Indian Wife Is a Diwali Night Treat

Note: This story is a re-telling of Aurelius1982 Indian Wife is a Diwali Night Treat from the wife's perspective. One of his readers. Mili, sent him a suggestion for having the wife's narrative too, similar to my first story which Aurelius helped with. He asked me to do it, so here it is. Obviously, the main characters are Aurelius' creations and he deserves credit for fleshing them out so well. I suggest reading the original story from his submissions page before starting on this one. I also suggest reading his multi-part Indian Wife's Descent story that introduced the Yashodhara-Ajit characters to understand their history, although doing so is not absolutely necessary.

It had been my idea to go to the Diwali party, and Ajit, the wonderful husband that he is, agreed immediately. I was looking forward to re-injecting some long-forgotten Indianness back into my life, and a party with fireworks, good food, and new people while wearing elegant traditional clothes seemed like a great idea. In theory that is. In reality, I was regretting coming up with the idea in less than an hour of getting there. At least for the first hour or so. And the regret stemmed mainly from the fact that I had forgotten how much I loathed the monochromatic company of the typical cocoon-dwelling Indian immigrant in the US.

Ajit and I entered the big house hosting the party, put the food we had brought in the kitchen, poured ourselves a couple of drinks, and got into mingling mode. A couple approached us and started talking. We started off with the basics like where we were from, where we lived, what we did and so on. He was in IT, she was a housewife. They had also come to the party after seeing the flier. We all talked about how chilly it had been getting recently. And from there, the conversation went downhill as the couple's cocoon started showing.

And by that, I mean the conversation turned to the extremely short list of banal topics that most Indian immigrants appear to think they're legally obligated to bring up when talking to a compatriot. First it was about visas, stamping procedures, green card applications, priority dates, and USCIS customer service. Then it was about the Bollywood potboilers which seemed to have names as long as entire paragraphs. Then it was about the Indian restaurants in town. Then the guy started talking to Ajit about cricket and the woman started talking to me about how America is so boring and there is nothing to do but shop.

Now, shopping I love. Actual fun shopping - fashion, clothes, shoes, even electronics. But she was more into shopping topics like where you can get the best deals on toe socks, which Indian store has the cheapest Basmati rice and how crowded Walmart is on weekends. Then she launched into a thesis on the various calling cards for India, and which ones you can save 1/8th of a cent per minute on if you avoid toll-free numbers and buy 3000 minutes during Hindu festivals while standing on one foot facing Varanasi and chanting the Gayatri mantra or some such load of crap.

When she started talking about some cable company that offers Aastha Channel in their very cheap Indian package and how listening to some Swami or Baba's early morning spiritual sermons makes her feel one with the universe, I was about ready to shove a bag of Basmati rice down her throat. I tried catching Ajit's eye to give him the "Rescue Me!" signal, even tried to slowly merge our conversation with the one he was having with the husband about cricket. I actually contemplated joining a conversation about a game I find unbearable. That's how much I wanted her to shut up.

Ajit was in the middle of describing the "old world languid elegance and compact stroke play" or some such nonsense of some cricketer whose name sounded a lot like Che Guevara. He was too immersed in his conversation to take note of my misery. I always envy Ajit's equanimity and ability to find something in common with anyone, get a conversation going and actually enjoy it. Send him to a Trappist monastery and he'll have those guys yakking like teenagers. I was about to gently nudge him when the woman grabbed my elbow and said, "come, let us get some snacks".

She almost dragged me to the table and started heaping appetizers on a plate. I hoped that eating them would make her shut her trap for long enough to get me some relief. I picked up a samosa and munched on it. I was about to make an excuse and escape from her when she said,

"Oh! There are some of my keertan mandal (prayer club) friends! Come, you should meet them. And join our group."

And suddenly my ordeal got way worse. I was now surrounded by five more replicas of this unbearable woman. Actually worse, because most of them had kids. The conversation centered around diapers and late night feedings and potty training and so on. Luckily, now that they had each other, I didn't need to pay too much attention to what was being said. I quietly munched on the samosa, sipped on my drink and waited for a few minutes to pass so I could slip away without seeming impolite. I noticed that Ajit was in a group of guys, but he seemed to be having a much better time than I was.

