Like the way we party?


Like the way we party?

More kids are being damaged these days not by their parents’ strictness, but by their parents’ partying. You see, parents born in the 70s, who should be now searching for retirement homes, are partying instead.

They have turned into some kind of untamed party animals! They need weekly doses of parties to keep their super-soldier serum levels up. Every Monday, party planning begins. By Wednesday, there is a theme/dress code identified. On Friday, people leave early from office to buy outfits.

The parties begin with these partyers showing up with bottles of wine — the customary offering these days. I am not sure who invented this ritual — handing your host a bottle with a smile. “Here, hope this time it does it — cheers to damaged livers!” The host weaves his way around asking each guest graciously, “What’s your poison?”

My mother, if asked that question, would call the police and slap charges of attempted poisoning. But we are new-age parents and sophisticated. The guests ask him to rattle out the options. Once he’s done, they ask him for something he does not have. That is important to assert your status in the party.

The snacks make their way. They have to be Thai or Vietnamese. God forbid if something as mundane as samosa or idli is served. Such a gaffé would mean that the humiliated hosts have to leave their apartment and relocate to some place far. Very, very far. Near the Kempegowda Airport, for instance. The ladies now need to make polite enquiries about the delicacies. All while making sure they mention that they’ve had had a better version of the same at a 5-star place. Or in Spain. Sometimes I really think I should go to Spain and check out if they really have a restaurant that serves Thai fish cakes.

Someone asks for music to be played. Everyone insists they have the best music collection on his/her phone. There is a bitter competition for the post of the party DJ. Then, an expensive music-playing device that looks like it could also place a man on Mars is unveiled. Nobody knows how to operate it. That is when we call the kids, who are in another room, waiting for us to grow up. Initially, some melodious songs are played. There is clinking of glasses and genial conversation. Within an hour, it is imperative that Apdi Pode or Main Nagin Tu Sapera replace what’s currently playing. As soon as this is done, the person in the convict costume jumps on top of the table and starts dancing, as if celebrating an escape from prison.

The hostess is tired now. She asks if she should lay the dinner out. No one hears her. The kids are asleep in the adjacent room. They will be carried, dragged out by their parents to the car park in some time. If they are lucky, they will be picked by the correct parents.

Finally, it’s time to eat. Most of the guests are too inebriated to distinguish the paneer from the prawn. As they eat, they plan the next party in loud, animated chatter. The party ends with the neighbours ringing the bell and complaining about the noise, and the person in the angel’s costume throwing up.

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