Surprise Party
Last night, Friday evening, I get home around 6pm and am grateful to settle into a quiet, relaxing evening. It’s been a hectic, exhausting week with numerous trips to the showgrounds. I’m tired. I slice three beautifully ripe tomatoes, season them, add some green olives and sprinkle the tomatoes with olive juice. A nice, light supper. As I sit in the living room with my feet up, enjoying the peppery tomatoes, a voice calls out “Hello,” through my front window.
It’s Priya* a young Sikh Indian friend. “Are you ready to go out?” she says. “Go where,” I ask, looking down at my grungy t-shirt and feeling my hair pinned up in the most unattractive way.
“Come on,” she says, “Change your top, leave on your jeans. Let’s go!” Priya became engaged six weeks ago. Her fiancé lives in Arusha, in Tanzania, and she’s only been alone with him for 15 minutes since they became engaged. It’s an arranged marriage. Tonight, the Sikh Temple committee (all male) will be visiting Priya’s father, to congratulate him on the engagement of his daughter. It’ll be all men, Priya says, and she wants me there for company and moral support.
It’s hard to resist a surprise party, especially when the guest of honor is requesting one’s presence. So I put on a long-sleeve top, let my hair down and put on shoes. “Lipstick?” Priya asks. Yes, lipstick.
Her driver awaits us. Priya's family lives on the block behind ours, so we’re there in a flash. The Ruprahs are sitting in the living room. Other guests have arrived. Priya shows me her bedroom, which is lovely, with its own balcony. She opens the two narrow doors, which remind me of a house in India, and we step out onto her balcony. The moon is almost full, glowing through clouds. It’s enchanting. She tells me about the text messages going back and forth between her and her intended. She’s falling in love with him and is simply bursting with joy. Guests arrive and we wave down at them from above.
Temple committee members show up and fill the living room, which has been cleaned and arranged in a large circle for the men. Huge posters of Sikh gurus look down at us from the walls. All of us ladies scurry to the kitchen. Priya's brother, in his early 30s, acts as server and is keeping the Tuskers and White Cap beers moving from the back room to the men’s glasses. Priya's father pulls out a litre of Famous Goose whiskey and he teases all the ladies, pretending to want to pour it into their glasses. Priya leans toward me and whispers, “It’s the fifth one today. The fifth litre.”
A friend of the family has cooked mutton, very spicey, and he heats it in a serefina (aluminum pot) on the gas cooker. Priya’s mom has set up another gas cooker in the kitchen floor and is heating oil to fry the samosas. I help Priya bring in the samosas on platters. She and her mother prepared them the night before. There are more than 200 of them! Mrs. Ruprah slides the samosas into the hot oil while a young woman keeps them from burning. They’ve also prepared fried peanuts, lots of Indian sauces and dips, salad and several types of chappati and nan.
Priya pulls me outside, onto the back patio, to tell me about a poem she wrote for her fiancé. Her father calls her from the kitchen so she runs in, refills the peanut bowl, and returns. She wrote her fiance a poem and shared it with him and he was so impressed, which he should be because Priya is pretty, slim, intelligent, loving, mature and a wonderful catch! She’s simply glowing/bursting in love and I’m thrilled to see it. Her father calls again and we stop whispering and rejoin the others. There are about 18 men in the living room, making speeches and throwing back beers and whiskey. The ladies are in the kitchen or on the back stairs, where we eat. The mutton is so hot I begin to sweat.
Priya's phone rings from her bedroom upstairs. Well, it’s really her father’s mobile phone. She’s using it because her phone is chock full of text messages between her and her fiancé and she can’t bring herself to delete any of them. So she rushes up the stairs and soon returns, a crooked grin on her face. It’s a text from him. “He wants to know how the evening is going and he says ‘good luck with hosting.’” Very thoughtful, I say.
“I’ll answer him later,” She says. “When things are quiet and I can’t sleep.” Priya is losing lots of sleep while daydreaming about her future husband. But she doesn’t mind. When the house is quiet and everyone is asleep, when duty isn’t demanding she take sewing lessons or cook dinner or complete her father’s business books, she’ll have some interrupted nighttime hours to re-read her fiance’s text messages and blush and dream of their future together. In the quiet night hours, Preety will be daydreaming.
