Looking back at all the bashes I used to organise in Delhi, I feel grateful for every get-together I hosted as well as the gatecrashers I embraced who turned into beloved friends
As a rule, I invited a lot of people because I liked the idea of a party offering the possibility for people to network and connect with those they didn’t know, instead of being a closed-off affair with guests who knew each other. representation pic/istock
My new favourite comfort-watch is ‘Abbott Elementary’, a sit-com set in the titular under-funded public school in Philadelphia with a primarily Black cast. It’s directed by Quinta Brunson, who plays one of the teachers, Miss Teagues, an almost annoyingly chirpy do-gooder who loves her job and pathologically seems unable to take no for an answer. The show is speckled with incredible characters, each with large personalities, each containing multitudes who, over the arc from season one to four, are transformed through their relationships with each other, much in the manner of ‘Parks and Recreation’, another show I love dearly. The last episode of season three refreshingly takes place outside the usual institutional setting. It’s the last day of school, and Miss Teagues decides to have a party at her tiny apartment and has invited many of the other teachers and some other non-work friends. A control freak, she has planned everything to the tee, making leeway for her guests’ multifaceted personalities so that the party is buzzing. She preps an anti-social corner, a boardgame area, and carefully picks the film that will play in her bedroom for people who want to ‘check out’ socially. Everything is running smoothly and on cue, until something happens that she hadn’t anticipated! People go off script and begin having fun.
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I enjoyed the episode thoroughly, but when it was over, felt so much nostalgia for the parties I used to throw in my apartment in Delhi. Every now and then I would feel the itch to invite people over. Since I was raised as a Bombay Goan, it was simply not in my DNA to have a party without a menu. It was super normal in Delhi for people to host BYOB house dos solely with snacks. My social circle alternated between those of us perpetually broke and ultra rich collectors, gallerists and artists whose parties had caterers, open bars and hired entertainment. I suspect it gave me a lot of joy to plan a menu and to improvise the easiest way to execute it.
After the episode titled ‘The Party’ ended, I had this sudden flashback to my kitchen in Kailash Hills, with my friend Supreet in it. More than once had I marinated a pork shoulder slab with ground pepper, poppy seeds, mustard, coriander, ginger, garlic and other ingredients and had stuck it into my OTG so that by the time my guests began to arrive, there was this effusive scent of succulently rendered fat. I knew I could entrust either Supreet or Sourav with supervising the cooking and was always aware that they improvise. The food rarely made it past the kitchen. Led by the inviting wafts emanating from the kitchen, my guests would frequently navigate their way there. I have vivid memories of cooking prawns in a coriander masala at the apartment in Khirki Village that I shared with two other friends. For the first house party we threw together as roommates, I had bought prawns from INA market and had let them sit in the masala. I thought I’d cook them and serve them in the common area of the living room, but not a single prawn made it out of the kitchen. It was like everyone just caught wind of what was happening and decided to show up while the prawns were caramelising on the pan.
I somehow had this notion of having the food on the table served in lovely ceramic bowls, buffet-style, but often had to be okay with watching the food evaporate directly from the kitchen. As a rule, I invited a lot of people because I liked the idea of a party offering the possibility for people to network and connect with those they didn’t know, instead of being a closed-off affair with guests who knew each other. It was my way of breaking the elitism of Delhi’s artistic and literary circles. I was always happy to surrender and let people take turns controlling the music. My financial investment rarely went beyond the food, so I encouraged a BYOB scene. We frequently ran out of cups and plates and other cutlery, but it didn’t seem to matter. Someone or the other would go to the kitchen and bring a set of freshly washed dishes out to the table.
The last house party I threw was our unofficial wedding party in Delhi, in the heat of summer, with just one room that had air-conditioning. One additional investment I made was organising a bartender. Eventually, every room in the apartment seemed to host its own party and had a unique vibe. I didn’t have money to organise catering so cooked myself (my sister helped). I wonder, sometimes, if I’ll ever throw a memorable party again. Looking back, though, I feel so grateful for each and every one I ever hosted and for all the gatecrashers I embraced who turned into beloved friends.
Deliberating on the life and times of every woman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.
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