A.R.Ts (130) What are your plans for New Years Eve?

We get judged all the time. By our religion. The clothes we wear. The cars we drive. The address we live in. Heck, even the colour of our nail paint.

So I decided to go one step further and judge people based on that they were planning to do for New Years Eve. I mean the ones who weren’t already posting selfies from the snow, downing tequila shots in Bali beaches,  or “feeling fabulous” at Sydney. On a ten point rating scale, with one being “least happening” and ten being “most happening” – they were at 9.75. They don’t get the 0.25 was because I was not with them.

And I asked around – “What are you doing on New Years Eve?”

One told me she was going to a Shantanu Nikhil do. I didn’t know who they were and what they do. (Ofcourse I googled it later on and now I know). But they sounded like some famous duo. Abu Jani, Nadeem Shravan types. So I said “Wow” with a sufficiently high eyebrow raise and made some asinine reference to her being Page 3 types. She blushed exactly the pink that I had wanted my comment to elicit. I gave her six points. For getting an invite to something more than a Falguni Pathak show.

Another said she was going for a quiet dinner with her boyfriend. Now that’s a tricky one. Does that mean they got dinged by their friends? Or are they the trigger happy selfie couple who need to welcome the New Year with the mandatory romantic dinner picture? The ones that have a wine glass, a cake with a candle, an untouched table napkin (for effect) with PDA oozing out of every frame? I sized her up very quickly. She was 26 maybe. I could give her the benefit of doubt. It ought to be the latter. Seven points. Five for having a life, oops boyfriend. Four for having a plan. Minus two for the selfie that would soon be up on Facebook.

One said he was “partying at a farmhouse in Lonavla”. Yawn. What an age old dinosaur like plan. Even my ancestors were more adventurous. Minus one, I thought instantly. And then in true middle class style, my conscience took over and I asked myself – “How many times have I partied in a farmhouse?” The answer to that question made me change my rating to a more respectable five. Atleast he was breathing the air outside Mumbai.

Another more adventurous one said she was going for a Bollywood theme party. Cool, what are you going as I asked. Zeenat Aman, she said, all smiles. Dum Maro Dum types I asked, immediately picturising the long hair, brown tinted glasses, and garland around the neck. No, the chura-liya types, complete with a guitar in the hand, she said. Ah ok. I briefly considered asking her what her husband was going to be dressed as, but then decided that the information would be of limited use to my pea- sized Bollywood quotient which was nearing exhaustion after discussing Zeenat Aman looks. I gave her eight. For having an invite, a theme, and a costume.

But I discovered that the trend of the year was the “house party”. The fashionable way of dealing with being left behind by all the vacationers, it has certainly come of age. “Restaurants are unnecessarily expensive.” “I hate the music the clubs play”. “I can’t handle arm-wrestling with crowds on the dance floor." "I hate having to drive back after partying.” And so the house party has emerged the sly and silent winner. Making dancing in your pyjamas sound as exotic as partying in the Carribean. Ten on ten. For being cheaper, noisier, safer, and making life a tad easier for the cops.

Some day (and maybe in the very near future), if I’m asked the question “What are you going to be doing for New Years” – I think I am likely to say any one of the following:

• Arranging my wardrobe (because Swacch Bharat begins from your room) 
• Eating the most delicious curd rice for dinner (because the comfort of the familiar is all you need)
• Knitting a sweater (because I want to start a new hobby maybe?)
• Watching Mithun on TV dancing to I am a Disco Dancer (because I am too old to dance myself)

Judge me if you will. Give me a minus. Fail me on the acid test. But I will live to tell the tale.