Once, in a Blue Moon...

There was more to this night than just the apparent rarity of its moon.

Guru Poornima, the Full Moon holiday dedicated to the celebration of your spiritual guide, just happened to coincide with Mohd Rafi's death anniversary. He was one of Ma and Uncle and India’s favourite Bollywood singers. I didn't have a guru to celebrate. I was just thankful for the breeze.

Guwahati had become unbearably hot and stuffy the last couple of nights. It was the kind of feverish heat, I was learning, that made you think crazy thoughts and dream crazy dreams. It felt like Mother Nature had suddenly decided to see how long she could hold her breath, leaving the rest of us who hadn't been warned to do the same to now suffocate in her mighty resolve. The curtains had gone still. Tired fans pushed stale air that went limp behind the mosquito nets.  

Maybe that's why the delicious breeze that floated into our room that Blue Moon morning felt like its own tiny miracle. In the kitchen, Ma smiled and confirmed my suspicion: "Hawa from God," she explained, pointing to the grey sky. The trees were swaying. The curtains were breathing. Mother Nature had relented and I was in no position to complain. One less thing to worry about.

I knew the night ahead had all the makings of a predictable Bollywood drama. I saw it as the coming together of all the disparate people, themes and gossip that had come to characterize this particular trip of mine. The estranged wife and her estranged lover. The birthday boy. The Harmonium Man, gig-less on account of the beloved president Abdul Kalam's death, granted a more intimate venue to pay homage to his guru. The young constable who had just lost his finger on the job. And all of us, of course. This seemingly random Blue Moon encounter made all the more prescient by the element of time. A house that would soon become a lot emptier than simple subtraction might suggest. I have no doubt Ma had been planning this for a little while, ignoring any objections from any and all sides. Everyone was going to show up. And if that wasn't enough, Puji was making biryani. 

For all its psychological healing, the God wind that filled up our room that morning failed to stir outright forgiveness. I didn't participate in the morning shopping or help Puji marinate the two-and-a-half kilos of chicken. But sometime between that and my shower, I decided to let it go. Must have been that line in Kartography - something Zafar or Uncle Ali had said about living a full life, free of judgment. With Puji, it always came down to patience. And whenever I felt my patience waning, I would think about Ma and what she would do. And what she might think if I lost my patience.

There were of course more practical considerations. Like Puji, I had also calculated that being busy cooking was probably the best place to be. Not that any of them would understand why I'd be in the kitchen. But Pankaj asked me anyway. He laughed dismissively and then segued into my travel plans. You see, he continued, I’m getting married in October and it would be amazing if you could be there. I half-heartedly explained that I had to go back, though possibly wifeless, because I had a life back home. Of course, he sympathized. Then maybe you could go home and come back? Lucky for me, this ridiculous exercise in reciprocal face saving was made all the more tolerable thanks to Ma’s secret stash of the Johnny Walker Black I had gotten her from Canadian Duty Free. By the time Puji and I had made the last of the chutneys, it was 10:30 and I was buzzing. And with that buzz came the reassuring feeling that I was in my own home and that all of this, however random, all made perfect sense. Just like it had at our wedding anniversary at the resort. And probably at my wedding before that. And probably at my Haldi and Puji’s bachelorette before that. Maybe it was the alcohol. Point is, by the time Puji and I had shared a much-deserved smoke in the washroom, I was already ready for anything. Ma and her huge heart had made this night possible and it would be impossible not to enjoy. 

We walked downstairs and into the party together. 

I sat down next to Aman Uncle as he sang one old Assamese love song on the harmonium while Hussain, sitting across from us with his left hand bandaged to the wrist, banged along on an upright table with his right hand. Uncle was sprawled out on the bed, smiling and silently mouthing the words while Ma was clapping along, blanketing Aman's tenor with her own falsetto. Mamoo Aunty and her friend with the perpetual guilty look on her face also watched from the bed, while Sagar and Didi sat on two chairs in front of them. Pankaj, who felt the need to place me into the heart of the action when we first walked in, was now greedily capturing everything on his phone. 

I’m not sure exactly how much time had passed before the Bollywood songs took over, but I definitely know who got it started. The usual suspects came fast and furious from Didi’s laptops and suddenly, everyone was dancing. Aman Uncle ditched the harmonium and started to do his best ‘come over here’ routine, forcing Ma to burst into laughter and point his way. Hussain kept on drumming through the breaks in the Youtube feed. When Didi urged him to get up and dance, Ma scolded her, worried for his health. He grinned, slapped my back instead and reminded me to sip my whiskey. A boisterous Sagar did his best to keep up with Aman, singing along in pretty shabby Hindi. I danced with Puji and sang my usual gibberish lyrics for her ears only. Didi, armed with a wide assortment of moves that only a true connoisseur could know, danced up a perfect storm before serving up the next track. It wasn’t long before the Help got involved. Suresh and Poali were the first in, Munna followed and even Suraj entered sheepishly from next door. I joined them in a clutching circle dance and did my best to film the unfolding madness. In that brief half hour, I could honestly say that everything about the last two months simultaneously made sense and didn’t matter. Life in this extremely remote corner of the world, like so many other remote corners just like it, was what it was. And whatever could not be solved or resolved, could be laughed, drunk and danced away. 

Uncle, Aman and Hussain were the first to eat. I already knew the biryani was going to be a smash hit, but both guests went out of their way to convince Puji tonight's version was truly the stuff of Muslim dreams. Uncle just looked at Puji and said ‘Best!’ Now it was Puji, not Ma, who silently hovered over the dinner table, accepting compliments graciously and making sure that everyone had enough. Everyone ate and everyone left happy. 

And somewhere beneath the clouds, the Blue Moon watched while Mother Nature continued to exhale, satisfied.