Even before the day of the function, there is the pre-function publicity. Posters advertising the grand "extravagaza" pop up in the windows of the cheaper Indian restaurants where most families go, and in the discount provision stores. They are also advertised over the radio by an over-enthusiastic guy with a strong accent, who forgets to mention the venue. Invariably, however, Gopalan Mami hears about it on the time-honoured grapevine that all Indian housewives have learnt to rely upon and trust. She relays the information to Mami who then tries to persuade his teenage kids to "imbibe a bit of culture."
"But I've made plans, dad."
"So you have got time to talk to your friends and listen to that 'baby-baby' music of that what is his name. Michael Jackson; but not time for your own culture? Kozhundhai, come along to this function. If you listen to Indian music, you will appreciate it. You will do Maths better. Indian music is good for the brain."
"Yeah, and Indian parents can be such a pain."
"What was that?"
" I said, 'Yeah, I hope it doesn't rain.'"
"Vasthum. I am very glad that you are coming. You won't regret it."
The lady-folk of the household adorn themselves in their finest garb: pattu sarees or churidars with matching sequined hand-bags, dinky pairs of bangles, exquisite jimkki earrings, and a conspicuously-placed gold pendant bought from a jeweller on Ranganathan Street on a trip to India years before. The husband is sent back to his room to replace his 'ramble in the garden' sweater with a nice shirt. He protests. As a compromise, he is allowed to leave it untucked, his belly overcoming the heroic attempt to conceal it, and to wear his Bata sandals over his white socks. The elder son dresses in jeans and a T-shirt that advertises Adidas. The young son is allowed to bring his Gameboy. Vibbudhi is applied to foreheads all around and half an hour is spent on locking all the doors and windows. The visiting aged-relative has been ready for two hours by this time, and suddenly wonders where she has placed her glasses. The search continues well past the hour, until it is discovered in her handbag, after all.
While this drama unfolds, the non-Indian guests arrive on time, and are bewildered as to where everyone is. The chairs have yet to be arranged, and the decoration-crew has only just arrived themselves. A big sign on the wall of the primary school hall, among the pictures of trees and smiling people, says, "Happy Hannukah." Mr. Organiser rounds up an army and gets them to stack chairs, put streamers and balloons up, and bring the vats of dhal, idlis, puris, chappatis, the channa, aloo, chawal, payasam and jalebis. The spouses light lamps and agarbatis, arrange the jasmine and marigold flowers around the deity, and supervise the kitchen proceedings. Within half an hour, all is done. In the meanwhile, the guests start trickling in -- of whom, Mr. Ambassador is one. The latter talks to the angresi guests, feigns surprise at their knowledge of 'Ra-vi Shank-ar', and fields questions on the significance of the festival.
The Indian guests arrive -- being in the know -- about an hour after the prescribed time. By this time, the music is in full-swing, and there is little left to organise. However, this doesn't stop them from being seen doing things. The rest of them crack jokes with each other about Indian Stretchable Time and laugh loudly. Some call out to each other across the room, slapping each other on the back, and talking of India's last test victory, of their kids and the culture, of visiting Swamijis, of the state of Indian politics, of stocks and shares, and of when their next trip back home would be.
A little girl, not older than 5, walks on to the stage and everyone looks up at her. She recites a small prayer to Lord Ganesh, remover of all obstacles, in a flawless, shy, sing-song voice. At the end, she bows several times, and a beaming mother helps her off the stage. Everyone applauds; and men and women turn to each other, nodding their heads in approval.
The master of ceremonies steps on to the stage, and readjusts the mike. He is thrown back by a high-pitched shrill of feedback. Hands shoot up to ears and several babies begin synchronized bawling drills. The PA-adjustor guy desperately tries to restore the mike, and succeeds after a jarring few seconds. However, his work is not done for the night. The dutiful, portly gentleman, who has forgotten to shave one side of his chin, maintains a vigil by the side of the equipment, constantly adjusting it as he sees fit.
