All the Siddharths

***

The first New Year party you went to was a glitzy ball in which boys named Siddharth walked around talking of their experience with theatre and what they thought about Kafka. The Siddharths of the world smelled of a strange maleness that was bottle-made. They had newly sprouted chin hair and were called Sid. For short. Most played the drums.

Was it fun? It was an honor, certainly. It meant you were cool enough to party, never mind if your feet were frozen and inexplicably and embarrassingly, you couldn't stop yawning. Your contact lenses were trying to get out of your eyes and you were furiously trying to push them back while pretending to be amused by the wit that was lashing across the room like a whip. Nobody could ignore the wit, its sharp crack as it landed here and there, keeping everyone awake.

There were some white people too, pale in their printed kurtas, looking deep into your kajal-lined eyes and speaking of Ganesha. You couldn't understand what they were saying because the music was too loud and you were not international enough to catch their accent. So you nodded along and smiled a lot, wondering if you were racist because their lack of eyelashes was grating on your brain.

And then, there was the food and the booze. And you with a glass of orange juice, sitting down primly and insisting you were a teetotaler, but not because of moral reasons. You were amoral, you just didn't like the taste. The smell of it. The Siddharths were drinking beer and discussing football and it could have been a tavern somewhere in England where you'd never been but hoped to see someday. Some of your friends were social. They mixed and matched and flowed around the room, calling everyone and everything crazy. To be crazy was a privilege.

Some of your friends were frozen, just like you. So you stood in a tight little circle, a coven, and chose to be the anti-socials. Which was crazy too and hence, cool. You spoke of post-colonialism or existentialism. One or the other. It didn't matter. Everything was funny because the night was crazy.

And then, when it was time to go, though the Siddharths insisted the party had only just begun and there was more beer and they weren't yet smashed, you were relieved. The auto driver fixed you with a disapproving glance. But you put on an airy expression and wished him a very Happy New Year.

When you'd changed and shut your eyes to sleep, the glitzy ball went out slowly like the tip of a dying cigarette. And you slept like a child inside your blanket, glad for the silence and the gentle murmur of the fan.