Neha and Gautam are a young and with-it couple from New Delhi, who moved to Chennai a month and a half ago. They look very mismatched. She is the Fab-India, Anokhi, kurta-wearing, jhola-totting variety that seems to be a stereo-type that is a pre-requisite to be considered a journalist or intellectual of any repute in Delhi’s bohemian, pot-smoking circles. He is the practical, MBA, bread-on-the-table, your-money-is-money-for-jam variety. On the whole, they are happy, and very happy at being away from Delhi. That’s where they had met and married and that’s the city they hate. She often says, ‘In Delhi, you’re either with-it, or you’re wannabe…no one accepts that you may not want to ‘be’ ’, and he would nod his head in agreement. However, every time they told people how much they loved Chennai, they would be thought of as mad. ‘Small’, ‘No fun places’, ‘No pubs’, ‘Too conservative’, ‘Too hot’, ‘Too much of Ms. J.-Lo’ (as Ms Jayalalitha is fondly called), would be pelted at them for holding such an opinion. They had seen none of this. To be fair, the city seemed to have welcomed them with open arms- the summer they had been warned about broke into joyful tears the week they moved in May, their few acquaintances had blossomed into friends…

He had just joined a big MNC. She has come as beautiful and perfect corporate-wife, very happy with the ‘halt-in-my-career, see-what-I’m-giving-up-for-you’ lines that come with sitting at home and being pampered.

They had had a house-warming party, where their friends, and soon-to-be friends had come over to warm their house. It was a relaxed party- dinner was served at 12.30 and people were very happy about being on a ‘liquid diet’ (as getting drunk is politely called). People left at four a.m.- all in all, it was great! Chennai was Delhi without the distance, Delhi without the dirt, Delhi without the dirty old men.

So, Neha said ‘G, let’s have an office party. You know, with the big break and all...’ Gautam agreed. It was a small office, so they decided to call all twenty people- not only those from Gautam’s department. ‘Anyway’, she said, ‘not everyone will come.’ So they sat and drafted out a perfectly-worded email. ‘…invite you and your spouse for a relaxed and casual evening at 8 p.m. on Saturday, the…’, read the mail. RSVP’s came, as she had expected. Of the 20 invitees, 11 said they’d come. 22 people. Great! Preparations began in earnest. Inter-city call-conferences with female members of the Radhakrishnan clan in Delhi and Bangalore began, to decide the menu. ‘Not too posh, make it Indian’, said mother. ‘Serve some nice white wine’, said sister. So all these little things were done and today was Saturday already, her day of triumph!

Now the house was being cleaned, it was already 2 p.m.- Gautam should be home any minute. The alcohol was his department, though Neha had already put the wine to chill, because most women drank a bit of wine these days. Neha surveyed the menu- non-veg, and lots of vegetarian stuff for the Tam-Brams (or the Tamilan Brahmins). Then there was ice cream, chocolate truffle, Amarkhand, halwa- let no one say that Neha Radhakrishnan did not know how to host a party. Gautam’s collegues would be talking of it for months. Gautam thought she was overdoing it, but what did he know? She wondered what the wives would be like. All the husbands were the IIM variety, but the wives? She knew they might be conservative, but how conservative? Anyway, the house looked lovely. The carpenter had just hung up a couple of pending paintings, name-tags for the food were looking great.

Ramu was cooking the dinner now- umm…what time would she have to serve it. 8 p.m. invite means people will show up at 8.30-9. Dinner at 10.30? Yes, that seemed about right. Neha understood that this wouldn’t be as much fun or as relaxed as their house-warming party, but she was looking forward to it. ‘I wonder what the wives will be like’, she thought again. In Gautam’s last company, she had made several friends among the wives. None of them were as bohemian or intellectual as she was, but they were fun women. Now…maybe she would make some friends. Gautam would wear the jeans and T-shirt she had ironed. She would wear that lovely orange kurta and white pajamas, and those pretty Janpath flip-flops. Casual Fusion, Femina called it.

Gautam returned and dutifully appreciated the food, the arrangements, the new and improved placement of the old paintings, the clean bathrooms, the strategically-placed wedding albums (‘conversation pieces, baba!’), and the management of the house. ‘The women will drink wine and soft drinks, the men…the usual’, he thought, planning the bar.

And it was almost 8. Not that they are worried- 8 meant 8.30 by a conservative estimate, right? At 5 to 8, the door-bell rings. It couldn’t be, it couldn’t possibly be…She opens it, not really expecting anyone important. There stood 2 men, 2 women in Kanjivaram sarees and 4 children. Tempted to slam the door shut, Neha smiles and hopes they are lost. ‘Mrs. Gautam?’ inquires one of the men politely…Oh! The Horror! The Horror!

Her hopes of mistaken location dashed against the rocks, she smiles ‘Yes, come in please.’ Oh God, kids, what are kids doing here? And the manners- or lack of them… The women proceed to walk around the house, opening all doors, including the one to the servants’ room. The children ran around the house pawing her paintings. By the time the late-latifs arrived, by 8.30, there were 21 adults, 18 children and one grandmother. Those who didn’t have children, seemed to have adopted them for the day. Ramu is promptly given specific instructions- food at 9, which he promptly puts into the realm of impossibility. The food may run out now, the soft drinks certainly will. The driver is given specific instructions- drive anywhere, drive to Bangalore if you have to, just get some Coke! Tamilian men don’t drink in front of families, at least not these ones! And no wine gets touched. Women sit clustered together, talking in Tamil, disproving the scientific theory- likes do not repel. Neha is the only one in western clothes; not that anyone notices, as she hides in the kitchen. Food finally appears at 9.15, and starving children swarm to it. No children were invited, rants Neha to Gautam, whenever he catches her eye.

You know how it usually is- you lay the food (sans the lovely golden name-tags, which were ripped apart by some child early in the evening), then everyone eats, then you clear the table and then lay dessert. Except, shortly after food is laid, a KPK variety (KPK= Khaya Piya Khiska, or eat and go variety. Usually considered a rude thing, Neha was grateful for the handful of KPKs who had come to this party!), comes up to them and says, ‘Mr. Gautam, I am to go now.’ ‘Oh, thank you for coming’, chants Neha with the plastered smile; the same one that gave her a headache on her wedding day. ‘Do you have some ice cream?’ ‘Yes’ responds Neha, a little flummoxed. ‘I want before I go.’ So Neha leads this eager guest into the kitchen to serve her ice-cream, and the rest. Like an ant that has found honey, however, this eager guest forms a human train of dessert-seeking-adults-and-children into the taxed kitchen. Executive decision warrants abandoning normal chronology, clearing half the table to serve dessert. Beyond a point, the ruining of the upholstery/ party/ planning/ day/ month/ hopes have stopped concerning Neha.

The only nice thing about the party was how soon people left. And that they were herd-like about it.

The next morning, Neha gets a call, ‘Good morning Mrs. Gautam speaking?’

‘Err…Yes’

‘Madam, this is Santosh’s wife, Lata, I just wanted to thank you for…’

My, my, who would have thought, thought Neha…

Lata continued, ‘In Santosh’s last company there would be having annual day, madam, and all the wives and children would meet madam. But this company, no, no annual day at all, so the children are not meeting madam. Thank you, madam, for the get-together.’

‘Oh, thank you so much, it was my pleasure having you all over…’ says Neha, warming to the role and the appreciation.

‘Vaary nice food, madam. Vaary excellent. Vaary vaary thank you madam…’

‘Anytime, anytime, please drop in…’

‘But madam, one problem is there. You should be having games for the children, no?’…