The success quotient of any millennial misadventure is noted by the number of photographic remains that surface the morning after the event. If it's a moderately fun evening, you will have 7-10 images floating across the 'gram with generic hashtags, of which one would have been supplied by the alpha hipster of the event. If the party was a true dampener, you'd see some 235 images on Facebook, from the host. On the other hand, if a social event was truly Spectacular (uppercase and italicized spectacle, if you know what I mean), there would be absolutely no photographic evidence of the evening.

The one I'm writing about exists purely as an archival memory. That, which I am not in possession of. That, which has ensured I can no longer show my pox-ridden face to anyone for the next quarter at least.

My colleague Mia turned 29 sometime back. Anyone who knows the life of a publisher, would be aware that there is nothing to look forward to, besides your hobbies (which I have none, thank you very much). Most people in publishing are so painfully single that they accepted me as one of them, and I had no problem in blending together. Truly, one of the easier transitions of my life was to adapt myself to this workplace and its people. I'm amongst my own tribe- the kind where nothing happens in our lives except work and that's the highlight of the day, besides your hobbies or a husband. If you're lucky you'll have one of those, if not, then you'll have your single publishing friends to accompany you on your plus one cards. In the land of no hobbies and that massive project I'm spending the twenty-fifth year of my life working on, I talked Mia into throwing a party. "Fun will be had", said I, as she looked at me trying to peek inside my soul while devouring a large chunk of bitter chocolate. "You think I should throw it? Who should I call?", two affirmations are all it took to decide that we're hosting a crowd-sourced birthday party. The kind where party crashers are welcome because why the fuck not. If the birthday girl wants it, she will fucking have it.

We set the ball rolling by creating a Facebook event. Adding all my sad non-publishing friends and the bad ass publishing bitches from all over the city, all of whom are Mia's's friends, we went over every little detail. The joy of working with a publishing person is that they do the entire pre-production singlehandedly, giving any production person in the filmmaking industry a run for their money. Rationed alcohol was purchased, food was ordered, dips were planned, cake was decided (marble with chocolate frosting and strawberries) and music was discussed. After wrapping a long week of work, Mia and I sat over what I think was rum but it took me ten odd minutes to remember. At the end of a pleasant Friday evening, we stepped out and sat in her car only to realize that the car was dead (!).

If you'd like to believe that cars don't die and bad Snobster, knows no English, then you probably did not sit in Mia's car. It literally died on us. Think of Tom and Jerry and the animated gestures that would lead you to believe, if you look down while you're suspended in the thin air, then you're bound to fall down- that but inside a dead car. For some reason, death was a big trope at Mia's 29th. You'll know why, soon.

The first plan of action to rescue the car was to approach the auto drivers next to her car, who told her to get in (and in process, I was asked to get out). Those guys pushed the car to move and without it having started Mia dragged it for some 500 meters. In the middle of the road, the car stalled again. This time, a jam trailed right after her Maruti. A bunch of burly men got off their shining Toyota Corolla to enquire the cause of jam on the road. Just when I was sure there was going to be a huge ruckus and a fight on the road, the men sweetly offered to start the car and get it to a position that Mia could drive it home. Again, I was left on the road with the men running behind a dead Maruti 800 and Mia, guarding their shiny Corolla.

If you really took my introduction to this piece literally about how stinking single we are, you should have seen the opposite that weekend. Men literally running behind us, on the road pushing our car to fix the dead thang. There were men from all corners on the street just running after the vehicle while Mia and I stood on the road, dumfounded and just losing our public decorum at the sight of concern. Each time a driver attempted to talk to her and ask/explain how to go about it, she'd burst out laughing at their face. At some point a man actually told her to throw the car because there was no life left in it.

I've never seen such commitment in all my years of traveling and living in Delhi. While it was a sight to watch the drivers complain to me on their way back (Medem, second gear me gaadi nahi daal rahi, gaadi chalegi kaise?) it really set the note to the birthday weekend. That where I was going to be lost and clueless for most part, while emulating a confidence face, that of conviction.

We picked up the birthday supplies and lugged that into an auto, only to reconvene on the actual birthday- that which I have zero idea of.

If my Twitter feed from after party is to be believed, I was quite a riot that evening.


If you think this wasn't fun, then you've gotta wait till the next part to see how that wasn't also any better. In our heads (that's 4 and a half people I know) it is quite a stunning story to be recited.

(to be continued)