Saturday, November 15, 2008

Dying to dance

My flat's on top of the so-called Large Common Room. A belated Diwali celebration has been going on there all evening, with much food, music, drinking and dancing. A, she of the Nordic husband, had wanted to know earlier today whether I'd turn up. I hemmed and hawed, knowing I had to study. But as the evening went on and I got tired of studying stats, the music blasting from downstairs became too much to bear. I texted A; she didn't reply. I assumed she must be dancing. I hurriedly cooked something for the weekend (Paneer mutter, a bit too spicy, but nice; I like my cooking, which makes me truly self sufficient, since I can already laugh at my own jokes), shaved and headed down.

The place was full of people, many were new South Asian arrivals at the community, none of whom I recognized. Some stared at me curiously, it was evident that I was as unfamiliar to them as they were to me. Two young Indian women openly sized me up; one wearing a yellow chiffon sari and a yellow bindi. Ghastly. Khuda Jaane from Bachna Ae Haseeno blared from the speakers. In vague desperation, I searched for A; neither she nor her husband were around. I spotted D, a Trindadian girl who was friends with both TL and TYL; we chatted briefly. Once she moved on, it became obvious to me that I was in the midst of a social-mating-networking axis operating at full throttle. A few posh middle-aged Indian types sauntered in, couples who looked like they'd just stepped out of expensive cars. Possible parents and "local guardians", perhaps. Our tiny bar was mobbed; there was no way I could get a drink without queuing for at least 15 minutes.

Suddenly, I felt old. Three years ago, I'd had my first exhibition in London in this very room. A concealed art gallery had been built into it, entirely by the community, among them soon-to-be curators, art historians, architects and artists. It had been a privilege to be invited to be part of the inaugural exhibition, all wine, cheese, berets and black turtlenecks. I painted a Tamil bullfight, which everyone though impossibly exotic. TL took photos. Some very old friends from Iran turned up unexpectedly. We bitched about politics and drank too much Pinot. Heady stuff. A month later, TL, our friend M (a writer) and I started the Guerilla Poetry Project (affectionately christened Poetryloo), which became an overnight hit. M won a major literary prize. We became fast friends. M and I are now typical thirty-something tennis partners who don't play nearly as much as we would like to. Years passed quickly; both TL and I acquired new degrees. Struggle, fellowships and the beginnings of professional success followed. Never the networking types, we made a few solid friends; but threw some memorably wild parties. This past difficult year, I haven't even bothered to say hi to the new faces I see all around. There's an Indian girl living opposite and it's evident she's becoming an item with the Indian chap who has spiky hair (don't they all, these days?) and lives across the quadrangle. They are both nice and evidently curious about this gruff man who goes running at night and lives alone in the flat opposite. I always smile and say hi, but can't be bothered to go beyond that. I can recognize a College romance when I see one. I idly wonder whether it will 'work out'.

Now, here I was, in the middle of a rip-roaring Diwali party, feeling a bit lost. Time is such a funny thing. And let's face it, Diwali parties are no fun when you have no one to dance with. Unlike last year, when TL, TYL, A, the Nordic fiance, R and I danced till we dropped at the Asha for India party in a bar on Paternoster Square called The Saint. It was really cold that night, but we were sweating so much after all the dancing that we trekked home minus coats. And we were steaming for much of that walk.

I had two options; stay, make an effort, be gracious, introduce myself to all these new people, welcome them to the community etc. I am pretty good at this when I want to be. But did I want to do this tonight?

No.

I went home. I am getting on a bit, let's face it. Boring and homely.

But the music went on till midnight. And it bloody killed me to listen to it.
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