To measure the success of a party, you need to see your phone the morning after. If you, like me, spot your phone with the screen broken (five months old), tweets to self, and WhatsApp and Instagram DMs exchanged about the level of intoxication, then you know that the success rate of the party was obnoxiously high. So high that you do not remember a single thing when you're up.

I was woken up due to unbearable body pain at 9:30 am, on a Monday morning. My office begins at 10. There's very rarely that I'm hungover. The thing with my blessed genes is that I don't experience hangovers, or get drunk, or lose my mind. However, on the night of 5 February 2017, I managed to get high, lose my mind and consequently proceeded to wake up with what seemed like the world's worst hangover. Rewind a couple hours back:

5 February, 20:17 

I reached the party, which was some 4 people including the host. Within the next hour, we had over 20 people, each with a bunch of people in their entourage hanging about, making polite conversations, sipping piña coladas. Call it my luck or whatever you may, I found myself sitting next to this incredibly sweet person who had nothing to say to me. Until she said this,

"So when you're entering the airport, do you need a printout of an air ticket or can a screenshot of the ticket on your phone work?"

I sipped on my drink, nodded while pulling my thinking face. Was this a trick question? Not a conversation starter and certainly not close enough to me that I can make fun of. This is an awful attempt at making conversation. Does my face say that already? Can I blog about how Mia's party sucked monkey balls later?

"You can show the e-ticket on your phone. It works, I've done that."

"Thank you."

All the conversation anyone made with me and I made with anyone. And then they say, I am an a-social being at parties.


5 February, 21:40 pm

Marked with the arrival of the crashers and A-list guests, the doorbell was ringing at 15 minutes interval. At some point when I was busy trying to convince SSA about how sick I am of my mundane life and the routine-- (the conversation was about something else, but going by the fact his boyfriend reads this blog and hates my guts, I'll refrain from putting the details here)- the doorbell rang again. Instead of a new arrival, there was Mia who entered the living room howling. Apparently, her neighbour (if there's a god, he/she/it should definitely consider blessing this person's soul) had lost her grandmother the same morning. Could we switch off the music?

"No, I can't switch the music off. It's my birthday.", replied Mia trying to keep her serious face.

"Oh. Happy birthday. Could you switch your music off? Ektually, my grandmother died today.", the girl attempted again. This time, a little more understanding of the situation.

"No. I cannot. Your grandmother's dead. I'm alive. I want to celebrate.", Mia said and shut the door on the girl's face.

"I had no idea white tent signified death. Since morning I was under the impression that someone was getting married but no; the one day in two years of my stay in this house, when I decided to celebrate my birthday, someone had to die.", chimed Mia as she threw in another glass of piña colada in my disposable glass. My count was 3, mutton chops 2.

5 February, 22:15 pm

I looked into my now scratched Kenneth Cole. "This alcohol is like the gormint. यह बिक गयी है ", I thought to myself as I proceeded to enter the kitchen. The hipster with the fedora was attempting to make something. In retrospect, he was trying to do something with the piña colada but I remember him dropping soda everywhere. I tried my best, passing half a smile and attempting to look in his direction to make the conversation. However, the girl who asked me about e-ticket came to my mind and I decided to chuck the grand idea. Instead, I channelized my energy into attempting to open the bottle of whiskey. What surprised me was that two hours into the party, nobody had gone towards the bottle. I loaded my glass with 70 ml of whiskey, three cubes of ice and went out to look for my publishing colleague. Nobody from my office showed up at that hour besides me. My clique included SSA and I, and he was nowhere to be seen. I stepped inside the living room and got pulled into dance by a bunch of people.

5 February, 22:43 pm

I glided towards the laptop blasting music. People were coming every 30 seconds to change the music. Mia's rule of how people wouldn't be allowed to touch the music unless they were given the privilege was clearly farcical. Every fucking individual was at it. I typed "Hotline bling" and tried swinging my arms in all directions. Two people hi-fived me. I remember the girl, not the second person.

5 February, 23:27 pm

My colleague/in-house therapist and I were standing in the front balcony of Mia's flat. I'd helped myself with 90 ml whiskey and two cubes of ice. I don't remember what she's drinking. I do, however, remember that she's buzzed when she arrived. At some point I remember bursting out and telling her how much I despise the attitude of a few people at the work place. In a sober state of being, this whole breaking down and crying is so alcoholic aunt trait of mine. I'm worried for my future self.

5 February, 23:45 pm

I have faint memories of forcing Mia to cut her cake. I remember tumbling all over the place and managing to pick lollipops and the candle that I had kept in the refrigerator. I unwrapped the lollipops and placed it all around the candle. I have no idea how the cake tasted, what paragraphs of the birthday song were sung. Zero recollection. I do recall eating the yellow lollipop.

Mia/SSA tells me that I got aggressive AF and yelled my liver out asking for a lighter and knife. Which, at all level sounds extremely believeable and like me. I mean, I baked the fucking cake, I co-hosted the party and the motherfuckers stood like ducks waiting for me to bring the knife as well.

No. Not on my time.

6 February, somewhere between 00:20 and 01:45 am

I am somewhere in the passage of the house, with a glass filled with liquid and some green leaves. T"hey taste like coriander and I'm so sure it's something that will make me vomit.", I was a whole bunch of drinks down, sleepwalking and feeling very sick. My head was active to the point I could taste, and nothing else. I was sipping the concoction which made me sick. It didn't taste bad. Only the leafy thing was reminiscent of coriander, which I despise.

Mia's version of the portion was that she and SSA fixed world's best mojitos. I told SSA to not make mojitos because *insert a personal joke* and SSA continued to make them because nobody listens to the sober me anyway, how can anyone in their right mind take the drunk Snobster seriously. Somehow, somewhere the conversation went from good wrist movement to great fingering skills- none of which I remember or have the balls to know. I'm sure I made some contribution to the conversation as well. Wouldn't like to know what. Not for a week at least.

6 February, 02:10 am

I'm looking out of the cab window. This road is always blocked with cars. At 2 in the morning, there's some peace. Finally. I'm contemplating if I should have stayed longer and crashed at Mia's. The voice of reasoning which gets active when I'm high (thank the agnostic lords for that) crushes that idea and tells SSA, "please drop me first."

What the voice of reasoning did not do was to prevent stating the request of dropping me first some twenty times to SSA. In my head, I said it once. Clearly, my head is in a different space.

All the roads are shut at that hour. I have some re-collection of SSA and the cabbie discuss which route to take, but no visuals correspond. I only remember the conversation in parts. I also recall the fragrance of the cake. In the car. When I haven't had any cake. Cake. I should have had some.


6 February, 10:10 am

There's song and dance routine in films and then there's Karan Johar. The next morning, when I bent down to tie my shoelace before breakfast, not only did my brain proceeded to work at 40 fps, instead of regular 100; but also the lyrics from the song played in my head: