The table was covered with a lace table cloth. The pristine, white dishes were filled with spice-toned Samosas. Twin tubs of green mint chutney and its fellow, the red, tamarind chutney sat vying for attention. The rotund, crisp, onion pakoras and the white, plump sandwiches bursting at their seams, thanks to the liberal amounts of potato filling completed the picture.
A small bowl of green salad fought for its rightful place but was finally, relegated to a corner. The teapot full of delicious, milky cardamom tea lent the air its sinfully, delicious aroma. As it blended with the frangipani room freshener, I began to get a heady feel of being in an oriental dance house. An unlikely setting for an English Tea, n'est ce pas?
It was to be a social call. I had just moved into Dubai and my two cousins were calling upon me. It was a perfect occasion to meet them after all these years. For a little more fan fare, I decided to hold a "Tea party", as they call it in good, old India.
The ladies in question were avid dieters. Their masters were demi-goddesses of health & fitness, one belonging to a far flung corner of the Far-East and the other, to a secluded, deep denizen of Europe. Personally, I found the English Tea insipid to suit Indian palates. So I decided on some Indian fare to knock my cousins back into their senses.
Over a million and one frenetic telephone calls, I was updated on their wardrobe and the perfumes that they would be wearing, shopped during their last trip to Mount Kilimanjaro or Ecuador. Not to be outdone, I dressed myself in a pretty, floral gown and splashed on some French perfume, stowed away for a special celebration.
Chattering, their stilletos clicking in a rhythmic pattern, the cousins descended into my humble abode like a pair of chirping sparrows. After the initial pouts of "air kisses" and the careful, measured hugs to avoid crumpling the brand new outfits, we soon settled down in the deep, plush sofas. A few "oohs" and "aahs" were exchanged over the well-furnished interiors and then silence reigned supreme. I related this to the lack of contact between over all these years.
Suddenly, the air was punctuated by a series of beeps. Tara jumped up as though she had seen the ghost itself. "My mobile phone is running out of its battery", she screamed. "Quick, I need a port to charge it." Having taken care of this crisis, I ventured to make an effort to revive the conversation. This was aborted in a millisecond.
Maya, the other cousin, had ducked her head into her mobile screen. She was busy updating her status on a social media app. Tara duplicated the same but with a change. She invited me to sit beside her. We took a "selfie" and this was posted with a suitable caption. She had also not forgotten to "tag" Maya.
Slightly miffed, Maya decided on a "groupie". Slowly, the first of a zillion pings and chirps began to punctuate the frangipani scented air. The "likes" and "comments" were trickling in. These were attended to immediately by the cousins. During this period of zealous activity, they absent-mindedly reached out and munched on the savory snacks. No remote mention of their diet was made nor was any remorse writ on their faces. A cup of tea, accidentally spilled, during the course of intrepid "texting" had formed a grotesque, brown stain. I was left cringing but held on and continued to play the role of a good hostess.
Many jokes were shared over each others phones. But we hardly laughed at any of them. All of them were judiciously replied in the form of "LOL" or 'ROFL" as the case demanded. The tea drew to an end as the mothers now needed to pick their children from school. Picking up their bags and their mobile phones encased in showy, bling cases, they bid adieu. A couple of days later, they called me up to thank for the "wonderful" tea and the great time they had catching up with each other. I was left wondering.
Wistfully, I thought of the days when my mother or other aunts in our neighborhood hosted such parties. The excuse for most were flimsy. It gave them an opportunity to bond over a cup of tea or coffee, presented in the buff, steel glasses. The accompaniments were often the humble "murukkus", "mixture", and the spicy, lentil vadas. The children were treated to bananas and biscuits.
The cotton saree clad ladies with their flower laden hair, snacked while garrulous laughter accompanied their gossips. When they parted they carried home with them happy hearts and lightened souls. The luckier ones carried a pouch of the snacks secretly secreted into their saree folds.
The art of conversation has died a slow death. Phone screens and thumbs and fingers seem to do all the talking now. The clicks, beeps, pings and noise forms reminding one of outer space have taken the place of words and our vocal sounds. The more expressive and creative folks pepper their remarks with comic emoticons.
I now realized that I had to arm myself with a really smart phone or my existence would soon be forgotten, my identity obliterated. After several deliberations (read altercations) with my family, I finally bought a new, smart phone. I even bought an embellished phone case to go along with it. Thus armed, I am off to "tea" with Tara and Maya.
Free WIFI is mandatory to conduct a conversation. Hence, the choice of venue at an expensive mall. A new cafe there is offering "free" tea with cakes as an inaugural day offer. Perfect! But we still pale in comparison with my mom and her friends.
The conversation flowed but remained hidden within the realms of a gadget. Laughed we did without making any noise. We carried homes aching necks, heavy heads and mortified thumbs. The tech gurus say that we have evolved. So there must be some truth to that.
I have yet another niggling problem. On a sunny day, the innumerable, faux crystals studded on my phone cover flash a million shiny rays. I fear for rendering my fellow shoppers blind. An eyesore to many. Sparkling wit, stimulating conversation may all be missing. But I gained attention thus. And I was pleased. My mom and her friends would prefer to slurp on their coffees and utter "Tch! Tch!"
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