He is alive. Finally TG is feeling well enough to venture outside, and just in time for New Year's Eve. We go slow, as not to excite him. He has been in bed for almost a week.
The evening has come, and we dress in our sports coats. We are to have New Years at the British High Commission. Our flat mate, Rohan, a bright exceptionally witty and humorous mocha colored brit has friends whose parents work for the embassy. We all together pile into an auto-wala, the small green and yellow cabs without any doors and windows, and fly over to the imposing guarded building. Well, we attempt to fly. These little cabs are hard to flag down tonight. I don't know if its due to it being New Year's Eve, or maybe we are terribly unwelcoming done up in our western dress, or if it is some strange reason all together. We finally manage to flag one.
About half way there, our driver pulls over. No, we lean into to tell him, this is not where we want. No, he nods understanding, and then makes a tooth missing grin and gestures drinking from a cup. We glance up at where we are, pass the swarming holiday crowd, mostly comprised of young men, and we can just make out the words 'Beer, Wine, Liquor'. Our driver means to take a couple shots of something strong before he takes us to our final destination. Ha! I begin to cackle to myself. We have an alcoholic for our holiday driver. He returns quickly, having quenched his thirst for the moment, and off we go again, bursting through the cold night air. All is well, until something bursts our tire. We have a flat in the middle of the road on New Years' Eve. TG and I jump out. Standing with our arms out, directly in front of the bright headlights of Delhi traffic, we hope that one of the warm fuzzy glares ahead is an auto with an empty pocket and an open mind.
We arrive finally, thanks to our hero of a replacement driver. We sign ourselves in at the gate, as the guards watch on. These fellows, who are all Indian, are in a seemingly great mood, and they are all smiles as they gesture us in. We follow Rohan's friend, Joslin, into the festivities.
Inside, it is like high school all over again, except with a bar, thank goodness. The band is mom and pop style, quite literally. Our young host's mother sings the female lead, while other Embassy employed individuals and their friends make up the other instruments. They play Beatles and 60s American Folk Rock. Twinkly lights and small balloons are hung in the small square gym like space, and round tables with white table clothes frame the bandstand stage. We shake hands with the others at our table. We are at the "kid" table, so it seems. The daughter of the official, and her friends, all in our late 20s and early 30s. I feel terribly young for a moment, but the anxiety passes with the time, and with the drink.
We are twisting and mashing, seizing in fits of alcohol and retro fun. There is nothing cool or smooth on this dance floor, but the stranger the better. It is about to be 2012, and we are all on our feet, our children's table having conquered much of the space, and there are no egos here, just foreign faces, lost in English rock, bad wine and whiskey, and the movement of a world about to be born.
" 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Happy New Years! " The auditorium yelps in union. The poppers or cracked, and hands are shook, and embraces are had. We gather round in this criss-crossed arm circle, and we sing 'Auld Lang Syne' while mashing into each other crookedly. The last words of the song are sung into the center of the circular jam, and we unwind. TG and I are standing next to each other, having survived the youthful festivities. We smile, and he kisses me, fast so I don't see it coming. We linger in the strange scene, with the balloons, the brits, the bass, and our bully display of affection.
"That is how you celebrate New Years," TG declares, releasing me from his embrace.
Indeed, I think to myself, and I nod.
The evening has come, and we dress in our sports coats. We are to have New Years at the British High Commission. Our flat mate, Rohan, a bright exceptionally witty and humorous mocha colored brit has friends whose parents work for the embassy. We all together pile into an auto-wala, the small green and yellow cabs without any doors and windows, and fly over to the imposing guarded building. Well, we attempt to fly. These little cabs are hard to flag down tonight. I don't know if its due to it being New Year's Eve, or maybe we are terribly unwelcoming done up in our western dress, or if it is some strange reason all together. We finally manage to flag one.
About half way there, our driver pulls over. No, we lean into to tell him, this is not where we want. No, he nods understanding, and then makes a tooth missing grin and gestures drinking from a cup. We glance up at where we are, pass the swarming holiday crowd, mostly comprised of young men, and we can just make out the words 'Beer, Wine, Liquor'. Our driver means to take a couple shots of something strong before he takes us to our final destination. Ha! I begin to cackle to myself. We have an alcoholic for our holiday driver. He returns quickly, having quenched his thirst for the moment, and off we go again, bursting through the cold night air. All is well, until something bursts our tire. We have a flat in the middle of the road on New Years' Eve. TG and I jump out. Standing with our arms out, directly in front of the bright headlights of Delhi traffic, we hope that one of the warm fuzzy glares ahead is an auto with an empty pocket and an open mind.
We arrive finally, thanks to our hero of a replacement driver. We sign ourselves in at the gate, as the guards watch on. These fellows, who are all Indian, are in a seemingly great mood, and they are all smiles as they gesture us in. We follow Rohan's friend, Joslin, into the festivities.
Inside, it is like high school all over again, except with a bar, thank goodness. The band is mom and pop style, quite literally. Our young host's mother sings the female lead, while other Embassy employed individuals and their friends make up the other instruments. They play Beatles and 60s American Folk Rock. Twinkly lights and small balloons are hung in the small square gym like space, and round tables with white table clothes frame the bandstand stage. We shake hands with the others at our table. We are at the "kid" table, so it seems. The daughter of the official, and her friends, all in our late 20s and early 30s. I feel terribly young for a moment, but the anxiety passes with the time, and with the drink.
We are twisting and mashing, seizing in fits of alcohol and retro fun. There is nothing cool or smooth on this dance floor, but the stranger the better. It is about to be 2012, and we are all on our feet, our children's table having conquered much of the space, and there are no egos here, just foreign faces, lost in English rock, bad wine and whiskey, and the movement of a world about to be born.
" 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, Happy New Years! " The auditorium yelps in union. The poppers or cracked, and hands are shook, and embraces are had. We gather round in this criss-crossed arm circle, and we sing 'Auld Lang Syne' while mashing into each other crookedly. The last words of the song are sung into the center of the circular jam, and we unwind. TG and I are standing next to each other, having survived the youthful festivities. We smile, and he kisses me, fast so I don't see it coming. We linger in the strange scene, with the balloons, the brits, the bass, and our bully display of affection.
"That is how you celebrate New Years," TG declares, releasing me from his embrace.
Indeed, I think to myself, and I nod.
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