- The darkness of the hall was broken by flashing, crawling red, green and blue lights. The DJ had pumped up the volume, and the bass, to a level that far surpassed the need of that enclosed space. In the ephemeral illumination, I could make out the faces of the 70 odd people around, most of them familiar, some had associations with a name in my mind registry, some were just faces I was encountering again, some were completely new. Office parties are not really such vibrant affairs, but ours was. It had been a trend that we had to follow. A quiet meal doesn't really justify the definition of a party.
But, as a married 30 year old male, life throws innumerable shards at you. You are too young to acquire a corner with the 35-years-or-older folks, sipping on their scotch, nibbling away at their chicken wings and discussing about revenues; you are also too old to do Bhangra or hip-hop with the 25-year-olds; you are too married to try and start a futile conversation with a female of your own age (honestly, it is just too much work leading to nothing). You are stuck in a place in life where you do not have a tribe. You converse with the people you know, mere formalities at a superficial strata, to not be ostracized from society. You bear the evening, reminiscing the time when you had a tribe; how much fun that was, how you enjoyed being with those people, in a circle on the dance floor. The same flashing lights added to the fervour; the bass to the mood. The conversations were merrier, deeper, casual, about anything under the sun. You decide to deposit yourself in corner with a scotch of your own, rethink and overthink your decision to come to the party as the ice melts, turning your drink from a harsher shade to a mellow sunshine shade. You down it, eat whatever dinner comes your way and silently fade into oblivion, making a to-be-broken promise to yourself to not come the next time.
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