BENGALURU: The first time I entered a club, my hair had streaks of burgundy and enough gel to light up a small village. My clothes looked like they were designed by Himesh-Hashmi. But I remember being awash with disappointment. Movies showed that the hero starts the dancing, and the rest of the club joins him.
Where were my background dancers? Where were all the women who would pop in for a twirl? I remember being disappointed that the exorbitant prices mentioned were all for 30 ml. The bouncers frisked me like a visitor just arriving from Kabul. Some of the terms used, like ‘stags’ – were rather dehumanising.
But man is a gregarious animal. I learnt to swallow my pride and tequila at the same time, and silently danced my disappointment away. It’s been more than a decade. But entering a club still gives me flashes of the disappointment I felt. Gradually, clubs began to strike me as rather strange.
My visits changed from paying money for entering to being paid to perform at clubs. I began to tilt towards house parties. They were cheaper. If I was going through a crisis, I could simply count on others’ generosity. If it was a BYOB party, I could make do with a quarter of inexpensive whiskey, and let others share their drinks with me. Actual conversations took place between people, and you didn’t run the risk of being kicked out by a Sohail Khan clone.
When I decided to pursue my passion for writing a decade ago, I had no idea about the repercussions in store for me. The years rolled on, and my place somehow became the hub for house parties. I have learnt to curate different parties for IT employees, standup comedians, aspiring filmmakers, and childhood friends. My entire life is a flux between quitting and adopting alcohol. My house has more ashtrays than chairs. My maid deserves a Ramon Magsaysay Award for her contribution to humanity.
Like a well-written screenplay, every house party has a three-act structure. The first act is when people establish their personalities. They are all trying to assert themselves as the funniest or wisest person in the room. Quick allegiances are made, and strategic positions are changed. The second act involves the question ‘You guys want to eat anything?’. This opens a Pandora’s Box of options. You get to make a culinary trip around the world - from Italian pizzas to American burgers.
From pad Thai noodles to french fries. Till everybody decides on biryani and orders enough to feed a modest zilla parishad. The third act of a house party is called ‘Which song to play next?’. As a firm believer in democracy, I have to go around the room and play the song of choice. One person recommends a song.
The others nod and smile, while silently judging the person who selected the song. When the song doesn’t achieve the desired reaction, the person who recommended the song goes into a shell and begins to judge the next person choosing the song.
This goes on and on, till my YouTube algorithm looks like the feed of an eclectic alien. When I wake up the next day, my flat looks like Kurukshetra battlefield. Soldiers lie fallen on the ground, their weapons strewn all over. When maid aunty arrives, I have to hide my face in shame and pick up the fallen warriors. For the Gita says that life is a cycle of birth and death. They will all have to go back to their lives, while I clean my house for the next house party.
(The writer’s views are personal)