by Suresh Subrahmanyan
At the stroke of the midnight hour on December 31st every year, Robert Burns’ anthemic poem, ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind’, is sung by millions of revellers around the world with inebriated gusto. It has always been a matter of considerable puzzlement to me, why we make such an almighty fuss about the end of the calendar year, segueing into the advent of the New Year. Let’s face it. It’s just another day. The sun still rises on the appointed day as scheduled, and goes down over the western horizon in the evening as prescribed. It happens, without deviation, 365 days a year. And 366 on the leap year. So what’s with all the partying, getting dolled up, drinking till you’re sloshed to the gills, and consequently having no idea if that stuff you just ate was mutton kabab or curried leather? Lest we forget, the Christmas Eve bash precedes the New Year’s Eve revelry by barely a week. If there’s a weekend in between, count that in for more carousing.
These bashes are also opportune occasions for corporate hobnobbing – keeping your bosses and senior colleagues happy. Organise the refreshments, see that their glasses are recharged in time and generally, fetch and carry. It’s a pain that must be endured for future gain. After all, assessment time is not far off.
Then there’s the dancing. There’s always the dancing, without which there can be no New Year’s Eve party. Whether it’s in a club, a restaurant, or in some moneybags’ palatial home, the band will strike up and a couple of anaemic looking singers, backed by the guitarist, keyboardist and the drummer, will belt out anything from Elvis Presley to Dire Straits, depending on the majoritarian taste in music. You can’t hear what your dancing partner, who may or may not be your life partner, is trying to tell you for all the noise. So, you keep nodding your head and responding mechanically during the conversational gaps with such well-known gems as, ‘Wow’, ‘I know’, ‘Just imagine’, ‘Really’, and for variety, ‘You mean the one in the bilious green sari, she’s not actually his wife? Jeezuz!’ For a wordless response, you can always throw your head back and let out a bellowing laugh. It doesn’t really matter because she can’t hear a blessed word you’re saying either. Relief arrives in the form of some roguish, nudge-nudge, wink-wink Gawd-help-us tapping you on the shoulder with a ‘now, now, you can’t dominate all the pretty women, you know.’ Which gives you the perfect opportunity to exit and head straight for the bar.
The scene now shifts to the next gargantuan struggle. How do you actually get your drink, or a much-needed refill? Dancing can be very trying, particularly if you’re a man with two left feet, like myself. Periodic refuelling is most essential to slake that big thirst you’ve worked up. So, you stand tip toe on the periphery of men standing six deep, waving your arms about holding those awful, pink drink coupons (if you’re in a club), trying vainly to attract the attention of either of the two bartenders, “four large rums with plenty of ice and Coke, please”, while all around you, others are doing pretty much the same thing. Only the poison in question could be whisky, vodka, gin or beer. Or if you aren’t lucky enough, just plain nimboo pani. Over all this cacophony, your turn finally arrives and you are politely informed that they are fresh out of Old Monk, and would I care for some Bacardi with Coke. By then, you are ready to accept even jal jeera with Coke. So off you go, precariously balancing four glasses of the said potion over the heads of the melee, and manage to totter to your table and proffer the spilling glasses to your senior colleagues. To no one’s surprise, the boss’ immediate response, after a sip is, “What’s this? Don’t you know I can’t stand Bacardi?” Yeah, right. Next time, you traipse off and get the drinks Boss, I stage whisper.
While all this is going on, someone comes around handing out those funny, conical (and comical) paper hats, confetti, party noise makers and so on, all to be alert and ready for the big moment. The countdown to the New Year would begin in exactly 10 seconds. Here we go. “After me”, chants the MC. “10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, HAPPY NEW YEAR!” The band strikes up ‘Auld Lang Syne’, everybody joins in raucously, everyone hugs and kisses everyone else. You can get hurt, if you’re not careful. I was once elbowed in the eye, unintentionally, by a substantial lady – a total stranger. Packed a mean punch, did that elbow. I mean, that’s carrying elbow bending a bit too far. Nursed a black eye for a week thereafter.
Through all this tension filled, jumping up and down, ebullient activity, you manage to get a bit of the liquid nourishment down your system, post which it is time for dinner – the next, big challenge. The dinner tables for the buffet are thoughtfully set about 250 metres away from the scene of drinking and dancing. As it is usually bitterly cold wherever you may be partying, the long trudge and wait in the unending queues can be a pain. By the time you get to the tables to help yourself, more often than not, all the good stuff is taken. You can count yourself lucky to help yourself to some cold peas pulao and watery gravy of whatever dish was on offer. Don’t even think of the rotis, you’ll need a set of strong bicuspids to tear them apart. Finally, the dessert is always, always vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce and jalebis. The ice cream is warm sludge and the jalebis are cold and rubbery.
It is now nearly 3am and time to leave. The first thing to do is to locate your driver, be it your personal chauffeur, or a call taxi. The option to self drive is out of the question unless you happen to be a teetotaller, what with the gendarmerie hanging around in street corners with their breathalysers. By the time your car comes around and you and your entourage are safely ensconced, Morpheus claims you for his own as you slip into a stuporous slumber. When you finally reach home, the clock shows 4.30 in the morning. You don’t remember how you got into your pyjamas and slumped into your bed. When day breaks, which you are unaware of, and you finally wake up, it is 11am. Your head feels like an outsize cannonball, your eyes won’t open, your stomach threatening third world war, and your mouth feeling like a garbage-bin combo of rotten eggs and rancid butter. You groan and drag yourself to the toilet and reach for that bottle of Eno, the expiry date for which was 7 months ago.
To pose a completely rhetorical question, why do we do this? Year after year, the same routine, and all of us pretending to have the time of our lives. I have gone through this experience many times because I lived in Calcutta for long periods, and the City of Joy is arguably one of the most active spots in India for these end-of-the-year bacchanalias. Personally, although I differ with them on many vital issues, my fellow orthodox Tam-Brams from Chennai and other parts south of the Vindhyas, appear to have the right attitude when it comes to commemorating annual milestones. I can think of no better example than my parents. On New Year’s Eve, they would have attended a kutcheri at the Music Academy, Madras, partaken of a spartan, home-cooked meal at 9.30pm, hit the sack at 10pm, their minds refulgent with Kalyani and Bhairavi, followed by gentle snores, blissfully oblivious to the passing of the significant midnight hour.
At 6.30 in the morning on New Year’s Day, my father would be reading The Hindu, while my mother would be busy with the decoction and milk, preparatory to making the coffee. My father would look up from his newspaper, clear his throat and remark to no one in particular, “Do you know what day it is today? January 1st, New Year’s day. Ha ha.” To which my mother would respond, laconically, from the kitchen, “So what do you want me to do about it? It comes around every year. Drink your coffee and go for your bath. Otherwise we’ll be late for breakfast and Sadas at the Academy.” The English translation lacks the sardonic punch of the original Brahminical Tamil, but that’s the best I can do.
So there you go. ‘Ring out the old, ring in the new’, as Alfred Lord Tennyson exhorted, by all means. I will not urge you to be in bed on December 31st by 10’o clock at night. Each to his or her own, but if you must step high, wide and plentiful, try and exercise a little moderation. You’ll be glad of this sage advice when you wake up the next morning.
Wishing you all a very happy and prosperous new year.