"Yashodhara, do you have any issues?"

I noticed that everyone was looking at me. It took me a couple of seconds to parse the question, which was phrased in a typically Indian-English idiom.

"Well, who doesn't have issues? We all have issues. I do my best to deal with them." I said and giggled.

If there had been any crickets chirping in the vicinity, they would've caused a din. My joke had fallen completely flat. In India, that question is a quaint way of asking if you have any children. I had tried to joke about it using the non-Indian meaning of the word "issues".

"What?????" the lady who had asked me the question said after a couple of seconds.

"It was just a joke." I said.

"What joke?"

"Never mind. To answer your question, no, no kids."

"Why not?" asked a middle aged lady. "Any medical problems?"

I just stared at her in shock. I had forgotten how intensely nosy other Indian women could be, especially the older ones.

"If you're having trouble conceiving, let me know. Our Guruji back in Meerut has this special concoction that can help. I'll ask my sister to bring some when she comes. But for that to work..." she threw a pointed look at the empty glass in my hand, "... you cannot drink any alcohol."

"You drink?????" another woman, this one in her early 20s but dressed like a grandmother, asked me in a voice that suggested I had assassinated the aforementioned Guruji.

"Excuse me." I said, exercising the utmost self-restraint in not flipping off those harpies and went to find a bathroom.

"I think she got offended." I heard the 20 year old grandma whisper in a voice loud enough to cross oceans and another woman let out a derisive laugh.

I rapidly made my way through groups of people towards what seemed to be the door to a bathroom. I put my hand on the doorknob when it turned on its own and the door pulled back open, making me lose my footing. I stumbled forward and banged against a man in his 60s dressed in a cheap gray suit. His hands shot up and held me by my shoulders. My hands instinctively grabbed his arms for support. I mumbled an apology and straightened right away. His hands lingered on my shoulders for a second and then I felt his fingers rub against my boobs before he pulled them away.

I looked at his face which wore a naughty grin for a split second before he pursed his lips.

"Are you okay?" he asked, sneaking a quick peek down my cleavage before looking at my face again.

"Yes, fine, sorry." I said and walked past him into the bathroom. He stepped out. As I turned around to close the door, I noticed him checking out my butt before walking away.

I just sat on the toilet seat for a few minutes, cursing my decision to come to this party. I had nothing in common with anyone here except for my passport. Why was I voluntarily sticking around in a place where musty-brained old women asked you about your medical problems and passed judgment on your drinking within minutes of knowing you? Where do they get off? Well, none of them looked like they had gotten off in their entire sorry lives, I thought to myself and chuckled at my own joke.

A few minutes later, I composed myself and stepped out of the bathroom, resolved to find Ajit and get the hell out of there. As I walked towards the living area, I passed by the same man who had taken the chance to gently feel me up a few minutes ago. As I passed by him, he twisted his neck like a corkscrew to check me out again. I scanned the crowd and saw Ajit was in the far end of the room in a group of guys who were laughing and having a good time. I took a couple of steps towards him when,

"Excuse me."

It was a woman about my age, clad in an orange sari, standing next to a man dressed in a shervani similar to Ajit's. She was holding a wine glass and he had a cup of chai in his hand.

"Yes?"

"We were standing right behind you when you were with those women a few minutes ago. And we couldn't help overhearing..."

"Oh, I didn't mean to...."

"Those women were such...." she said, looked around and added in a whisper "total bitches to you!"

"Stupid fucking bitches!" the man next to her added in a whisper.

"I know! Thank you!" I felt so delighted to find someone sane.

"So typical! Personal questions and nasty judgments. That's why I hate coming to these desi parties."

"So do I." the man said. "I'm Rahul. This is my wife Shreya."

I shook their hands warmly, glad to meet a couple who, at least at first glance, seemed normal.

"I'm Yashodhara. My husband Ajit.........." I craned my neck to spot him again and did a double take when I saw what he was doing, "is over there across the room on his knee, for some reason swinging his arms like Luke Skywalker with a light saber."

