Unparalleled bliss visits me twice a year, when my father comes back home. Among the premeditated celebrations I try to fit in those two weeks, one of the most enjoyable is the lavish get-together that we hold. It’s essentially a small gathering attended by friends from our colony and is generally held on our sprawling terrace under a moonlit sky and a makeshift bulb.
Preparations begin in the morning of the D-day with all the families arranging for their culinary contributions. We, being the host, get the terrace cleaned and organize the event to the last detail, giving equal weightage to the snacks bought as well as the music equipments arranged. The party usually begins at eight in the evening with some inevitable latecomers sneaking in till 9’o’Clock with a ritualistic excuse of “Sorry, had some work to do.” or “Oh ! Was it 8 p.m?”
We sit on large mats and improvised bedcovers, munching on chips and sipping cold drinks. While the parents sit together with their alcohol, casual Sunday wear and conversations that push behind the materialistic pursuits they engage in everyday, people of our age group together to discuss the latest movie or criticize the current scandal in the locality. Music plays on in the background which suffers a constant threat of being reprimanded by the elders for invading their territory. Soon, dinner is served in neat melamine plates and we break into an innocent fight to have the lion’s share of food on them.
The party is followed by some light discussion gradually veering towards philosophy (With the stars twinkling, a light breeze blowing, full stomach and heavy eyes, I would not blame the theme of our discourse). The gathering comes to an end with guests leaving with filled stomachs and fulfilled souls and the resonance of the party lingering on for days.
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