A few days ago, self went with mother to a typical fancy farmhouse 'lunch' party, in the village, closer home, but on one fringe of the city. Well since Sundays are mundane, indulged in great self-misery, reading, randomness, thought it would be a pleasant change. I agreed to go along with mother; I've not exactly been a very great son.
So we made our way, reading and following a very difficult road map-directions that the host had prepared. All the biggest landmarks were missed, only the tiniest possible signboards that one could notice unless they wore microscopic lenses in their spectacles, could they reach. Still managed to find the way without managing to cross over to another state.
The farmhouse was typical: opulent; with all that fancy bit that I can't describe very well. The hosts seemed polite, I was told that the last I had met was when I was some 3 year-old. There was no possible design of imagination or memory, I could recognise them. But they seemed pretty cordial, with all that old world-mannerism, and the few who managed to reach on time -- reaching anywhere on time is a sin in our city -- family I suppose, were sipping "Bleddy Merys" and that talk.
The summer afternoon was brilliant, sipping white wine -- wondering when the hell we get out out of here -- when the hostess came towards where we were. After a bit of chat with my mother -- while I sat there bored, which I was accepted to be -- she asked loud enough so that I could hear, how old I was.
She strained her eyes on me, and says, he's a handsome fellow, I wish he was 3 years older. Which I thought was a strange thing to say. She followed, my daughter's in Canada studying, we want her to get married. She would have been really happy to have met him. Whoops, I mutter, with an embarrassed expression (wine in afternoons betrays). I look more blindly at her. She covers up, of course, since I'm younger and the case is losing, well we want to get her married in a house where we know the people. He's doing well; a journalist, and so good looking.
I gulp the darn drink. The hostess talks a bit more, and then carries on to other guests.
Damn, do people get married this way?
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The neighbour is a good kid, he's another friend from my various sorts of circles of friends that I have. I don't have a one framework of friends, I like to keep it this way. I know I sound like an asshole, the way I say it, but all of them are pretty different. Most people have different friends from over a period life: the one's they make in school, college, work and otherwise. Mine are assorted by mindset, all of them are cool. Getting acquainted has always been easy, getting along has been easier -- the real shady sorts I avoid, unless there's a contention, but they fall out easily, I'm not a classist; but I'm no social worker.
So anyway, the neighbour got his friend along, where we usually sit to smoke, hidden from the view of the colony. For him it matters, since he stays a lot at home, he's afraid that his folks would get to hear about it from others, despite the fact that they are aware, like of his Bronchitis attacks; like of his pangs for nicotine.
The friend of neighbour, in a shitty manner explained to us his life, cursed sorely about what he's been up to and the crowd he hangs around with. Now in some spot of the village city, in a trendy spot, he and his friends along with a few girls spend their usual evenings. Now if you've grown up in the city, you maybe familiar with having your favourite spot near home where you talk shit, smoke your first and encounter a leak in your repressed becoming sexual life.
He cursed about this women till eternity and back. He was extremely fond of her, but he called kept calling her a whore, in a simple mix of Hindi-English. In fact, most of the way some talk about girlfriends, when you say it in the general term (which I don't use), and almost get excited when they say 'yaar, she smokes also.' It was quite a pity.
The neighbour's got bad company, he knows it better than I can convince him. The chaps aren't misogynists or any such thing. But the way the talk about girls/women, is not only orthodox but full of shit. This woman he talked about must be some hot chick who abuses and has flings. But abusing her in Hindi, which sounds coarse and crass -- makes you think, fuck this dude's the asshole, who feels her up but would sell her for a rupee.
Most assholes, I detect, are the one's that behave utterly imbecilic with women. Most of them come from well-meaning backgrounds -- I'm not talking about the where Ramjus crowd-meets-Stepehen sorts. Its a mindset mentality dichotomy, women in the city are getting bold with the choice of fashion and TV fashion. And I support their free-think but caution them silly sometimes of the consequences. Any respectable market and you're bound to brush an incident that cripples your movement to modernity. It just goes wrong.