Party in the Pavilion

The Ruprahs host a party in their backyard pavilion. After much pleading from Mrs. Ruprah, Grace, the housekeeper, stays to help cook and serve. The newly-married couple from across the street, Raju and Goldie, are guests of honor and bring along their extended family. Mrs. Ruprah's nephew, Mr. Ubi, and his family come, too, so there are 20 of us. Mr. Ubi cooks chicken in a pot over a jiko, a coal-burning stove. As usual, the women sit on one end of the pavilion and the men on the other while the children alternate between groups. Raju sets up a radio, tunes it to an Indian station and we listen to top "Bollywood" hits, tunes made famous by Indian films of the last 20 years. Raju prepares calf's liver expertly. "Sandy!," calls Mr. Ruprah from the men's end of the pavilion. "How do you like the Indian liver?!" And he laughs, "Ha!" when I say it's delicious. "Sandy," he yells again, "Have a beer. A cold Tusker." I refuse because I'm sitting with the ladies (who do not drink alcohol), but Mr. Ruprah gets up and brings me the big beer and a glass, which I self-consciously fill, hiding the remaining beer behind the chair leg. The newly-weds somehow find each other from their respective gender groups and make their way onto the Ruprah's roof for a closer look at the moon. They're away for nearly 20 minutes and I imagine they're making out on the open, flat rooftop. At least I hope they're making out on the roof, after entering this arranged marriage. I hope they make out on roofs forever! Several curious children clamber up the stairs. Of course, children always come along and divert attention, just as they've done this evening. So the newly-weds rejoin the larger group, her sitting with the ladies and him resting with the men. "Sandy!," Mr. Ruprah calls. "Have another beer." Oh, no, I protest, that's just too much. Though I really do want another beer. "It's okay," Mrs. Ruprah says at my side. "You're at home. It's okay to have two." So I have a second cold beer. I'm at home.