The M-C, a confident, balding man, with a thick accent suspiciously similar to the radio announcer, is full of praise for everything. He invites the audience to applaud, once again, the little girl "who carries the torch of our culture." He promises to be brief and begins by thanking, in flowing, flowery terms, the society members who did the organising. He also treats us to a 'brief' history of the society and the pitfalls it has had to overcome in recent times. He pauses momentarily while the 'overzealous committee guy armed with a camera' blinds him with a flash of the pre-war relic. Ten minutes later, he is reminded by a little boy, who repeatedly pokes his head out from behind the curtains, to announce the next item.
A troop of young kids march out on the stage, herded by a young woman into their places. She turns one toddler, barely old enough to stand, the right way around, and repositions the finger of a little one, which is up his nose. Another pair seems involved in a game of their own and giggle a lot. Some of the kids hold signs displaying images of Gods and saints. The music begins, the CD skips, rasps, and startles the kids and the audience alike, due to its volume. The PA-adjustor guy decides that a pulsating performance requires a pulsating fade-in and fade-out of the music. The kids dance and sing, albeit out of key. Mummy stands in the wings of the stage, encouraging one junior to mouth the right words. There is a momentary pause as the music stops and all the kids, save one, stop singing. A baby bawls again. Everyone applauds. The music resumes and the kids complete the song. They get another round of applause. In the audience, proud mothers and fathers point their kids out to each other, and compliment one another.
And so the evening goes. There are dramas, dances, songs of Gods and Goddesses, of lovers in the forest, North and South Indian fusions and pop-bhangra confusions, traditional instrumental music played on veenas, mridangams, ghattams, sitars, harmoniums, and flutes. There are the items involving tinny pre-recorded keyboard-synthesiser music. Young kids and old men and women, all get up on the stage and perform. Some have practiced for weeks, some for months, and some do something impromptu. Everyone is applauded. In the back of the hall, the younger kids, still in costume from their performance, yelp and run around, unshackled from parental gaze, enjoying their quota of freedom to the fullest.
Also enjoying the lapse in concentration of some of the elders, the young 'uns check out the 'rasmalai'. Eyes meet then quickly turn away. A few brave ones go up and talk to each other, but it turns out they are cousins or classmates, or sisters of good friends whom they have never seen before. The girls talk about the close encounters that they've had. The guys chat about close encounters they wished they had had. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to them, nosy aunties are plotting to unite doctor girl and doctor boy, that they may one day open a clinic.
The M-C announces at 8-20 p.m. that the food will be served "shotly." "If he says 'shotly' again, he will be shot shotly," grins a jovial old man with sunken eyes, a wide smile and a baldpate. But the mention of food has heads turning upwards and ears pricking up. A queue begins to form. Some latecomers propitiously arrive through the doors at this time, kids in tow.
The shutters shoot up, and the vats of food are put in smaller bowls and placed on the table. There are many volunteers for this job. Mothers get their kids something to eat first, and then the older children step up, followed last by the men folk. All the way, those who have eaten, relieve the duties of those who have served. All servers follow the servers' code of piling as much food on your plate so that you are forced to come back for seconds if you want to try anything on the other edge of the table.
The best way to avoid a glob of Aunty Gobala's potato treat is to shuffle past quickly, your flimsy polystyrene plate out of range of its trajectory. The first timers who have not learnt to watch the quickening pace of those in front of them in the queue are unable to escape a second helping as Aunty quickly reloads her karandi and dispatches another volley of kizhanga at the harried victim. Aunty Gobala is pleased that she was able to close in for the kill. Once the food is consumed, the culture imbibed, and the torch passed on, there begins the mass exodus towards the door and the car park. A glance at your watch and you would see that it's way past the prescribed finishing time. But no one cares. A sea of unpaired chappals and Warehouse sneakers lie in a swirling vortex. Most find the missing one about four steps away.
The car park is teeming with people sitting in their cars, engines running, talking to one another, and extracting promises from each other to come over for dinner sometime. In addition to phone numbers, emails are exchanged, and comments are made about how that never used to happen in the old days.
As the cars -- mostly Honda Accords -- drive out slowly, close to midnight, the child sleeping in the back does not hear his Papaji say, "Our Indian functions are poorly organised. Always problems with the sound; screaming babies; the food is late; you lose one of your Bata chappals; you step on some sticky sweet in your nice white socks. You'd think that they'd do it better after five thousand years of practice."
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