greetings, Babbu and his passé run back to the limo; Raj and the three well-dress cousins with British accent follow them.
Finally, a little bit after 9PM, the limo drives off for a night-out on the town. All of them, ten of them all together, are bubbling with excitement.
“Can you take us to the liquor store, please”, someone shouts at the limo driver.
“Okay boss”, the limo driver shouts back.
“Where are we going”, asks Bobby, one of the cousins from England.
“Downtown”, many of them respond back, one after another.
“Downtown where?”….
Everybody tries to speak louder than the rest, as if fighting to have their say. The limo get to the liquor store. Raju and Babbu jump out, followed by everybody else. No one wants to be left behind, it seems.
“Get some Black Label.”
“We need beer”
“Something for shots.”
“Sambuca” … Read the rest of this entry »
