Our New Year eve’s tradition is to pick up a critically acclaimed series and to binge-watch back to back episodes right through the night. Last year it was Dexter and the year before Firefly; this year the plan was to watch the awesome inner city drug drama: the Wire. Most def !
So when Anjum told me that we had an invite for a New Year’s eve party, I was less than enthusiastic about having to mingle with people I barely knew, when instead I could be in the company of the gritty homicide detective McNulty and the drug kingpin Barksdale and his MBA-seeking right hand man Stringer and ruthless Omar and the cuddly yet deadly Wee-Bey Price.
“Its at Angela’s,” she said.
“An-jella?” I replied.
“No An-jla,” she said.
Now I went to one of the better schools in Pune: St. Vincents, an English-medium Catholic school run by Jesuits. And although my English teachers made us memorize poetry by Wordsworth and Stevenson, and drilled home the difference between a Simile and Metaphor, proper pronunciation was never part of the curriculum. To this day if there are more than a couple of vowels in a word, I invariably emphasize the wrong vowel : exA-cUtive, IndiAnA-pOlis, pArish-ner. And hence the mundane An-jla became the more bubbly sounding An-jella.
Angela’s a wonderful person, and one of the few physicians I know who doesn’t insist on always talking shop. She is smart, good looking and funny. But most importantly she is Black, and I have got it in my head that maybe just maybe, some of her black coolness will rub off on me. Maybe I can learn how to fist bump correctly, pick up a dance move or two or some Ebonics : Straight up yo! Dap!
That Angela is as far removed from the black stereotype as my Urdu speaking grandmother is beside the point.
So we found a baby sitter, I ironed my clothes, shat, shaved and showered. Usually I’d just spray myself with Febreze but this was a special occasion, so I ripped out a Sean Jean cologne paper from an old Rolling Stone and rubbed it vigorously all over my jacket. Anjum dressed up to in a sparkling dress and bling-bling jewellery that said: I am young and I am hot and I am ready to disco. The night before we had made some Gulan jamuns, and since we didn’t feel like picking up a generic cake or go shopping for a vase or re-gifting one of the many candle sets in our basement closet, I convinced Anjum that the Gulab jamuns would be just the right thing to add some desi sweetness to the party.
As we got in the car, Anjum turned on the GPS and asked me for the address. I had called Angela earlier and had written down the address on a Post-it note but when I put on my gloves I stuck it up on the closet door, where unfortunately it still remained stuck. Not wanting to get a “What is wrong with you?” yelling from Anjum, I dug deep into the farthest recesses of my memory and pulled out 1632 Freemont circle, Chicago. Imagine my surprise when the GPS actually found the address. “Well then,” I thought, it must be right.”
It was around seven in the evening by the time we reached the house, and there was already a long line of cars lined up in front. We were a little concerned about being too early for a New Years Eve party, so this was a pleasant surprise. Our plan was to hang around till about ten and then head back to the kids, which would give us a good two to three hours to socialize.
We knocked and some young kids opened the door. Their mother was right behind and looked at us quizzically. “Evening,” I said as I stuck my fist out to bump, saw the lady’s right eyebrow rise up a few inches, realized the inappropriateness of the gesture and slowly unwound the fist into an a limp, awkward handshake,” I am Sajid, and this is Anjum.” Anjum handed the tupperware full of gulab jamuns to the lady who thanked her graciously and let us into the house.
It was one of those older Chicago homes. Low ceilings, small windows, hard wood floors that had seen better days, and crowded with furniture, not quite the IKEA inspired resident physician quarters I had imagined. It was crowded though, with a lot of people, a lot of people we did not know, a lot of people looking at us with puzzled expressions on their faces. While Anjum tried to find Angela I snuck towards the snack table. There was a steaming pot of what looked like beef stew, another dish of jambalaya, collard greens with sausage and a whole bunch of other non-Kosher non-Halal food that I could not eat. I saw a bag of chips and a salad tray and started making my way towards it. Right next to the chips was our tupperware of jamuns, and right over the jamuns was a portly man in his fifties trying to fish a few out. “What’s this?” I heard him say and that was just the opportunity I needed to slip into a conversation.
“That’s an Indian sweet dish,” I said,” deep fried dough balls in sugar syrup.”
“That here is some good shit,” he said.
“Glad you liked it, I am Sajid by the way ..”
“I’m Wallace … so how did you know Dwayne?”
Dwayne, I thought, who the hell is Dwayne, and just as I was about to answer Anjum nudged me from behind, “can’t find Angela.”
“Huh .. well … Anjum this is Wallace, Wallace this is Anjum, my wife, she works with Angela …”
“Angela who ? ” asked Wallace.
“Dwayne?” I asked Wallace.
Anjum’s phone rang, “Hi Angela …”
Well it turns out Dwayne was a sixty three year old widower who had died in his sleep just a few days ago. Dwayne was a CTA bus driver who had lost his wife recently and was planning on moving back to Baton Rouge this summer to retire. Unfortunately the coronary heart disease that plagued his family had finally and stealthily caught up with him and changed his plans. Wallace was Dwayne’s nephew. The lady who greeted us at the door was his daughter, Gladys. The rest of the people were his family and friends. This was not Angela’s house. This was not her New Year Party. This was Dwayne’s house. This was Dwayne’s wake.
“We were very shocked to hear of Dwayne’s passing. I used to take his bus everyday and there wasn’t a kinder more gentler person I knew. We just had to come to pay our respects.” Even as every chord of my moral fibre was tearing at its seams I could not find any other way out of the situation. White lies, I reasoned, besides I’m going to hell anyway. As we paid our condolences to Gladys and mingled with the rest of his family and munched on chips and salsa and carrots and celery and enjoyed Dwayne’s favorite music: Miles Davis and Herbie Hancock, our initial instincts of wanting to get the hell out of there were replaced by laughter, curiosity and a warm sense of belonging and we found ourselves being part of the celebration: the celebration of an eventful life, well lived and well loved. What more is there?
As it neared midnight we finally thanked the family, waved our goodbyes and stepped out of the house and into our car, I braced myself for a well deserved verbal and possibly physical lashing from Anjum, bu instead she leaned over and gently kissed me, “Happy New Year, Sajid.”
… and a Happy New Year to all of you as well.