The Parties

Abstract

The Parties Bipin Aurora (bio) Yes, this was the pattern in those Embassy days. The men sat on one side of the room, drank their whisky and gossiped about the office. The women sat on the other side, drank their ginger ale and took care of the children. Mr. Ratra's singing, this was the highlight of the evening. "The voice of a nightingale," they said. "You should be on All India Radio." This was the highlight of the evening and no one—no one—wanted to miss it. "One song, Ratraji," spoke the host of the party. "You embarrass me, Mr. Bhatia." "One song, Ratraji, that is all we ask for." Mr. Ratra yielded to the pressure—how could he not? Mr. Kumar was sitting on the hard chair beside the end table. He moved the table a little and started tapping on it with the heel of his hand. Mr. Bhatia, who sat at the opposite end table, started tapping on the table with his metal spoon. These were the accompaniments, the rhythm. Mr. Ratra opened his mouth—a long aaah, another long aaah, and he ventured into the song. It was a Hindi film song, "Yeh Mera Prem Patra Par Kar." The words went like this: Upon reading this letterI hope you will not be upsetYou are my lifeYou are my devotion. "Wah wah! Wah wah!" came the sounds of approval from the audience. I used to call you the moon,But even in that there is a stain.I used to call you the sun,But even in that there is fire.So this only I will say to you:That I love you, I love you, I love you. This song was by Mohammed Rafi. But sometimes the song was by Mukesh or Hemant Kumar. These were Mr. Ratra's three favorite singers. It was a slow song—perhaps a ghazal of some kind; it was a fast song—no doubt a love song. And Mr. Ratra was off: [End Page 36] I will consider you the GangaI will consider you the YamunaYou are so close to my heartThat I will consider you mine. If I die, then my soul will roamWaiting for you, waiting for you. And so on. The men and women listened in earnest. A few of the women cradled babies in their arms and tried to put them to sleep. If the baby fussed or began to cry, the mother rose quickly and hurried to the hallway outside. This was a performance and she did not want to disturb it. It was a sacrifice for the mother to leave the room. Of course it was. But a performance is a performance, even a work of art, and it should not be disturbed. Also, every Indian mother knows the importance of raising a child, even the sacredness of it. And so how can a crying child be ignored? Must its needs not be attended to? One time I still remember—remember to this day. A child began to cry and the mother, Mrs. Jaitly, did not leave the room. At first Mr. Ratra bravely tried to go on with the song. But the child's cries grew louder and louder, and at last Mr. Ratra stopped. An awkward silence filled the room. "Kusum!" the harsh voice was heard from the corner. It was the woman's husband, Mr. Jaitly. "Have you no shame?" Have you no shame? The harsh, stinging words, and in front of everyone. But this Kusum understood, even she. She was not the brightest of women but even she understood. She rose, patting now the back of the child who rested on her shoulder. "Son, son," she said. "No need to cry. Mummy is with you, Mummy is with you." And even she left the room. Mr. Ratra returned to his song—indeed he did—and order was restored to the room. Yes, this was the pattern in those Embassy days. The men sat on one side, drank their whisky and gossiped. The women sat on the other side, drank their ginger ale and took care of the children. And then other...