New Year's Eve

Today is New Year’s Eve. It’s almost 2020, and I am sick and tired of the same shit every year. I would like to be anywhere but here right now. It’s 11.30 now, which means 30 more minutes of this toxic environment. I can’t take it. 

“Mom, I have a headache, can I go home?” I said in the most convincing voice I could pull off.

“Is it really that bad? Can’t you stay for a while more? We will probably leave soon to make our way to Causeway Plaza to see the fireworks display!” my mum said, trying her hardest to persuade me to stay. It almost worked, I felt so bad for faking this headache, but I had gone too deep into my act to back out now. I nodded and held my head in pain to show her how bad it hurt. An Oscar award could not be enough to appreciate my acting skills at that point. She looked at me and sighed, before proceeding to fish out the keys from her gigantic purse. It sometimes seems like Dora’s backpack to me, it’s filled to the brim with little unnecessary items. 

I grabbed the house keys from her, said goodbye and began making my way to my house from the surprisingly dim-lit Admiralty Garden. A long 15-minute walk gave me enough time to reflect on why I was feeling the way that I was. 

“What will people say?” I feel like this same redundant question has been heard by every kid who has been raised by an orthodox Indian family. I might live in Singapore but the culture has not changed. Why is it so hard for Indian parents to understand that most of us kids really couldn't care less about what other people think of us? I really only care about what my parents think of me, they are the ones who cared for me, looked after me when I wasn’t feeling okay and they are the people who are going to be affected with whatever that happens to me. What anyone else thinks is really not a concern for me. If only it were that simple to get this through their heads as well.

Let’s recap what happens when I go to these family friends’ gatherings. Just to be clear, most of these people aren’t really my friends, or at least I don’t consider them to be. They are the children of my mum’s friends who I am forced to hang out with. As soon as you reach the party venue, in this case, Admiralty Garden, there are 4 social groups that each member of the family is designated to.

First, the group of uncles and dads. These people engage in the same political discussions every single time we meet. If some kind soul has thought of bringing a pack of playing cards, the nice little picnic mat suddenly becomes a gambling den where kids are prohibited from. Kids, in this case, is a relative term, and somehow, unless you are at an age where you have a child yourself, you are still considered a kid who is not allowed to have any opinions.

Next, the group of aunties, the supposedly very tight-knit group of friends who’ve brought this wondrous party together and planned everything. People who had been perspiring in their respective kitchens an hour ago to prepare the potluck for the day, with hair in a messy bun and stained nightgowns. Now, they looked all decked up in their range of sarees and outfits. Sometimes, I wonder if their conversations are actually real and hold any weight or if it is all just a facade. Thankfully, due to my mothers’ openness about all of the drama, I do know who to be careful around. I feel like within any group of women that age, there is always a villain and all the women tell their kids to be wary of this one woman. If you are in such a group of family friends and your mother does not tell you such a thing, I have some news for you.

The third social group is the boys. This group of guys for us ranges so much in age for some reason, so within this group, there are sub-groups. Some of the boys who have been raised by the stricter parents in the group and these boys cannot seem to be able to hold a conversation about anything else other than studies or sometimes, cricket because this is the only thing they have been trained to have an interest in, There are also the guys who think they’ve got it all figured out and try to play it cool like they know all the ins and out all because they had a sip of alcohol at 16 or they’ve made out with someone at that same age. I sometimes get annoyed at this because I feel like they are too foolish and that they haven’t really understood the true meaning of maturity. Then again, I feel like I was like them at some point too. 

Lastly, the girls. I do not know much about them, mainly because if I were to even dare to have a conversation with them at the party, suddenly that would be the only thing that people can talk about at the party. However, I do have a double agent on the inside, who supplies me with all the gossip, sometimes even when I don’t want to listen to it, my little sister. Sometimes, I fear that this group is the miniature version of the aunties group, pretending to be tightly-knit but filled with fake conversations.

Anyway, that sums up the groups at the party. It’s frustrating that we have to be separated as such and that we need to succumb to the societal pressure. This was the situation at every party, and it felt so suffocating. I had grown sick and tired of the environment that we were in with so many social restrictions. 

Of course, then there are the wonderful games that all of us have to be interested in, no matter how cringe-worthy they are. “Telephone”, “Charades”, “Musical Chairs” and whatever other cheesy games you can think of always make an appearance at these parties and once in a while, to switch things up, we would have the joy of variations between these same games. And, sometimes, if we do not look like we are having fun, we are suddenly looked down upon for ruining the party and our respective mothers would be summoned to try and cajole us into having fun. “Sure, Mum, I’ll pretend to have fun so I can be fake like everyone else at this party”, I would mentally reply to her, hoping through some psychic mother-son bond that the message goes across. But it never does and I have to drag the ends of my lips wide to create a smile.

Knowing fully well that I will be throwing myself a pity party once I get home, I stopped by the grocery store to grab some snacks and comfort food. Filling in the void left by the lack of friends and family with extra calories felt like a great idea. I walked into Giant and took a good look at their employees. They all clearly regretted deciding to spend their New Year's Eve at work, only for a few extra bucks. But never fear, the sole customer is here to make the last purchase of the year. I went over to the snacks section and looked at all the various options as if I was going to get something different from what I always get. I grabbed the packet of chips and flashed my NETS card as I continued strolling home.