"If I'm not wrong, he's demonstrating Kevin Pietersen's switch hit technique." Shreya said.

"You like cricket???" I said in a mock whiny voice, "Just when I thought we could be friends!"

The three of us laughed. The ice was broken. Rahul and Shreya really were an awesome normal couple. We hit it off right away. No boring conversations about green cards and calling cards. It turned out they were having a miserable time at the party as well, but had to be there because of their 5-year old who was napping on a couch next to us. The kid and his Indian friends from kindergarten were keen to see fireworks at any opportunity they could get. It was like a 2nd July 4th for them.

"Hey honey." Ajit joined us and handed me a drink.

"There you are!" I said, giving him a quick hug. "Ajit, meet Rahul and Shreya."

"Big fans of your Pietersen impression!" Rahul said and we all laughed.

"I do my best." Ajit said with a mock bow. "So what are you..."

"Dude, come with me." one of the guys Ajit was with earlier came and grabbed his arm. "They're playing the World Cup final highlights on a massive screen!"

"Cool!" Ajit said, then threw me an inquiring look.

"Go on. I'll be fine here." I charitably said. Ajit has always been so wonderfully supportive of anything I like or want to do, that I don't have the heart to stop him from anything.

"You're the best." he squeezed my shoulder. "Nice meeting you two. I'll be back soon and we can talk."

I didn't really mind him leaving. In Rahul and Shreya, I had found company I was actually enjoying. We talked on a range of topics from the Presidential primaries to skiing and camping options to the Sopranos and molecular gastronomy. Shreya and I had a couple of drinks as we talked. Rahul, designated driver and child-watcher for the night, stuck to chai. We exchanged numbers and I knew that I had found a couple that Ajit and I would get along superbly with. I didn't even realize when an hour passed.

Just as I was hoping to spend more time with them, providence decided I had had enough. Their son got up, started coughing, and complained about an itchy throat. Rahul felt his forehead which seemed warm. That cut their night short. They left, Rahul clasping the kid to his chest.

I finished my fourth drink of the night, and went to look for Ajit. I remembered the guy who dragged him away saying that they were gonna watch the cricket match on a big screen in some room. I made my way through the living area which appeared like there was some sort of a shift change happening. A few other couples, like Rahul and Shreya, were walking out with their sleeping kids in their arms. There was also a steady inflow of different groups of men and the occasional couple. Even with all these people, the house didn't seem overly packed.

That's because it was a massive house with a huge living area and many rooms. The first room I checked had a cards game in progress. The second room had a few teenagers playing video games. As I walked towards the next room, I was sure this was it. I could here sounds of cheers and cricket commentary. I poked my head in through the door. The room was absolutely packed. There were about 30 men, a handful of women and a dozen kids, all staring at the screen, watching India's triumph in a non-athletic esoteric game for the umpteenth time. I spotted Ajit standing close to the screen clapping. His attention was on the screen, so he didn't see me. He was clearly having a good time, so I decided to let him be and amuse myself for a while until he came back.

I felt a little peckish so I headed to the kitchen to get some food. As soon as I entered, I ran into the same nosy middle aged woman from before. She was standing with another woman her age. I looked away but she said in a tart voice,

"The liquor table is that way."

This time I wasn't going to let her barbs go unanswered.

"Yes, and the food is that way in case you need to hog on your fourth dinner of the night, budhiyaa (old hag)."

The two ladies looked stunned. I guess the other young women they bossed around never answered back. Normally I would never make comments about someone's weight or their age. But with this bitch, I felt no regrets. The other fat old lady with her said,

"Some people just don't know how to talk to elders."

"Some elders just don't know when to keep their kachori-holes shut." I replied.

This made her pause too. She was thinking of saying something else when the other woman with her pulled her away saying something like "don't waste your breath". Winning that little battle of wits made me feel alive again. I picked up a chutney sandwich, poured myself a particularly big drink as a reward and walked out to the living area. It had gotten even more crowded. The cacophony of the conversation was getting quite shrill. I also saw some people had started playing cards, in line with the Diwali tradition of gambling for good luck.

