Family’arity

They were at one of the popular clubs. The old couple, with the lady in a traditional maharashtrian saree adorning a large bindi and the grand old man in his usual checkered shirt and formal pants with sandals. They took a table for 2 by the corner, overlooking the lawn and just by the window. It seemed a good vantage point.

On the lawn, a 75th birthday party was in full swing. White chairs arranged in neat rows, a few already turned at odd angles. Balloons were tied to poles and children run around on the lawn. Someone was testing the microphone again, saying “hello, hello ” to no one in particular.

The man tilted his chair just a bit to get a better view of the happenings. The children gathered near the cake table, the only interesting part of the evening. A man in a blazer moved around with hurried importance, possibly the organiser.

The old lady was talking. A steady stream, moving from one thing to another without pause. In a language that the neighbouring tables weren’t familiar with. Possibly a cousin they met last week, something the doctor mentioned, a reminder about a bill that was to be paid. He followed along in his own way, nodding at the right moments, letting out the occasional “hmm” while lifting his glass of whisky. The conversation didn’t require precision. It ran on habit and years of knowing when to respond. There was Family’arity..

Their food arrived: fried chicken, crisp and inviting, a heap of French fries, and a cabbage salad that seemed to have been ordered out of obligation. She reached for the salad first, placing a small portion on her plate. Some part of her still believed in balanced diet it seemed. He went straight for the fries. He joked that he was following a diet of liquids, fat and protein. Maybe she wasn't even listening.

Each fry was dipped generously into ketchup, more than it needed. He didn’t rush, even a bit . One fry at a time, each treated with the same care. The salad remained untouched on his side of the table.

Her phone rang. She picked it up quickly, her voice changed almost instantly. Warmer, more animated. Her daughter, most likely. Or a grandchild checking in. She began to describe what she saw perhaps: the lawn, the birthday, the decorations, the crowd gathering slowly. She filled in details that may not have mattered to the listener but seemed important to say out loud.

He took a long sip and looked back at the lawn. Someone was helping the elderly man of the hour into his seat. There was applause, scattered but sincere. A photographer waved people into position. He saw all this through the window and nodded knowingly. The photographs were being taken in batches of people with the birthday man.

At the table, things remain unhurried. Her voice carried softly through the call, his attention drifted between the glass and the gathering outside. The fries diminished, the salad barely did. The light shifted slightly over the lawn.

They sat there, watching a celebration that wasn’t theirs, yet felt close enough to understand.

The old man told her “Seventy-five years on the banner, and at least a hundred opinions on how the chairs should be arranged or a lot more opinions about what should have been on the menu” .