During the remainder of my stroll home, I wondered about my friend, who had come solely to give his mother company. He was having similar regrets that I was but unfortunately, could not escape the party like I did and had been forced to stay. I still remember as I was wishing him goodbye, a part of me broke like I had just been released from prison but my friend was still stuck there. I could almost hear faint melodramatic Bollywood in my head. Earlier that night, I had also dragged him into the midst of an uncomfortable situation which I wish I had not. In a desperate plea to make the party the least bit enjoyable, we had attempted something that had been attempted only very few times in the long 10-year history of these parties. This was something which had often failed but if handled masterfully, could actually work. We dared to step out of the social group that we were designated to.

We moved from the boys’ table to the men’s table and I asked one of the uncles who was the dad of one of my friends, “How is Arnav doing?”. Arnav was a friend of ours who came from these group but had recently escaped to a prestigious university in London. Arnav was the kind of guy you hated for all the wrong reasons. He was talented, intelligent, well-spoken and this made him the prime target for every other aunty in the group to use when she needed someone to compare with her child to scold them. The uncle replied, “He is doing good, the university is very strict and he is working very hard..”. I put on that fake smile as the uncle launched into a monologue about his ever-so-perfect son and topped it off with the classic question once he was done praising his son, “How are your studies going?”. At this point, all of us “children” have well-rehearsed answers to these questions because we answer them on a regular basis at these parties. In my practised tone, I recite my answer, “It is going great, Uncle, I am in my final year of Computer Engineering, I am looking forward to continuing the same path after NS as well.”. And once again, the uncle spoke in an excited tone “Yes, yes, Computer Engineering, there is a lot of scope in that area.”. Turning to my friend, he asked a similar question and my friend went on about his interest in Aerospace Engineering. The truth was I did not actually want to be an engineer, I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to tell the world stories about beautiful things I observed and felt but I could not tell him that because in the eyes of an Indian uncle, there are only 6 actual professions, Engineer, Doctor, Lawyer, Businessman, Teacher and Disgrace and if I were to mention my real passion, everyone at that table would jump in with their own opinion about the extreme impracticality of me being a writer. 

As usual, after completing the same conversation we have with them at every party, the uncle went back to discuss the ever-so-changing politics of India. I intently listened for a change and realised some of the points mentioned were extremely ignorant. I tried not to interrupt for a bit out of respect. After the uncle finished his point, I made my case about the new Hyderabad metro rail system that they were discussing and tried to point out the errors he had in his argument, as respectfully as I possibly could. Suddenly, all eyes were on me and the uncle who I had argued with stared me down like I had just murdered his entire family and was bathing in their blood. His eyes flared up and he said in the most dramatically slow tone imaginable, “So what, you mean to say I am wrong, and that you are smarter than me?”. My friend, who saw the mess that I had gotten myself into, tried to defend me in an angelically composed tone, “Uncle, I think what Chirag is trying to say is that you have made some excellent points but there are also some things to consider like..” Before he could complete the sentence, he was rudely interrupted. “Shut up, you kids are too young for this talk, Don’t try and be over-smart, go and play your cricket.” Of course, I was the villain here because somehow my age made me ineligible to have an opinion. In an attempt to break the tension that had clearly surrounded us, the uncles laughed it off like it was a joke and my points were completely invalid. I was pissed. Why wouldn’t I be? Perhaps, if you had the intellect to actually argue with me about the topic then you would not have had to do this shit”, I mentally replied to the uncle as I slowly walked away with my friend. My friend could tell I was annoyed and put his arm on my shoulder as if to comfort me. Thank god there was at least one genuine soul in this party. I felt bad for him, he got screamed at by the uncle for something that I was responsible for. And 5 minutes later, we are all expected to pretend like everything is normal again. I could almost write a book about handling any situation at these parties.

So now, do you see why I had to plan the fake headache? This was the moment when the social politics of the whole group of people that I had come to “enjoy” New Years’ Eve with eventually got to me. Especially after the dramatic episode with the uncle, I desperately wanted to get home. After considering the various excuses I had used in the past, I felt like a headache was the best option to fake and put my plan into motion. I approached my mother with my performance and here we are.

And almost poetically, as I thought of that moment, I reached my doorstep. Opening the door, I went straight to my room, switched on the aircon as I hastily got out of the prim and proper clothes required for this event. Sometimes I feel like I have it bad but then I see some of these Indian women at these parties who I have probably never seen in anything else but a saree. Granted it is a beautiful piece of clothing to wear, but how does anyone have the patience to wear something as hot as that out in a garden. Anyway, after getting into a sweet pair of pyjamas, I jumped onto my bed, realising there were only 5 minutes to the new year.

For a bit, it seemed sad that this was how I was welcoming the new year but after recalling the atrocity of the party just now, I could not be happier to be further away from that place. I feel like this makes me sound like a terrible human being and I know that all of them mean well but maybe this has become the culture that revolves around this group.

I do not live that far away from Causeway Plaza and I could faintly make out that people were counting down. I walked out of my room to the balcony and I opened the window. I said out the last few numbers in a voice that could not be audible to anyone but myself, “3..........2………1, Happy New Year!”. I could barely see the fireworks display but what I could see was enough. The end of this disaster of a day somehow seemed splendid, almost enchanting. To be all alone in that moment in the comfort of my home, with no one to impress and no one to judge, it felt perfect. Just the way it was. I did not need to wish anyone, need not exchange wishes with these family friends that I do not really like but have to pretend like I do. The tranquillity of that moment transcended all the fake smiles I had to plaster on my face during all the previous parties I had attended. I realised, standing there in that very moment, whether I get upset or whether I stay happy, it’s all in my hands. Society will always pressure me to be someone I am not but I am not living for society, I am living for my friends, family, loved ones, people who actually care about me, not anyone else. Maybe it will take my mother a while to realise that, maybe it will take the other people at that party more time to realise that but it doesn’t matter, as long as I understand that first. Happy New Year.