I strolled around, eating and drinking, watching the games progress and waiting for Ajit to return. I noticed many men, now that they had downed a few drinks, checking me out more blatantly than usual. But no one tried to strike up a conversation with me. They seemed content with just staring. Most of the groups were playing teen patti, an Indian three-card poker. It's a casual gambling game based mainly on luck. Not too much fun to watch. I moved from game to game until I saw a group of five older men playing what looked like Texas Hold 'Em poker.

Now that's a bit more fun to watch. The men stopped talking and looked at me as I stood there, looking at the flop.

"Hello again." It was the cheap gray suit who had felt me up earlier when I was going to the bathroom.

"Hi." I politely said.

"You want to join us?" an older man in a red kurta sitting next to him asked.

"No thanks. I'll just watch."

"Are you sure? It's easy. We can teach you." said a man in his 60s in a crisp white kurta. I was about to say that I knew how to play the game but didn't want to play when,

"Listen...." a familiar voice next to me said. Not this again! It was the fat harpy from before with the woman who was in the kitchen with her and the 20 year old grandma. She glared at me and I glared back, thinking of something particularly caustic to say. But then she looked away from me and addressed the cheap gray suit in Hindi. I wasn't surprised to learn that the repressed old creep was married to a medieval minded old biddy.

"Listen, give me the keys to the minivan. I am going home with bahu (daughter in law) to put the grandkids to bed. They're all exhausted."

"I'm going too so give me our keys as well." the other older lady addressed the red kurta.

Once it was clear that she wasn't there to start round 3 of our feud, I turned around and started walking away. I could still hear some of their conversation behind me.

"But then how will we get home if you take both cars? Why don't you call a cab?" the red kurta said

"Do you know how much a 50 mile cab ride will cost??? Just give me the keys. We'll be back in a couple of hours to pick you up."

"You guys know you are always welcome to spend the night if you like. We have lots of rooms and many people are staying over. We could play poker all night!" said the white kurta. I guess he was the host. I didn't hear the rest of the conversation because I had walked too far away by then.

I wandered around a little more, observing some more card games, and finished my sandwich and my drink. I was nicely buzzed by now, and couldn't wait for Ajit to return. The party had run its course for me, so I wanted to leave. But the booze was also making me feel a little frisky so I was thinking about taking Ajit to one of the many rooms in this huge house and staining their sheets. And then on the drive back, maybe pull over at a rest area and stain some picnic bench.

I went back to the kitchen to get more food and another drink. I picked up a samosa and was trying to decide what to drink next.

"Hello again and again." Cheap gray suit had sidled up next to me. His breath smelled of blended scotch.

"Hi."

"Enjoying party?" he asked me in English with a slight slur in his speech as he stuffed a kachori in his mouth. I couldn't suppress a smile as flecks of the kachori crust stuck to his face.

"It's okay."

"Why only okay? Why not great?" he asked taking another big bite of the kachori, smearing some more of it over his face. Then he wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

I shrugged, not knowing what to say.

"By the way, myself Prabhu Rastogi. Your good name?" It was a big night for arcane Indian idioms. First "issues" and now an introduction starting with Myself and a query about the "good" name.

"Yashodhara."

"What a beautiful name. Pleasure to be making your acquaintance, Yashodhara." he extended his left hand towards me. I was glad it wasn't the Kachori stained right hand. I politely offered him my hand and his clammy hands clasped my fingers.

"Sure." I said, and tried to pull my hand away. But his grip stayed firm.

"Your name is being as beautiful as yourself you are." he pressed my fingers again, glanced at my cleavage and then back to my face. I was able to pull them out of his grip after a moment.

I was amused. This man was making an attempt at flirting with the charm and finesse of wheelbarrow full of sludge.

"Thank you." I said smiling at him. He stood ogling at me for a few more moments. Maybe he was trying to see if I walked away. But I was feeling tickled by his clumsy attempts at hitting on me. I reached for a plastic cup and filled it with ice.

"How can your husband leave such a beautiful woman unattended?" he switched to Hindi, a language he was clearly more comfortable in.

I just giggled and picked up a bottle of vodka. It's like he was reading off a bingo card of ancient cliched pick-up lines.

"Where is your husband?" he asked.