(*Her name has been changed to respect her love-struck privacy)
It’s Priya* a young Sikh Indian friend. “Are you ready to go out?” she says. “Go where,” I ask, looking down at my grungy t-shirt and feeling my hair pinned up in the most unattractive way.
“Come on,” she says, “Change your top, leave on your jeans. Let’s go!” Priya became engaged six weeks ago. Her fiancé lives in Arusha, in Tanzania, and she’s only been alone with him for 15 minutes since they became engaged. It’s an arranged marriage. Tonight, the Sikh Temple committee (all male) will be visiting Priya’s father, to congratulate him on the engagement of his daughter. It’ll be all men, Priya says, and she wants me there for company and moral support.
It’s hard to resist a surprise party, especially when the guest of honor is requesting one’s presence. So I put on a long-sleeve top, let my hair down and put on shoes. “Lipstick?” Priya asks. Yes, lipstick.
Her driver awaits us. Priya's family lives on the block behind ours, so we’re there in a flash. The Ruprahs are sitting in the living room. Other guests have arrived. Priya shows me her bedroom, which is lovely, with its own balcony. She opens the two narrow doors, which remind me of a house in India, and we step out onto her balcony. The moon is almost full, glowing through clouds. It’s enchanting. She tells me about the text messages going back and forth between her and her intended. She’s falling in love with him and is simply bursting with joy. Guests arrive and we wave down at them from above.
Temple committee members show up and fill the living room, which has been cleaned and arranged in a large circle for the men. Huge posters of Sikh gurus look down at us from the walls. All of us ladies scurry to the kitchen. Priya's brother, in his early 30s, acts as server and is keeping the Tuskers and White Cap beers moving from the back room to the men’s glasses. Priya's father pulls out a litre of Famous Goose whiskey and he teases all the ladies, pretending to want to pour it into their glasses. Priya leans toward me and whispers, “It’s the fifth one today. The fifth litre.”
A friend of the family has cooked mutton, very spicey, and he heats it in a serefina (aluminum pot) on the gas cooker. Priya’s mom has set up another gas cooker in the kitchen floor and is heating oil to fry the samosas. I help Priya bring in the samosas on platters. She and her mother prepared them the night before. There are more than 200 of them! Mrs. Ruprah slides the samosas into the hot oil while a young woman keeps them from burning. They’ve also prepared fried peanuts, lots of Indian sauces and dips, salad and several types of chappati and nan.
Priya pulls me outside, onto the back patio, to tell me about a poem she wrote for her fiancé. Her father calls her from the kitchen so she runs in, refills the peanut bowl, and returns. She wrote her fiance a poem and shared it with him and he was so impressed, which he should be because Priya is pretty, slim, intelligent, loving, mature and a wonderful catch! She’s simply glowing/bursting in love and I’m thrilled to see it. Her father calls again and we stop whispering and rejoin the others. There are about 18 men in the living room, making speeches and throwing back beers and whiskey. The ladies are in the kitchen or on the back stairs, where we eat. The mutton is so hot I begin to sweat.
Priya's phone rings from her bedroom upstairs. Well, it’s really her father’s mobile phone. She’s using it because her phone is chock full of text messages between her and her fiancé and she can’t bring herself to delete any of them. So she rushes up the stairs and soon returns, a crooked grin on her face. It’s a text from him. “He wants to know how the evening is going and he says ‘good luck with hosting.’” Very thoughtful, I say.
“I’ll answer him later,” She says. “When things are quiet and I can’t sleep.” Priya is losing lots of sleep while daydreaming about her future husband. But she doesn’t mind. When the house is quiet and everyone is asleep, when duty isn’t demanding she take sewing lessons or cook dinner or complete her father’s business books, she’ll have some interrupted nighttime hours to re-read her fiance’s text messages and blush and dream of their future together. In the quiet night hours, Preety will be daydreaming.
(*Her name has been changed to respect her love-struck privacy)
posted by Cindi at 7:17 AM
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