There are fairy lights in the trees, long haired women with tinkling feet and all the food that reminds you of your grandmother’s home.
They walk around laughing and talking, their arms laced together – festival sisters and night time confidantes. One of them bends down to light the lamps. Her face glows and her hand looks a deep red when it cups the dancing flame of the lamp. The other stands by her side, bending over. They move away soon enough, their white and gold saris rippling in the evening quiet.
Their husbands sit on lawn chairs, playing cards on a picnic table. They aren’t the best of friends, but they get by. They place kings and aces with an enthusiasm that increases with the same pace that the whisky level in the bottle drops. One of them makes the effort to talk a little –their jobs, the stock market, cricket, and the usual. It’s met with an equally brief, yet extremely polite, reply. They watch their respective wives from a distance. They marvel at their companionship, their attachment to each other in all kinds of situations.
The night becomes colder and the men become more amiable. The women serve the men on large gleaming plates. They pour, all while chattering animatedly, thick coconut curry on mounds of rich looking rice. They hand out glasses of buttermilk, creamy and peppered. They insist that the men eat more, handing out silver bowls of sweetened milk. After their husbands have eaten and moved a little away for a stroll and some more small talk, the women serve themselves but forget to eat. They regale each other with stories from their childhood. They remember together, their parents’ home, their mothers food preparation that lasted days, the smell of new clothes on the morning of festivals. They hold each other’s arms trying to steady themselves through all the laughter over old memories of odd family members and the like.
At the end of the night, they hug each other tightly. While one gets in to the car, the other stands at the gate waving, as the car drives down the dark road. They both think the same things at some point in that night.
They’re glad for what they have. While they will rub backs and wipe the tears for one another should they need to, they also need someone they can be genuinely happy with. The kind of happiness that isn’t laced with jealousy; the kind that fills you up with strength every time you think you don’t have it in you.
They walk around laughing and talking, their arms laced together – festival sisters and night time confidantes. One of them bends down to light the lamps. Her face glows and her hand looks a deep red when it cups the dancing flame of the lamp. The other stands by her side, bending over. They move away soon enough, their white and gold saris rippling in the evening quiet.
Their husbands sit on lawn chairs, playing cards on a picnic table. They aren’t the best of friends, but they get by. They place kings and aces with an enthusiasm that increases with the same pace that the whisky level in the bottle drops. One of them makes the effort to talk a little –their jobs, the stock market, cricket, and the usual. It’s met with an equally brief, yet extremely polite, reply. They watch their respective wives from a distance. They marvel at their companionship, their attachment to each other in all kinds of situations.
The night becomes colder and the men become more amiable. The women serve the men on large gleaming plates. They pour, all while chattering animatedly, thick coconut curry on mounds of rich looking rice. They hand out glasses of buttermilk, creamy and peppered. They insist that the men eat more, handing out silver bowls of sweetened milk. After their husbands have eaten and moved a little away for a stroll and some more small talk, the women serve themselves but forget to eat. They regale each other with stories from their childhood. They remember together, their parents’ home, their mothers food preparation that lasted days, the smell of new clothes on the morning of festivals. They hold each other’s arms trying to steady themselves through all the laughter over old memories of odd family members and the like.
At the end of the night, they hug each other tightly. While one gets in to the car, the other stands at the gate waving, as the car drives down the dark road. They both think the same things at some point in that night.
They’re glad for what they have. While they will rub backs and wipe the tears for one another should they need to, they also need someone they can be genuinely happy with. The kind of happiness that isn’t laced with jealousy; the kind that fills you up with strength every time you think you don’t have it in you.
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